The night pressed down on the academy like a living weight. Outside, wind rattled the iron-framed windows, dragging the sharp scent of wet stone and rotting leaves inside. Inside Erevan Vale's chamber, the air felt thick—alive somehow—as though the stone itself remembered every heartbeat, every whisper ever spoken within these walls.
He lay awake long after the curfew bells had tolled, staring at the ceiling where shadows pooled and stretched, curling along the corners like dark water creeping into cracks. Every muscle ached, heavy with fatigue, but sleep refused him.
Every time his eyelids fluttered shut, he felt it again—the hum of the rune etched into the threshold of his desk, pulsing through his veins, twisting around his chest like a cold, unyielding wire. Even in stillness, it spoke, alive and insistent.
He shivered and clutched his blanket closer, as though fabric alone could shield him from the weight of eyes he couldn't see.
Why do you resist?
Harrax's voice slithered through the shadows of the room, soft and dangerous, smooth as silk dragging across a blade.
You hunger, yet you deny yourself. You ache, yet lie still. That is cruelty—cruelty to yourself.
"I can't," Erevan muttered, voice rough and uneven. "They'll notice. They already suspect…"
They suspect because you faltered, Harrax purred. You touched the ward like a child fumbling with tinder. Weak, clumsy, half-afraid of the flame. You left scars instead of mastery. If you had embraced me fully, the wards would have yielded without mark.
Erevan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blot the words from his mind. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.
"You want me to—"
To learn, Harrax interrupted sharply, almost demanding. To practice. To wield what is already yours. Do you think cages are built to contain truth? No. They are built to blind you from it. The truth, Erevan Vale, is that you are meant to command what they fear. To make the walls of this prison kneel to you.
His pulse thudded in his ears. He sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around his waist, and the pale glow of the rune painted his face in shades of uneasy light. The hum of the sigil coursed through his veins, amplified like a drumbeat inside his chest.
"If I… tried," he whispered, voice trembling, "how would I even begin?"
Do not beg, Harrax said, almost gentler now, coaxing. I will guide you. Place your hand upon the scar again. Not timidly this time. Not as a boy afraid of reprimand. As a master commanding obedience.
Erevan's fingers hovered over the rune. Sweat slicked his palms. He drew a slow, trembling breath, tasting iron and ash. Every instinct screamed to pull back, but some deeper part—the part that had clawed through every denial and humiliation to get here—pushed forward.
One touch, Harrax whispered, curling through the shadows like smoke. One true breath, and you will know.
His hand brushed the glowing lines. Pain flared instantly—sharp, electric, searing into muscle and bone. Erevan gasped, teeth gritted, a hiss escaping his lips. Red welts bloomed across his palm. The wards beneath his touch shivered, humming louder, deep and menacing, as if alive.
And he didn't pull back.
Instead, he pressed firmer. Fear coiled in his chest, but beneath it was something darker, intoxicating—a spark he hadn't expected. The rune pulsed in response, alive, bending to the will he hadn't fully claimed yet.
"Good," Harrax murmured, voice vibrating deep in Erevan's skull. "Now—breathe as I teach you. Not with lungs. With will."
Power surged through him, thick and molten, coursing from the rune, up his arm, flooding every vein. The chamber seemed to stretch and compress around him. Every sigil, every rune etched into the walls, thrummed with life, resonating with him. For a breathless instant, it felt as though the cage itself was not built to contain him, but to sing, bending beneath his touch.
Erevan gasped, half sob, half scream, exhilaration and terror tangled in his chest. Light and shadow swirled before his eyes, painting the room in a kaleidoscope of living energy.
"Yes!" Harrax exulted, low, dangerous, resonant. "Do you feel it? The cage is not unyielding stone—it is fabric, waiting to be pulled. You need only the right hands to unravel it."
The sensation was unbearable, almost too much. He wrenched his hand back, clutching it to his chest, every nerve alight. The hum dimmed, steadied, but echoes lingered, buzzing through his veins like a hidden drumbeat.
He sank onto the cot, trembling, staring at his fingers as though seeing them for the first time. The memory of raw power clung to him, alive and whispering.
Do you understand now? Harrax's voice softened, almost gentle. What you tasted was not sin. It was self.
Erevan buried his face in his hands, chest heaving. "It's too strong… I almost lost myself."
You found yourself, Harrax corrected, amusement and pride laced through the words. And you will again. Each time, you will grow stronger, steadier. Until the wards are no longer your cage, but your tool.
He didn't answer. The truth was undeniable. Somewhere in the shadows of his chest, a hunger stirred, whispering that this was only the beginning.
The dawn crept into the academy like a brittle whisper. Gray light filtered through the rain-streaked windows, scattering across the stone floors in pale, hesitant beams. Erevan Vale moved through the halls in a haze, each step heavy, weighted with exhaustion. Every muscle ached, every joint protested—but more than that, his mind still throbbed with the pulse of the rune, echoing through his veins like a secret drumbeat only he could hear.
Lecture halls blurred around him. The scratching of quills, the soft murmur of instructors, everything felt distant, muted by the lingering rhythm in his blood. He wondered, half-amused, half-afraid, if anyone else could even feel it—if anyone else could hear the song that now lived inside him.
Aria slid into the seat beside him. Her books clutched tightly to her chest, her brow furrowed with concern. Her gaze drifted to the shadows under his eyes, tracing the lines of exhaustion and something else—something darker, electric.
"Did you sleep at all?" she asked, voice low, cautious, like stepping onto fragile ice.
"I'm fine," he muttered, barely meeting her gaze, staring down at the ink-stained page before him.
"You're not fine," she pressed, leaning slightly closer. "You look… wrong. Pale. And your hand—"
Erevan yanked it beneath the table, hiding the faint burn etched across his palm. His stomach twisted.
Her frown deepened, but she didn't push further. Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable, the kind that presses down harder than any words. It was a punishment in itself—the quiet accusation of someone who could see the truth but couldn't reach him.
Across the hall, Cassian watched. Golden hair catching the weak sunlight, his expression calm, calculating, predatory. He whispered to his companions, their eyes flicking constantly toward Erevan, measuring him. Erevan felt a shiver crawl along his spine, a tiny flame of unease flickering in his gut.
By the week's end, whispers had grown into a storm. Students avoided him openly now, skirts and robes brushing walls as they passed. Rumors bloomed like dark flowers: fractured wards, unsleeping eyes, shadows that moved behind closed doors, a boy who spoke to darkness—and darkness answered. Even instructors moved with caution, their glances lingering too long on him.
And still, despite exhaustion, despite shame, the hunger persisted.
Each night, he returned to the rune. Each night, he pressed his hand to it—longer, firmer. Harrax's voice wove through him, coaxing, teasing, pulling him deeper into the dangerous embrace of power. The wards quivered beneath his touch, almost yielding now, almost asking him to claim them.
Exhaustion became constant. His hands shook. His eyes burned. His body ached. And still, it was never enough.
One evening, leaving the library with his hood pulled low, a group of students blocked his path. Cassian was at their head, posture easy but eyes sharp as drawn blades.
"Well, Vale," Cassian drawled, voice smooth but cutting. "You've been busy."
Erevan froze. His throat tightened. "Move," he muttered, voice sharp and brittle.
Cassian tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Funny thing. Wards crack, whispers spread, and who's always nearby? Who hides in his room all night, muttering to shadows?" He stepped closer. The scent of polish and sweat clung to him. "Everyone sees it, Vale. They just won't say it aloud. You're… tainted."
Heat surged in Erevan's chest—anger, shame, and that lingering thrill of power mixing in a dizzying knot. The air seemed to shiver. He could almost feel the wards beneath his skin, humming, waiting.
Cassian's smile faltered for a fraction of a heartbeat, as if sensing it too—but he recovered, gesturing to his companions. "Come on. No use talking to shadows."
Their laughter trailed behind them, slicing through the hall like knives. Erevan remained rooted, chest heaving, fists clenched tight.
Soon, they will push too far, Harrax murmured in his mind, dark amusement threading the words. And when they do, will you bow? Or will you show them what a shadow truly is?
Erevan closed his eyes, trembling, tasting both dread and desire. The hunger whispered louder now, insistent, urging him toward the thrill, toward the power already coursing in his veins.
Later, when the halls had emptied and the soft rain drummed on the rooftops, Aria's shadow fell across his doorway. Her eyes searched his, careful, full of concern—and something like fear.
"You're pushing too far," she whispered, voice barely audible. "This… hunger in you. Don't let it consume you."
"I can't stop," Erevan admitted, voice trembling, small and raw. "It's… it's not just power. It's everything. It's the only thing that makes me… feel."
Her gaze softened, but she didn't step closer. Her hand hovered near the edge of the desk, hesitant. "Then at least… try to hold yourself. Promise me, Erevan. Promise me you won't lose yourself completely."
He wanted to lie. He wanted to say yes, to give her the comfort of a promise he couldn't keep. Instead, he nodded. It was all he could offer—a fragile, silent promise. Inside, a fire roared, dangerous and untamed, a vow he dared not name aloud.
Alone again, the rune called to him from the corner of his vision. Its pulse echoed the drumbeat of his own heartbeat. The scar beneath his fingertips, invisible yet undeniable, remembered him. He could feel the lattice of wards bending beneath his will, the thrill of control just within reach.
Erevan sank onto his cot, trembling. His body screamed with exhaustion. His mind burned with fear, desire, and the lingering, dangerous taste of power.
The rune waited. Harrax waited.
And deep inside, a new truth burned brighter than shame or dread: the day he lost control, the day the power consumed him fully, was coming.
And, somehow, he found himself waiting. Almost hoping.
Night fell like velvet over the academy, thick and heavy, and the rain pattered steadily against the roof. Erevan moved through the halls alone, hood drawn, each footstep muffled against the stone. The world outside felt distant, muted, because inside him something pulsed—alive—and it demanded attention.
By now, the hunger was constant. It clawed at him from beneath his ribs, curling in his chest like a living thing. Every thought, every breath, carried it. Every glance at the rune made his pulse spike, a mixture of fear and longing tangling together so tightly he could barely breathe.
He returned to his room. The door shut behind him with a soft click, and the familiar weight of the shadows pressed close. The rune glowed faintly, almost expectantly. It wasn't just a symbol anymore—it was a voice, a heartbeat, a temptation that whispered to the deepest parts of him.
Erevan's fingers trembled as they hovered over the glowing lines. Sweat slicked his palms. He inhaled, tasting iron and ash. And he wanted it. God, he wanted it. Every nerve in his body screamed for that surge, that terrible, intoxicating power that had brushed his veins before and refused to leave.
Do not resist, Harrax murmured, his voice a velvet thread winding through the shadows. The wards bend for you. Take them. Command them. Let yourself feel what you were always meant to feel.
Erevan pressed his hand to the rune. Pain flared immediately—sharp, biting, alive—but he did not pull back. He couldn't. Not now. The wards thrummed beneath his touch, resonating with the thundering pulse of his own heartbeat. Every sigil in the chamber shivered, almost obedient, almost pleading.
He gasped, teeth gritted, sweat dripping into his eyes. The world blurred into light and shadow, and for a moment, he thought he might break, or perhaps become. The difference was impossible to tell, and that was the thrill, the danger, the draw.
"Yes," Harrax exulted, low and intoxicating. Yes. Feel it. Taste it. Make it yours.
Erevan's chest heaved. Every nerve screamed with the mingled agony and ecstasy of power. He pulled his hand back, trembling, and yet the craving lingered, humming, thrumming, insistent. The memory of the surge burned hotter than the pain, a fire licking at his blood.
Night after night, he returned. Every touch made him ache for more. Every pulse of the rune whispered that restraint was weakness, that fear was a cage, and that the true thrill lay in surrender. Harrax's voice wound through his mind, teasing, coaxing, intoxicating.
Outside, the academy slept. Inside, Erevan could feel the lattice of wards bending under his will, quivering with anticipation, waiting for him to claim them fully.
And he wanted to.
The fire in his chest roared brighter than ever. The hunger whispered, sharper, more insistent. It told him he was more than a student, more than flesh and bone—he was something else. Something waiting to be unleashed.
Somewhere, deep in the shadows of his mind, a new truth burned: the day he would lose control entirely, when power would consume him utterly, was coming.
And he was not afraid.
He wanted it.
He wanted the rush, the danger, the exquisite, impossible sensation of being more than himself. And he waited.
Almost hoping.
Almost willing.
The rune pulsed beneath his fingers, alive and patient, and in the silence of his room, Harrax's voice curled through him like smoke. Soon, Erevan. Soon you will learn what a shadow truly is—and the world will kneel before it.
Erevan closed his eyes, trembling, tasting blood and ash and the promise of power. The hunger in his veins sang louder than fear, louder than doubt. The night stretched on, infinite and waiting, and in the quiet storm of his heart, he made a silent, dangerous vow: he would not bow. He would not break. And when the day came, he would show them all what he had become.
Alone, trembling, exhausted, and yet alive, he let the rune call to him once more. And this time, he listened fully.