The duel with Ephraim had left more than a lingering ache in Caelus's arms and chest; it had carved a visible mark upon his standing in the academy. After the clash of magic and will, after blood and pride had been drawn in equal measure, the class had filed out in hushed awe. Yet the silence that followed Caelus in the halls wasn't reverent. It was the hush of unease. Of uncertainty.
That morning, Caelus rounded a corner from the Dormitorium Lower Hall, leather pack slung across his shoulder, heading toward his first class of the day. The corridor, wide enough to house a procession, was built from obsidian-hued stone veined with silver filaments. The walls whispered softly with enchantments; remnants of ancient wards layered across centuries. Light filtered in from narrow windows, golden and cold, as though the sun itself feared intruding fully into Blackspire's hallowed domain.
His steps echoed quietly. Around him, students passed in pairs or clusters. He recognized none, and none seemed eager to greet him. When his gaze drifted to other first years; particularly those in uniforms marked with duller sigils, denoting low birth or "Unaffiliated Lineage" they averted their eyes. He'd expected solidarity from them. Respect, perhaps. But what he received was distance.
"Why are they avoiding me?" he muttered under his breath. A pair of students hurried past without meeting his gaze. The sting was sharp.
"They're afraid of being associated with the one who challenges the balance," came a voice from behind him.
It was Dren, the thin boy with slate-colored eyes and nervous hands he had defended earlier yesterday. He walked beside Caelus now, his own presence a quiet defiance. But he was the only one.
"They're scared," Dren continued. "You didn't just stand up to an aristocrat. You beat him. That makes you dangerous… to both sides."
Caelus swallowed the knot of frustration rising in his throat. He thought about the slums, the alleys where power had meant survival. Here, too, power ruled. But it was cloaked in lineage and veiled politics.
They reached their first class: Essentia Fundamentalis.
The classroom was amphitheater-shaped, carved into a circular tier with arcanic sigils glowing faintly beneath the floor. At the center stood their instructor: Magister Orellian Fael, a towering figure draped in layers of gray, skin the hue of moonstone, and eyes like shards of glass. He emanated an aura of slow-burning force, as if every breath was a lesson in restraint.
"This," he began without preamble, "is the nature of your magic. Not the incantations. Not the theatrics. But the root of it. Essence."
For the next hour, Caelus listened, scribbled, absorbed.
He learned the five Core Wells: Vitalis, Ignis, Umbrin, Aerith, and Tenebrum. Every human drew from at least one. Blood magic, he discovered, was a volatile hybrid between Vitalis and Tenebrum, and most mages avoided it for the toll it took on body and mind.
Next came Alchemy and Convergence, taught by Professor Brin Malrahn, a woman with tattoos spiraling across her neck and brass eyes that never blinked. She taught them how different magical signatures reacted when mixed. The scent of burning copper lingered from a failed experiment three rows behind Caelus.
Then came Enchantery Theory, and finally, Mystical Law and Ethics, a soporific class held in a velvet-draped room. The professor, Archivist Lumien, seemed more dust than man.
By the time the final bell rang at 3:30 PM, Caelus's mind was crammed with diagrams, theories, and half-remembered definitions. His stomach rumbled from lunch; a bland stew and stale bread and his body ached from the tension of the day.
But he didn't return to the dorms. He made for the library. The Archivum Nocturnis
It stood to the west of the academy like a monolithic sentinel, carved into the cliffside itself. Arched windows glittered with protective runes. Two statues; robed, blindfolded figures holding keys and scrolls flanked the entrance. Above the arch, ancient words were etched in Elderscript: "Within these walls lie the words that shook gods and shaped kings."
Inside, the air was cold and dry. Rows upon rows of shelves reached skyward, vanishing into shadows. Candlelight floated untethered, illuminating paths at will. An ambient, low hum of protective wards buzzed softly in the background.
Caelus stepped toward a crystalline pedestal at the entrance and pressed the round badge embedded in his palm; the Arcanum Signet, his digital identifier. A flicker of blue light scanned him.
"Student Caelus Vire," a monotone voice whispered. "Balance: 40 Points. Access: Novice Tier. Time Remaining: 2 Hours."
He winced slightly. Entry alone had cost him 10 points. He couldn't afford to browse aimlessly.
Still, he had a goal.
First: the Blood Magic Manual, Volume I Fundamentals of the Fleshcraft Path. Authored centuries ago by Magus Elareth Varn, it outlined the principles of channeling life-force through precise incisions and ritual glyphs. Dangerous, but necessary.
Second: a blueprint of the Academy, a scroll as wide as his arm span, inked in shimmering essence-ink. It revealed the allowed paths for first-years: the Lower Halls, the Lecture Spires, the East Courtyard, and the Training Arena. The rest of the grounds shimmered with lock-runes. Forbidden.
He perused briefly through books in the history section. Titles leapt out at him. Each called to him, promising secrets. Three stood out to him: The Crown of Ash: A Chronicle of the Empire's Rise, On the Essence: A Philosophical Dissection of Magic, The Elderen Wars and the Severing of the Racial Lines. He decided they were worth it.
And another book had called to him as he wandered deeper into the Restricted Adjacent Shelves. It had no title on the spine. But when he touched it, he had felt something. Like a heartbeat not his own. A whisper pressed against his thoughts.
"Come."
He shouldn't have been able to hear it. He shouldn't have picked it up. But the wards had flickered; just for a second, and the book had dropped into his hand like it belonged there.
The title, written in deep crimson ink that shimmered under the candlelight, read:
"Of Blood and Shade: The Forgotten Fusion of the Umbravitae Discipline"
The first page described the long-lost art of merging blood and shadow; a dual affinity so rare that only three known users had ever lived. One had become a tyrant. One a martyr. The third had vanished without a trace.
It contained techniques for channeling both internal essence and external void, through symbols etched into bone and incantations whispered beneath the moon's silence. It described three methods to test for dual affinity: The Mirror of Veins, The Trial of Nightwater, and The Calling Sigil.
Caelus's breath caught.
This… this was what he needed.
But when he brought the books to the front desk, the young receptionist; an elf-blood girl named Lirei, raised a pale eyebrow.
"One book: two points," she said. "Only five allowed per week. Unless you're sponsored."
He grimaced and returned some of them, keeping the manual, the blueprint and the strange book.
After borrowing all three books, his balance now read 34 Points.
He noted in his mind to visit the Mission Hall tomorrow, to find a way to earn more points. The thought of running out of access; of being locked out of knowledge, terrified him more than another duel.
Tomorrow was Friday; field day. A single lesson on magical flora, held in the outdoor conservatory known as the Verdancy of Virell. After that, he would be free to explore and to prepare.
By the time the glowcrystals dimmed in the upper corridors and the great bells of Blackspire chimed nine times, Caelus was still tucked in the far corner of the Obsidian Archives, his borrowed books stacked neatly beside him, the dim magical light from a hovering glyphstone casting a soft amber hue across the pages.
His eyes burned.
Fatigue dragged at his limbs like chains. The high from the duel had long worn off, leaving in its place a hollow ache in his bones; the kind that only came from burning through too much blood magic too quickly. He hadn't slept the previous night, not even a wink. His mind had been too full of swirling energy and doubt, every hour spent cycling through breathing rituals, finger pricks, and slow incantations. He had needed control. He had needed to win. And he had.
But now, the weight of it all was setting in.
He blinked slowly, once, then again. His body protested as he stood, the ache deep in his chest like a bruise that had reached the marrow. The thought of dinner drifted vaguely across his mind, but the idea of descending back into the bustling dining halls, full of noise and eyes; judgmental and curious alike, was suddenly unbearable.
No. Not tonight.
Not after today.
He exited the library in silence, the great obsidian doors sealing behind him with a whisper and a pulse of ancient wards. The halls were mostly empty now, save for a few robed students heading to their dorms or deep in hushed conversations about spell matrices and elemental channeling. Caelus barely noticed them.
When he reached the Tower of Hollow Flame; the lower-level quarters reserved for first-years like him, he pressed his admission sigil to the door, and it slid open with a soft groan of metal and stone.
His room greeted him with its cold, impersonal stillness. He dropped the books onto his desk, peeled off his outer tunic, and collapsed onto the hard mattress without even pulling the covers over him.
His last memory before sleep claimed him was of the whispering book, its pages aglow in the dim candlelight.
His thoughts scattered like ash in wind. He closed his eyes, sinking slowly into the dark warmth of sleep.
But sleep didn't last.
A sudden pressure in the air stirred him; not loud, not violent, just... present. Like the room was no longer his alone.
His eyes cracked open.
The figure stood in the corner of the room, where the light from the wall-lantern barely touched. Cloaked in a heavy shroud of shadow, the man's face was hidden beneath a veil of gray cloth that seemed to drink the light around it.
Caelus sat up, instincts screaming, blood prickling beneath his skin.
"You've begun to awaken it," the stranger said, voice like velvet draped over iron. "Good. You'll need it for what's coming."
Caelus didn't speak. He didn't trust his voice, and part of him still wasn't sure this wasn't a dream.
The man stepped forward, revealing gloved hands, and in one of them was an envelope. Its wax seal was old, pressed with a sigil that shimmered dark crimson in the lamplight.
"A mission," the stranger said, placing the envelope carefully on the edge of Caelus's desk. "Unapproved. Dangerous. And meant for someone else. But I think it belongs to you now."
He turned to go, his movements like water flowing through air.
"Wait," Caelus managed to whisper. "Why me?"
The stranger paused in the threshold. A smile curled in his voice, though Caelus couldn't see his face.
"Because you're already dying to know what lies beneath Blackspire."
The door creaked open. Then closed.
And Caelus was left alone again; with a sealed envelope bearing a sigil he had never seen, and a pulse in his blood that would not calm.