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Chapter 25: Reflections in the Dark
Lyrian hesitated for a moment as the doors of the Grandmaster's chamber closed behind him, muffling the vastness of the hall. His eyes, heavy with fatigue, shifted to Professor Marlowe, who lingered nearby with a troubled expression. The older man's gaze softened as it settled on Lyrian, a mix of concern and something deeper—something almost protective.
Marlowe's sigh was quiet but weighted. "You've been through more than enough for one day," he murmured, his voice low. "You should get some rest."
Lyrian managed a faint nod, though the ache in his chest made it difficult to focus. Exhaustion gnawed at him, turning the edges of his vision hazy. Still, he caught the way Marlowe's eyes lingered on him, tracing the bruises darkening his jaw and the subtle tremor in his hands. It wasn't just the wounds that concerned him.
"You… you really do remind me of her," Marlowe added, almost to himself. The words were soft, yet they pierced through the haze clouding Lyrian's mind. "Your mother had that same look in her eyes—resolute, even when she was exhausted."
For a heartbeat, Lyrian's breath caught, a flicker of something unsteady passing over his features. He quickly masked it, glancing away, but the faint clench of his jaw didn't go unnoticed.
Marlowe cleared his throat, as if regretting the slip. "You don't have to carry this burden alone," he continued, more firmly. "For now, focus on recovering. We can discuss… everything else soon."
The professor rested a hand on his shoulder, a warm, grounding weight that eased some of the tension coiled beneath Lyrian's skin. "Get some rest," he repeated, a hint of insistence in his tone. "We'll talk later."
Lyrian hesitated, then finally nodded. "Thank you," he mumbled, his voice rasping from exhaustion and something else—something raw and half-buried. He turned away before Marlowe could read too much into it, forcing his legs to move, each step dragging more than the last.
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The corridors stretched long and empty, torchlight flickering in uneven rhythms along the walls. The silence was a reprieve but also unnerving, amplifying the faint echo of his footsteps. His mind churned with fractured thoughts, replaying the fight, the flare of cold power, the Grandmaster's calculating silence, and Marlowe's unspoken concern.
By the time Lyrian reached his dormitory, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones, each breath labored and shallow. His hands were unsteady as he pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly in protest.
The room was modest but familiar—a single bed with dark blue sheets, a wooden desk cluttered with papers and a half-empty inkpot, and a wardrobe pushed against one wall. Moonlight spilled through the arched window, casting pale streaks across the stone floor and chasing away the gloom.
Lyrian closed the door behind him, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. For a moment, he simply leaned back against the wood, eyes slipping shut as he exhaled slowly. The silence pressed in, soothing yet heavy with all the thoughts he'd been pushing aside.
Eventually, he forced himself to move, peeling off his torn tunic and letting it drop to the floor. His torso was a mess of bruises and half-healed cuts, dark blotches staining his chest and sides. The bandages wrapped over his chest itched, hiding the mark, but he didn't have the energy to check it.
His gaze drifted to the mirror above the desk, and he paused, almost startled by the reflection staring back. Black hair hung in uneven strands, framing a face that seemed sharper than before—high cheekbones, a jawline edged with exhaustion, and eyes darker than a starless night. His skin was paler than usual, a stark contrast against the shadows pooling beneath his eyes, turning them into dark hollows. Even the faint bruise along his jaw seemed more pronounced, a reminder of the battle's brutality.
He ran a hand through his hair, the strands falling back in a messy, ink-black curtain. The dark circles beneath his eyes only made them seem more intense, as if lit by some unseen fire. He grimaced faintly, pressing a thumb against the darkening bruise on his cheekbone.
The cold presence of the mark pulsed faintly beneath the bandages, a silent reminder of what had transpired. Lyrian's scowl deepened, fingers brushing over the wrappings with a mix of unease and frustration. He should've felt something—pain, discomfort, anything—but all he felt was the chill, lurking just beneath his skin.
His eyes narrowed, the reflection staring back almost unfamiliar. Had it changed him? This power, whatever it was—had it altered more than just his mana? His hair seemed darker, the strands catching the moonlight with an almost blue-black sheen. Even his eyes held a sharper gleam, like shattered obsidian.
A scowl tugged at his lips. Great, he thought sourly. As if things weren't complicated enough.
He turned away from the mirror with a muttered curse, dragging a hand over his face. Exhaustion was a weight dragging at his limbs, dulling his senses and turning his thoughts sluggish. The bed creaked faintly as he sank down onto it, letting the mattress take his weight. For a moment, he simply sat there, elbows braced on his knees and head bowed, eyes slipping shut.
The Grandmaster's silence still echoed in his mind, heavy with implications. Why hadn't he said anything? Even if the man suspected something, he hadn't let it show. But that only made it worse. Not knowing what they might suspect, not knowing who might be watching—every shadow seemed to stretch a little too far, every silence felt like a trap waiting to spring.
His fists clenched involuntarily, nails digging into his palms. The uncertainty gnawed at him, twisting his gut with unease. If this power really was dangerous, if they discovered what he was…
Lyrian released a slow breath, forcing himself to unwind his fists. No, he decided. He'd deal with it when the time came. For now, he needed rest—time to think, time to gather himself before whatever came next.
His gaze drifted to the window, moonlight filtering through to paint silver lines across the floor. The academy grounds stretched dark and silent beyond the glass, shadows pooling beneath the trees and statues. Somewhere out there, Elyreina and Reynard were probably still awake—wondering what had happened, questioning why he hadn't returned.
A faint pang of guilt flared, quickly smothered. He'd explain eventually—after he figured out what to say, after he could make sense of it himself.
For now, all he could do was wait.
Lyrian leaned back, letting his eyes slip shut. The silence pressed in, cool and heavy, dragging him down into a darkness that was almost comforting. Within moments, exhaustion claimed him, pulling him into a dreamless sleep.
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