The night after the ward shattered refused to end.
Erevan Vale lived it in fragments: the cold grip of hands on his arms, the harsh bark of instructors' orders, the relentless shuffle of boots over stone. Each sound pressed against him, sharp and unyielding, but it was the roar in his own head that drowned all else.
Harrax's laughter echoed, slipping through the hollows of his ribs, deep and resonant, vibrating against his skull as though the shadow had lodged itself beneath his skin. There was no source. No echo. Just an endless curling of amusement and malice, dragging him forward with every step.
The corridors of the Academy, normally familiar, felt alien—narrowed, oppressive, as if the stone itself leaned toward him, eager to witness his undoing.
Students pressed against walls, faces pale in torchlight. Whispers cut the air, thin and sharp, but Erevan could not catch the words over the pounding of his heartbeat. He imagined their thoughts, almost tasting them in the edges of his mind: dangerous. Broken. Cursed.
Every step he took was a march deeper into Harrax's domain. Every breath a chorus for the shadow's amusement.
The instructors shoved him into a holding chamber, a room smooth as glass, the stone beneath his knees cold and unyielding. Runes etched into the floor glowed faintly, delicate threads weaving a lattice that hummed with quiet containment magic.
Erevan sank to his knees, shoulders pressed against the chill of the floor. His chest felt like it would collapse under its own weight. His hands still sparked faintly from the chaos he had wrought, light flickering and sputtering against his skin.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to demand answers—from Harrax, from himself, from the gods of this Academy. But the words knotted in his throat, tangling until they died there. He pressed his forehead to the cold stone, wishing desperately to quiet the storm in his mind.
The door sealed behind him.
Leaving him alone.
Almost alone.
Harrax stirred within him, voice curling like silk over knives, sliding across his ribs and spine.
["You see?"] the shadow whispered. ["They know now. They cannot unsee. Your leash will shorten, your cage will thicken—but you have touched what it is to stretch your claws. You cannot go back to cowering."]
"Shut up," Erevan rasped, hoarse, brittle. His throat burned as if the sound itself were forbidden.
["And if you don't?"] Harrax's chuckle was low, indulgent, curling into his chest like smoke. ["They will strip you bare, child. They will tear at you in their halls, demand explanations you cannot give. What will you do when they ask to prove yourself? When they ask where the shadow came from? Will you say my name aloud?"]
Erevan squeezed his eyes shut. Nails bit into his palms, drawing thin ribbons of blood. Pain grounded him, anchoring him to something real.
Hours bled together. The chamber walls shimmered faintly in candlelight, the glow from the runes a gentle but relentless reminder of containment. Every tick of the clock felt like a drumbeat marking the approach of judgment.
Then, with a reluctant groan, the door swung open.
Two instructors entered, expressions carved from stone, unreadable, impervious. Without a word, they hauled him to his feet. His legs wobbled, muscles screaming in protest, and they guided him down a spiraling staircase he had never seen before.
The air grew colder as they descended, damp and sharp with the scent of stone and lingering magic. Torches became sparse, their light flickering weakly over the polished surfaces. Erevan's mind swirled with half-formed images: the shattered ward, the shadow, Harrax's laughter, the fearful glances of students.
The staircase opened into a vast chamber. Erevan's breath caught in his throat. The vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow, distant and unknowable, swallowing the torchlight whole.
The floor was a perfect circle of polished stone, etched with lines that converged toward a central dais. Around it sat the Academy's Council—seven figures whose presence bent the air with authority, each aura sharper than the edge of a blade.
Mistress Kaelen waited at the edge of the circle, arms folded, her sharp eyes fixed on him. She was not a judge, merely the escort, the conduit. Erevan's stomach churned, a knot of dread tightening with every heartbeat.
Archmagister Serath's voice boomed across the chamber, resonant and unyielding. "Erevan Vale, you are summoned before this Tribunal to answer for the disturbance that transpired in the Hall of Wards. Do you understand?"
Erevan's throat was dry. Words refused him. He forced a nod.
"Yes," he croaked.
"Speak clearly," Serath said, narrowing his eyes, a blade of scrutiny cutting into him. "We will have no muttering in these chambers."
"Yes," Erevan repeated, louder this time, his voice cracking, yet carrying across the polished floor.
The pale-haired councilor leaned forward, her crown of braids gleaming under torchlight. "The ward shattered not by accident, but by violence. Students were harmed. You were seen invoking. Explain yourself."
Erevan swallowed, heartbeat hammering. Tell them nothing, Harrax hissed, silk over knives. They will never believe the truth, even if you offered it. To them, you are a liar until useful. Bend. Wait.
"I—I lost control," Erevan stammered, the words raw, trembling. "The ward… it buckled faster than I expected. I tried to hold it together, but it unraveled."
"That is not what was seen," the pale-haired woman snapped. "You spoke words we did not recognize."
Erevan's knees wobbled. His mouth opened, but no further sound came.
A murmur swept through the chamber. Another councilor, older, a jagged scar running down one side of his face, leaned forward. "The shadow. The thing that stretched across the wall. Do you deny it?"
Erevan's throat closed again. His silence weighed heavier than any denial.
The murmurs swelled, whispering accusations, disbelief, fear.
"Enough," Serath thundered, silencing them with a single glance. His eyes locked onto Erevan, unflinching. "You will answer plainly. What was that shadow?"
Erevan's chest heaved, sweat slicking his skin. His voice cracked. "I don't… I don't know. It wasn't me."
A hiss of disbelief rippled across the councilors.
"That is a lie," the scarred councilor growled. "You stood at its center. Your hands still burned with power when it appeared. Do not insult us with feigned ignorance."
Erevan shook his head desperately. "I swear—I didn't summon it. I don't know what it was."
The murmurs sharpened, tasting suspicion.
"Bind him," the pale-haired councilor said, voice cold, measured. "If he lies, the bindings will reveal it."
Two acolytes stepped forward, chains glowing faintly with etched sigils. Panic clawed at Erevan's chest. He wanted to run. To scream. To unleash the power coiling within him, but Kaelen's gaze pinned him like a nail. No mercy. Only warning.
He forced his trembling hands forward. The chains clamped around his wrists, cold against his skin. Sigils pulsed, a soft, accusing light tracing the contours of his veins.
A tense silence fell over the chamber as all eyes fixed on him.
"State your name," Archmagister Serath commanded.
Erevan lifted his head, the glow from the chains painting pale light across his face. Lips trembling, he forced the words out:
"Erevan Vale."
The bindings pulsed once, faintly, their light steady and unbroken.
"Did you willfully summon the shadow in the Hall of Wards?"
"No!" The word tore from his throat, raw and desperate. The chains flared in response—steady, unwavering. No ripple. No flicker of deceit.
For a long, silent heartbeat, no one spoke. Then a wave of uncertain murmurs rippled through the chamber.
Serath's eyes narrowed, peeling back layers of his soul with the weight of authority. "Then… what was it?"
Erevan swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know."
The chains pulsed again. Still true.
The silence that followed felt colder than stone.
The pale-haired councilor frowned, fingertips resting lightly against her chin. "If he speaks truth, then ignorance is no comfort. A mage unaware of what he calls is a weapon blind to its own blade."
"Agreed," said another councilor, sharp as flint. "Whatever lurks within him, it is volatile. He cannot remain among the others unguarded."
A third voice, softer but edged with unease, murmured, "And yet the bindings do not lie."
The scarred councilor leaned forward, eyes like burned coals. "Truth does not make him harmless. The shadow came when he called power. It obeyed something. If not his will, then whose?"
Erevan's pulse hammered against the cold bands around his wrists. The question struck too close. His breath stuttered. He tried to speak—to defend himself—but the words tangled again, strangled by dread.
Inside him, Harrax stirred, low and purring.
["Let them question. Let them scrape their tongues bloody against their own fear. They cannot name me without summoning me, and they will not risk that."]
"Quiet," Erevan thought, but the word felt weak, crushed beneath the trembling of his chest.
["Louder,"] Harrax murmured. ["You'll need to learn to roar, little vessel, or you'll drown in their judgment."]
The pale-haired woman stood, robes whispering across the floor. "He claims ignorance. He shows no trace of deception. But ignorance, as I said, is dangerous. I motion that he be placed under watch until the Council determines what dwells within him."
The others murmured agreement. Only Mistress Kaelen's gaze held him—steady, unreadable. For a fleeting instant, Erevan thought he saw something in her eyes. Not pity. Not mercy. Understanding.
Serath lifted his hand, silencing the room. "Then the matter is settled."
His voice carried like thunder across the chamber.
"Erevan Vale is to be placed under watch. His quarters will be relocated to the lower ward. He will not attend lessons without supervision. His access to the libraries is revoked. Until we know what dwells in him, he is not a student of this Academy."
Serath's next words struck like a blade sliding home.
"He is a subject of study."
Erevan's knees weakened. The world tilted.
He opened his mouth, voice breaking as the word escaped him before he could stop it. "Please…"
The plea echoed, hollow and human, small in the vastness of the hall. "Please, I didn't—"
"Enough," Serath thundered, cutting his words with the finality of a closing door.
The chains released with a hiss, clattering against the stone. Erevan flexed his trembling fingers, wrists marked with faint sigil-shaped burns.
The chains fell away, clattering sharply against the stone. Erevan's wrists burned faintly, ghost-marks of the sigils pressed into his skin. He flexed his fingers, trembling uncontrollably, every nerve alive with raw, lingering tension.
Two acolytes stepped forward, grasping his arms. Their grip was firm, precise—not cruel, but not gentle either.
As they began to guide him toward the exit, Erevan forced his head up, scanning the chamber one last time.
Cassian stood near the far wall, arms crossed, a faint smirk tracing his mouth. But there was no humor there now—only satisfaction. His gaze met Erevan's for a single, cold heartbeat. The message was clear: I told you so.
A few steps away, Aria lingered near the chamber doors. Her face was pale, eyes wide and glimmering with something between fear and disbelief. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. When she parted her lips, one of the instructors caught her arm, shaking his head. A warning.
Her gaze stayed fixed on him, silent, pleading, and then the doors slammed behind him with a deep, echoing boom that seemed to press against the walls themselves.
The stairway beyond was dark, lit only by dim torches. Every step of the acolytes echoed sharply against the stone, but Erevan barely heard them. His heartbeat thundered louder than their footfalls, a hollow drum in his chest, echoing the emptiness settling inside him.
Inside, Harrax laughed, rolling through his mind like a storm breaking across black water.
[Do you hear it, little vessel? The bars grow thicker. The key turns tighter. And yet… they tremble.]
[They felt me brush their chamber. They know what I am, even if they refuse to name it. One day soon, you will not be their subject. You will be their master.]
Erevan's legs wobbled. The acolytes barely kept him upright. Vision blurred at the edges, breaths shallow, chest tight. The faint burn of the chains still lingered against his skin, mingling with the bitter taste of shame and fear.
He wanted to shout. To demand answers. To unleash the pulse of power coiling in his veins and scare the world into listening. But the words refused him. The silence pressed heavier than chains, and he let it pull him down, deeper into himself.
By the time they reached the lower halls, torches burned low, casting the damp stone in streaks of gold and shadow. The hum of the Academy above felt distant, unreachable—a world that had moved on without him.
At last, they shoved him into a smaller chamber, a cell of stone lined with faintly glowing sigils. He stumbled forward, landing on his knees. The door sealed with a deep, echoing click.
He pressed his palms to the cold floor, breath ragged. The silence wrapped around him, thick and suffocating. Every corner of the chamber seemed to lean in, expectant, like it knew something about him that he had not yet named.
For the first time since arriving at the Academy, he wished he had never come at all.
Harrax's laughter slid into his mind, silk curling over knives.
[You see? You touched them. You left a mark. They fear you. They cannot yet name it, but they feel it. The cage grows tight, and yet, your claws have scored the metal.]
Erevan closed his eyes, shivering—not from cold, but from the hollow weight of what had just occurred. He was alone, truly alone. And yet, inside, a darker thrill pulsed—a quiet, insistent promise that power was not done with him.
Somewhere beyond the shadows, in the world above, students whispered about him. Cassian's satisfaction, Aria's silent pleading… and the Council's decision. All etched into the hollow corridors of his mind.
He pressed his forehead against the stone, the chill grounding him. Every nerve, every heartbeat screamed warning: You are watched. You are measured. You are marked.
And through it all, Harrax whispered:
[Soon. Soon they will bow. Soon, little vessel. Wait, and remember your hunger.]
The chamber remained still. The torches flickered. Erevan Vale sat alone, trembling, and listening to the echo of a world that had not yet forgiven him for being what he was—power incarnate, and utterly, impossibly alone.