The Academy no longer resembled a sanctuary of knowledge. It had transformed into halls of whispers, each footfall along its brass-lined passages reverberated through the arched ceiling, jarring and ponderous. Fellow students withdrew as I approached, separating like a river crashing from an untamed waterfall. Once I had traversed these corridors with devoted followers- not just of my lineage's reputation but also because I'm top of our class. Now that all seems to have vanished.
Broadsides adhered to door frames, seats, even the towering iron fixtures flanking the lecture chamber. Their stock was shoddy, the ink reeking of fresh pitch, yet their malice blazed clear. Rough woodblock prints depicted a youth suspended like a puppet—my features twisted into something monstrous—with spikes piercing wrists and ankles. Above loomed a shadowy figure, sockets black as voids, talons hooked into my cords. Just another vision, he told himself, though after the dream last night—why did the shadow seem to lack its usual hold over me?
I navigated the stone halls, grounding myself in the topic of Industrial Sciences, though my mind drifted to an unease—were these friendships genuine or mere reflections of others' expectations? The lecture room appeared ahead, a familiar sanctuary where, among mathematics and machine diagrams, I could demonstrate that I'm still the smartest among my classmates. No need for concern if a curse exists as I'll just continue to be myself like so many days prior to all this unexpected nonsense. Inside, students filled seats with idle conversation or huddled over sketchbooks of complex gear diagrams and equations, while my usual front row seat beckoned—a vantage point gifted to the top of the class.
Below, in crimson type:
THE HEIR'S PUPPETEER. THE HEXED SCION OF HOUSE KUZNETSOV.
My gullet tightened. I ripped one from the stonework, but it did not appear to be the chained figure from my dreams rather a shadow dressed as a Gypsy which gave me pause but still found my nerves annoyed. Before I reached the chamber, half the pupils already clutched broadsheets in their palms, whispering about the incident at Brass Square and adding to the event with bolstered details.
"Shush," one of my classmates said the instant I crossed the threshold.
All fell quiet, like if a single word was spoken- they too would fall victim to a curse. Twenty-five gazes locked onto me—some dilated with terror, some sparkling with malicious glee, most refusing to acknowledge my presence entirely. Someone near the front feigned a cough behind his knuckles, but what emerged was the whisper of "puppet." His companions snickered, a cruel, bullish sound that burrowed beneath my skin.
I settled into my seat by the casement, its wooden surface carved into it "CURSED", as if this was the moment all that coveted my place of wealth and status could publicly jest at me with absolute immunity. The necessity of appearing enraged seemed paramount, though the murmuring stopped once Professor Deyric's lectures had once ensnared all attention in the chamber; each chalk line on the board forged new insights into complex formulas of industrial sciences. The dust motes ignited by early light danced in the air but did little to dispel the gloom that clung to my thoughts.
Our mentor strode to the front with something I had not noticed before, chalk already clutched in his ink-stained fingers, yet his robes seemed almost alive. The fabric appeared smoking like he was concealing a fire underneath. His wiry white hair with just a patch of bolding and long beard looked as if he was just struck by lightning. His steely eyes scanned the room, resting briefly on each student until they fell upon me. A flicker of something—ritualistic writing, perhaps—crossed his features before he turned to the board and in a blink of the eye—everything seemed normal.
"In the realm of industrial sciences," his voice boomed, cutting through whispered secrets like a blade, "we must grasp not just gears and cogs but the very essence of force itself."
The writing of chalk against slate resonated with rhythm, perfect scratches forming intricate formulas.
"Observe the laws of thermodynamics," he said while drawing loops with practiced ease. "The foundation of our mechanical age relies on these principles. A phase change, or a phase transition, in which a substance changes from one state of matter to another…"
He paused, looking back at us, his gaze inquisitive., "…but I pose this to you: is it merely a construct of heating and cooling, or does the human will, the energy within operate these laws as much as any coal-fed furnace?"
Cracking in the seats with slight fidgeting erupted, students were unsure of the distinction.
"Consider pressure exerted by steam," Professor Deyric continued. "It's potential unleashed. The real question is what ignites that steam—turning water into something with great power? It is a mix I answer—elemental in nature with effects of water and fire. So, I ask: converting your energy would take what form in industry?"
The silence in the classroom seemed to swell as I rose, scraping my chair's legs against the stone floor. It felt as if a thousand eyes drilled into my back, each one laced with venom.
"Professor, energy within oneself could have unlimited power," I stated, my voice steady against the tide of derision. "Unlike water with set properties of ice, water, and steam—human potential has natural limitations but with science, industry, and technology—such limitations are negated."
Snickering erupted from the back; words cut like jagged glass. "Listen to the Gypsy puppet," someone jeered, their tone dripping with disdain.
My jaw clenched, the jeering a constant shadow clinging to my heels since the riot. I met Professor Deyric's gaze, seeking something—acknowledgment, perhaps, that the words I spoke held weight amidst the swirling rumors. Professor Deyric's chalk paused mid-gesture, his eyes flashing with a resolve of a well-disciplined academic. "Enough," he thundered, turning to face the class. "Mockery breeds ignorance. And ignorance, my dear students, is a rust that corrodes knowledge."
He turned to me, voice softening. "Rhylorin's insight touches the understanding we seek. Those who taunt rather than engage remain prisoners of their own thoughts." The chalk dust and oil scent from mechanical models filled the air as he gestured for parchment and ink. "Commence your work," he instructed, his presence like an unyielding guardian. "Illustrate under the framework just elaborated how laws of thermodynamics mastery intersect with human ingenuity—ponder the forces driving our world, and a hint will be why is it we all need substance to survive?"
My classmates settled into their task, quills scratching against paper, creating ink marks of their thoughts. A few beside me exchanged glances, shrugged, plunged themselves into their pages with fervor. My mind, however, was a blank slate, a stretch of arid desert where thoughts struggled in vain to blossom. The broadsheets calling me a Gypsy puppet dug slivers beneath my skin. They held tight, pinning attempts to think purely about brass and steam. It was the shadow that made them grip tighter, the figure from dreams that loomed in my consciousness, as if perched at the edge of reality, ready to slip through the cracks. Every time I'd start to write, the dream tangled with the waking world, and I felt the weight of hours drain away.
"Rhylorin, your parchment struggles under the quill's grasp?" Professor Deyric's observation slipped through my haze. I nodded, unable to meet his gaze fully but offered a weak smile.
His brow furrowed, tightened at the corners, ever-so-briefly acknowledging my efforts as the rest of the class scribbled around me. Just then, the academy bells rang outside, a clarion call cutting through scratching penmanship, their resonance an escape from the tension that coiled within these walls.
"Hand over what you have, regardless of completion." Professor Deyric's command for parchment was swift, drawing students out of their trance-like work and gathering paperwork with alacrity. "Enlightenment is not contained solely in finished thoughts, but the pursuit thereof."
The room hummed with activity, seating creaked, benches creaked in response to eager steps upon the stone floor. Students flowed past, depositing their parchments with Deyric at his desk. I remained seated, fingers fumbling still with a corner of black paper, the mark of emptiness like a bitter seed held in the palm.
"Rhylorin, are you quite alright?" He asked, voice dropping lower now that the chatter ebbed, forming quivers of concern in the quiet. Only a few students lingered at the threshold, watching to glimpse my inadequacies.
"There has been much to deal with over the past couple of days," I answered. "First day back is all—I'll get my baring once we' all return from the break, professor."
He nodded, understanding pulsing through his gaze. "Sometimes clarity emerges unexpected—like lighting struck in error, revealing a true path hidden beneath its surface." He reached for the unfinished parchment, its stark contrast like soot to clouds.
The remaining students filed away, steps resonating in the corridor beyond. Those final scenes held whispers both imagined and real, fueled by distraction and rumors. I rose, quill abandoned on my desktop like a forgotten relic.
"I shall examine this at your need's pace—that swift ephemeral grasp of brass and steam requires time to allure your intent," he said then accepted the parchment with only a split second glance, a decision forged apparently from wisdom without judgment. "Master time, Rhylorin, whether this captures it today or upon another waiting dawn."
My uncertainty dissolved beneath his reassurance, darkness gradually lifting. Perhaps he genuinely perceives past my clumsy efforts at appearing ordinary—sees through the aristocratic mask I've worn so carefully. Keeping the entrance ajar, he spoke quietly, and I recognized he observed the phantoms dwelling in my visions, both present and across the threshold of slumber's domain. Another soul who notices the grains of dream-sand still clinging to my consciousness—how many others can see what I try so desperately to hide? A silent battle waged through murmured faith, shaping understanding from pieces once slipping away like vapor through clenched fingers. I left carrying those reverberations—insights where contemplation and machinery intertwined through coils, drawing me further into the institution's core and my own. Indeed, my thoughts had wandered there—the vision containing those twin silhouettes dancing through my dreams. Yet was Professor Deyric seeking to pose an enigma he understood? Did I witness his own secret at the start of class?
Lost in thought, I made my way through the twisting hallways of the academy. The echo of footsteps mingled with the chime of distant bells, empty and yawning as if urging time onward. My mind churned with fragments of gears—both literal and metaphorical—as I attempted not to dwell on Professor Deyric's encouragement or the shadows haunting my dreams. Sunlight filtered through leaded windows, dappling the stone floor in squares of muted gold. I felt disjointed from reality as though I drifted in a dreamlike once more.
A turn led to a deserted stretch of corridor. Oliver Veynar's frame lay crumpled just outside the angular recess of another classroom. Spoils of some catastrophic attack, his limbs contorted unnaturally like a puppet cast aside by an indifferent master. His once vibrant eyes stared blindly at nothing, the essence drained leaving husks of dullness pooling beneath the skin. The marbled floor beneath him remained pristine despite the gruesome violence—no blood, merely winter's chill emanating from still flesh.
"Oliver," I whispered, my voice swallowed by the thick silence. My feet carried me to him of their own volition; a compulsion equally repelling and magnetic.
The gashes running jagged across his arms, chest, and throat bespoke a furious wrath—strips of mangled flesh laid open to the cold world, an offering to death's embrace. I knelt beside him, unmoving, my senses completely overwhelmed. Whether I heard a distant remnant of something unholy linger on his exhale or simply succumbed to its imagination was difficult to tell.
Before the full weight of this reality could settle, voices pierced the quiet—the high-pitched wails interrupted by gasps of girl's witness to this heinous sight. My classmates encircled the scene like panicked birds drawn helplessly to a harbinger of doom.
Screams erupted as a girl crumpled, hands clamped over her eyes while reality robbed her of breath. I remained snared by their magnified distress against hollow echoes, words caught in my throat before the unyielding truth carved in Oliver's whitened features—almost serene beside the jagged ruin of his neck. As they dispersed, unwanted black sand dusted the floor, coalescing into slender threadlike appendage of a climbing plant while a faint whisper brushed against my neck—a fading phantasmal trace whispering truths just beyond my grasp.