Chapter 18: The Weight of Expectations
The grand hall buzzed with murmurs as the Ranking and Distribution Ceremony came to a close. Observers, nobles, and scholars moved in clusters, exchanging hushed theories about Lyrian's condition and the implications of the latest rankings.
Elyreina lingered at the edge of the hall, her eyes fixed on the flickering mana display that still bore the names of the top ten contenders. The glow of the shimmering letters felt almost mocking, a cruel reminder of Lyrian's absence.
She clenched her fists, frustration mingling with guilt. If only she had been faster, stronger—maybe Lyrian wouldn't be lying unconscious, fighting for his life.
A familiar voice cut through her thoughts.
"Third place, huh?" Zarek Stormcrest's tone was cold, almost derisive. His storm-grey eyes glinted with barely concealed contempt as he approached. "Impressive for someone without a notable bloodline."
Elyreina met his gaze steadily, refusing to flinch.
"Second place isn't much better," she replied, her tone even.
Zarek's jaw tightened, but a smirk curled at the edge of his mouth.
"Keep telling yourself that," he sneered. "We both know who should've been first." His eyes flickered to Seraphina, who stood alone at the far end of the hall, her silver hair catching the mana light.
Elyreina followed his gaze but remained silent. Seraphina's performance had been flawless—cold, precise, lethal. It was hard to argue against results, no matter how much Zarek resented them.
Before Zarek could continue his taunts, an instructor's voice boomed through the hall.
"All participants, report to your designated stations for artifact distribution."
Elyreina moved swiftly, eager to escape Zarek's biting remarks. The artifact distribution was the next step—the rewards for their performance in the trials. Powerful weapons, enchanted armors, and rare relics lined the tables at the center of the hall, each shimmering with latent mana.
Seraphina was first, selecting a glacial rapier that pulsed with frost energy. The weapon seemed to sing in her grip, an extension of her will. Zarek followed, claiming a pair of gauntlets etched with storm symbols. Sparks crackled between his fingers as he tested them, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
When Elyreina's turn came, she hesitated, eyes scanning the array of relics. Her gaze settled on a pair of daggers with intricate runes carved into the hilts—both glimmered with faint traces of flame.
She reached for them instinctively, the weight familiar, almost reassuring. A whisper of warmth ran through her palms as she gripped the flame-etched dagger—the same warmth she'd felt when fighting the Vorethin.
"You've made a fine choice," a nearby instructor commented, nodding approvingly. "Those were forged by House Solrath's master smith. Their enchantments are said to adapt to their wielder's mana flow."
Elyreina inclined her head, but her thoughts drifted to Lyrian again—to the raw power he'd unleashed in the simulation, fire that burned impossibly bright. Had that been his own mana—or something else entirely?
She sheathed the daggers and stepped aside, watching as Reynard approached the relics with a calculated eye. He selected a slender sword inlaid with wind runes, testing its balance with a precise flourish.
"Not bad," Elyreina remarked quietly when he rejoined her.
Reynard managed a faint smirk.
"Better than ninth place, at least." But his eyes flickered with unease, and she knew his thoughts mirrored her own—Lyrian should've been here with them.
---
In the hidden chamber beneath the academy, the air was frigid and heavy with mana. Professor Marlowe moved swiftly, robes sweeping across the stone floor. The glow of glyphs inscribed on the walls cast eerie shadows as he approached a crystal basin in the center of the room.
Inside, Lyrian lay motionless, suspended in a solution of concentrated mana. His chest rose and fell shallowly, barely enough to count as breathing. Symbols etched onto his skin pulsed faintly, reacting to the ambient magic.
Marlowe frowned, one hand tracing the runes carved into the basin's edge. The artifact they had retrieved—an ancient amulet infused with stabilizing magic—rested at Lyrian's side, its glow dimming with every passing moment.
"Damn it," Marlowe muttered, frustration lacing his tone. "His mana flow is too unstable… This shouldn't be possible unless—"
A soft chime echoed through the chamber, and a translucent projection flickered to life, revealing the Grandmaster's stern visage.
"Marlowe," the Grandmaster's voice was a low rumble. "Report."
"His condition's worse than we thought," Marlowe replied tersely. "The artifact's holding for now, but whatever revived him isn't natural. We're running out of time."
The Grandmaster's eyes narrowed.
"Do whatever it takes to stabilize him," he commanded. "If Lyrian's origins are what I suspect, we cannot afford to lose him—not yet."
Marlowe's jaw clenched.
"I'll try, but we need more than just ancient relics. If we don't find the source of his instability soon…" He let the words trail off, the implication clear.
The projection faded, leaving Marlowe alone with the dull hum of mana and the shallow breaths of the boy in the basin.
Lyrian stirred faintly, fingers twitching, face contorted in pain. In his mind, darkness surged—tendrils of shadow laced with whispers, memories fragmented and out of reach. Visions of a crumbling throne, crimson eyes watching from the abyss, a woman's scream—his mother's.
The darkness coiled tighter, pulling him deeper. And in the void, a voice—ancient and cold—spoke with chilling finality.
"You cannot escape what you are, Lyrian. Not even death can sever your fate."
---
Back in the grand hall, the ceremony drew to a close. Instructors dismissed the students, but whispers lingered, speculation about Lyrian's fate spreading like wildfire.
Elyreina moved to leave but paused, glancing back at Seraphina. The silver-haired girl stood alone, expression unreadable, eyes fixed on the empty spot where Lyrian's name should have been. For a moment, Elyreina considered approaching—asking if she knew more about what had happened.
But before she could, Seraphina turned sharply, striding away without a word. The coldness in her gaze was unyielding, a shield that none dared to breach.
Elyreina exhaled slowly, forcing herself to move. Reynard fell into step beside her.
"He'll come back," Reynard said finally, though the uncertainty in his tone betrayed him.
Elyreina's jaw tensed. She wanted to believe that—needed to—but the image of Lyrian lying motionless, pale and barely breathing, refused to leave her mind.
He can't leave me. Not again, she thought fiercely.
They moved through the dimly lit corridors, the noise of the grand hall fading behind them. The path to the dormitories was lined with mana lanterns, their glow soft but unsteady—flickering like her own uncertain resolve.
Once inside, Elyreina leaned back against the closed door, exhaling shakily. The room was sparsely furnished—a bed, a desk cluttered with scrolls and mana crystals, and a narrow window overlooking the training grounds, now shadowed and empty.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, head bowed and hands clenched tightly in her lap. But her eyes remained fixed on the flame-etched dagger, the faint glow pulsing in time with her racing heartbeat.
Outside, the wind howled softly, carrying with it the chill of night and the distant tolling of a mana bell marking the hour.
And far below, in the hidden chamber, Lyrian stirred—shadows coiling tighter, the whispers growing louder, cold and unrelenting.