The gate was not a door.
It was a tear.
A seam in the world, pulled sideways through space and stitched open by something that should not have had fingers.
The name Zeyrthmal hovered midair, slowly twisting in on itself like a spiral devouring its own letters.
Alaric stood in front of it, alone.
Marcus was gone.
Not dead. Not retreated. Just… no longer present in a way that mattered. His last words still echoed in the room like a joke no one understood yet.
> "When you do, the Crown remembers."
The name pulsed again.
Thick heat swept through the vault, but it didn't burn. It pressed. Like gravity. Like breath that wanted to swallow something.
Alaric stared at it.
Then reached out—not with his hand, but his mind.
"Cognition Lock – Layered Analysis."
—Splits his focus across every curve of the glyph, every motion, every flare of psychic pressure hidden beneath its infernal shimmer.
And there it was.
Beneath the demonic writing, below the fire, behind the scream—
A message.
Not meant to be seen.
It was in a language that wasn't written. It was felt.
A trigger.
A ritual meant not to summon something in—but to tear something out.
Alaric.
It wasn't about the gate.
It was about him.
> The network hadn't been pulling power for a monster—it had been built to break a seal.
> His seal.
> His mind.
> To free something inside him he didn't know was caged.
And it had just clicked into place.
---
The fire surged.
The letters of Zeyrthmal screamed as they folded inward.
The tear in space cracked open just wide enough to spit out a shape.
Not a demon.
Not a creature.
Just a single black eye floating in the air, its pupil wide, ringed in shifting metal.
It stared at him.
And then it blinked.
Alaric's vision blurred.
His thoughts—so tightly guarded—began to slip sideways.
He staggered.
The name dug into the floor now, trying to root itself, to force open the gate wide enough for something worse.
No time.
He dropped to one knee.
Pressed his hand against the glowing altar, ignoring the heat.
And said, not aloud, but inside his own mind—
"Shut."
"Now."
"Break."
And then—
"Burn."
---
"Mental Burn – Overload Seal."
—A raw psychic override. Sends every emotion, memory, and thought into the center of the glyph until it breaks beneath the pressure of knowing too much.
He poured in everything.
The quiet shame of being magicless.
The confusion of seeing a demon wear a teacher's face.
The rage of holding a coin with his family's mark on it.
The name fought back.
But names were nothing without minds to hold them.
And Alaric's?
Wasn't holding anything anymore.
The name cracked.
Split.
Screamed.
The black eye shattered.
The tear slammed shut.
Silence fell.
Smoke curled upward from the altar like dying breath.
The ritual was gone.
But something lingered in the air—thin, unreadable.
Something that had seen him.
And hadn't left.
---
Alaric fell to the floor, breathing hard.
Alive.
But his hands trembled.
Because he hadn't just closed the gate.
He'd touched whatever was behind it.
And it had looked back.
---
By morning, the vault beneath the Academy no longer existed.
Not physically—it was still there. The stone chamber, the cracked altar, even the scorched floor. But in every official record, every magical tracking ward, every divination query sent by the staff…
It was blank.
No trace of ritual.
No signs of fire.
No aura left behind.
Because Alaric had erased it.
Piece by piece.
---
The knock on his dorm room door came just after breakfast.
Three short taps.
He was already dressed and pretending to read when he opened it.
A professor stood outside, flanked by two guards. Middle-aged, eyes tired, robes stiff with morning enchantments.
"Alaric Zevran Veyron," the man said, "Headmaster requests your presence."
Alaric tilted his head. "Am I in trouble, or just your most exciting student?"
The professor didn't smile. "Bring your coat."
---
The headmaster sat alone at a long table in the east tower conference hall.
The air smelled faintly of ink and burned salt.
Two seats had been placed. One for Alaric. One already filled—with InquisitorKael, again.
He was sipping tea this time.
Alaric sat down without a word.
The headmaster didn't waste time.
"We found a gate imprint," he said. "Deep underground. But… no trace. No energy. Not even ash."
"Strange," Alaric said.
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?"
"I heard rumors," Alaric said calmly. "Sounded exciting."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "We have reason to believe someone disrupted the gate before it opened. Cleanly."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "And that's bad?"
"No," the headmaster said. "It's terrifying."
Kael set down his cup.
"Alaric," he said, tone quiet, "a normal student doesn't just stumble across active demonic structures. A normal student doesn't survive being in the same room with a gate trying to open."
"Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not normal," Alaric replied flatly.
Kael didn't blink.
"We also found this."
He slid a folded cloth onto the table.
Inside: the token.
The second one—Marcus's.
Alaric's pulse didn't change.
"Do you recognize the mark?"
Alaric stared at it.
"No."
Kael waited.
Alaric didn't move.
Then finally said:
"But I've seen something like it before."
The headmaster's eyes sharpened. "Where?"
Alaric leaned back in his chair, crossed one ankle over the other.
And said, with absolute calm:
"On my father's ring."
---
There was silence.
Then Kael stood.
"We're opening an investigation into House Veyron."
"I hope you brought paperwork," Alaric said. "You'll need a stack."
"You're a noble heir. You'll be asked to testify."
Alaric nodded once.
"Good. I've been meaning to talk about my inheritance."
---
Far away, in the Veyron estate's sealed basement, Malrik Veyron stared at a cracked obsidian mirror.
The reflection inside shifted.
Showed his son.
And behind him, for the briefest moment—
The same black eye.
Watching.
---
Testifying against your own family wasn't common in noble society.
Doing it while still a student?
Unheard of.
Alaric arrived at the Council Chamber wearing his uniform and his usual expression: calm, vaguely annoyed, and unimpressed by the twenty noble observers pretending not to whisper about him.
Inquisitor Kael stood near the center dais. Beside him, the headmaster. A few professors from the Academy had been called to observe, "in the name of educational transparency," which was a polite way of saying if this goes badly, it's not our fault.
A few students were seated in the balcony above.
Among them, Celine Ardent.
She didn't wave. She just stared, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Alaric stood in the center of the room.
"You understand the charges under consideration?" Kael asked.
"Yes," Alaric said. "I'm aware my father's a flaming hypocrite and a demon-sponsoring sociopath."
A few nobles shifted uncomfortably.
Kael cleared his throat. "To be more specific, we're investigating House Veyron's role in constructing summoning gates within Royal Academy grounds, using unlicensed rituals and forbidden entities."
Alaric nodded. "Right. That. Less poetic, but yes."
The headmaster tried to suppress a sigh.
Kael opened a scroll. "We'd like to ask you a series of formal questions regarding the presence of House Veyron's mark at multiple summoning sites—"
The chamber doors slammed open.
Everyone turned.
A tall man strode in, hair slicked back, long crimson coat trailing behind him.
The mark of House Veyron glinted on his collar.
"Apologies for the interruption," the man said smoothly. "I'm Lord Veyron's legal representative."
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
The man smiled at him.
"I am also," he added, "your older brother."
The room tensed.
Kael frowned. "This wasn't scheduled."
"It's family business," the man said. "Surely my brother wouldn't mind a fellow witness?"
Alaric looked at him for a long moment.
Then smiled faintly.
"Nice coat," he said. "Tell me—is that real leather, or demon hide?"
The man's smile didn't falter. "Why don't you come home and ask Father yourself?"
Kael stepped forward. "You have no authority here. This testimony is protected under Imperial Code 9–77."
The brother didn't respond.
Instead, he reached into his coat and flicked something forward.
A blade—not thrown, but summoned from shadow—sliced toward Kael's chest.
Kael barely dodged.
Alaric had already moved.
"Vector Lash – Reverse Thrust."
—Redirects linear force in a perfect 180, sending attacks back toward the sender with doubled momentum.
The blade twisted midair.
Reversed.
Slammed into the ground at the brother's feet.
The brother looked down at it. Then smiled wider.
"I was hoping you'd play."
Alaric stepped forward.
"I'm always playing."
---
The nobles scrambled for cover.
Kael drew a warded blade.
The chamber filled with pressure.
But Alaric didn't flinch.
This wasn't an assassination.
It was a message.
And it had his family's handwriting all over it.
---
The chamber had no shields.
No dueling enchantments.
No protective wards to keep the ceiling from caving in if things got serious.
Which was a problem.
Because things were about to get serious.
Alaric and his brother stood ten paces apart. A silence heavy with layered tension stretched between them—nobles watching from the balcony, guards too stunned to interfere, Inquisitor Kael holding his sword slightly lower than he should have.
"Still clever," his brother said softly. "But you've never been tested against someone who knows you."
Alaric blinked. "That's not true. I test myself all the time. It's called breakfast."
The floor cracked under his brother's foot as he launched forward—fast, cloaked in shadow, a blade appearing mid-swing.
Precog Flash.
—Alaric saw it a second before it happened.
He stepped sideways.
Vector Burst.
—He slid across the floor with a sharp burst of force, dodging cleanly without ever lifting his foot.
The blade struck nothing but air.
His brother snarled, spinning mid-strike, cloak flaring. A second weapon—thrown. Fast. Hooked.
Shatter Pulse.
—A tight, invisible force flicked outward.
The blade veered off course, clattering into a stone pillar.
"Your tricks are loud," Alaric said. "You ever try subtlety?"
His brother slammed a hand into the ground. Magic runes ignited across the floor—a trap circle laced with black chains.
Alaric didn't move.
Dominion Field – Level 1.
—The space around him compressed. Thought slowed. Movement staggered.
The spell misfired.
Chains whipped around uselessly, unable to find stable rhythm in the disrupted mental space.
His brother blinked, staggered, snarled. "How are you still resisting?!"
"Maybe don't try to cage someone who never follows directions," Alaric muttered.
Then he stepped in.
Close. Too close for magic.
One finger tapped his brother's chest.
Impulse Echo.
—A pulse of reflected emotion.*
What came back was rage.
Hollow. Shaped. Controlled.
Not natural.
Not human.
Something else was piloting this.
Alaric jumped back.
His brother straightened—but the glow in his eyes flickered, not red… not mana.
Possession.
No—not full.
Cooperation.
"I see it now," Alaric muttered. "You're not a puppet. You're a host."
His brother smirked. "You really should come home. It's almost time for the family reunion."
Thought Loop.
—Alaric sent the line echoing into his brother's mind:
> You're not in control. You're not in control. You're not in control.
His brother's steps faltered.
Just enough.
Alaric launched forward—
Vector Crush.
—Compressed the air in a tight cone and slammed him backward into a column.
Stone cracked.
The crowd gasped.
His brother slumped, growling—but not unconscious.
The thing inside him was still awake.
Still watching.
Still testing him.
---
Above, Kael signaled to the guards.
But none of them moved.
They were waiting.
Not for orders.
For Alaric.
To finish it.
---
Alaric's brother rose from the rubble, dust curling off his shoulders like steam.
But it wasn't the same man anymore.
His smile was too sharp. His eyes were rimmed in black.
His magic flared outward—not like mana, but something deeper, older. It didn't glow.
It bled.
> Bloodbrand Surge
— Channeled demonic energy through his veins to amplify strength and break psychic holds.
The floor cracked beneath his boots as he moved. Fast. Sharp. Weightless.
Alaric didn't blink.
Cognition Split
— One half of his mind tracked the blade. The other followed the shifting muscle patterns in his brother's jaw—prepping for a feint.
He stepped left before the strike even came.
Vector Grip
— Grabbed a desk from the side of the chamber and launched it into his brother's path like a wall.
The desk exploded on impact.
His brother emerged through the splinters, cloak torn, blade glowing now with a new effect:
> Hellbind Arc
— A cursed edge that severs not just flesh, but will. Designed to bypass magical wards by targeting conviction.
Alaric ducked under the first slash.
Precog Flash
— Caught a glimpse of the follow-up swing arcing for his back.
He dropped.
Slid.
Came up with one hand raised—
Perception Crush
— Collapsed all sensory data around his brother for three seconds. No sound. No light. No orientation.
His brother staggered mid-swing. Eyes flickered.
The glow in his arm sputtered.
And then Alaric stepped forward.
Neural Lock
— Froze voluntary muscles just as the demonic surge tried to compensate.
His brother stumbled.
Alaric didn't go for a knockout.
He walked up and placed two fingers against his brother's temple.
Mental Rewind
— Replayed the last thirty seconds of conscious thought. Not his brother's—the thing inside.
The visions came in a flash:
> A hand clawing through flesh.
A coin burning through skin.
A whisper from Marcus: "He's not ready yet. Wear the body. Push him harder."
The memory snapped back.
Alaric withdrew his hand.
"You're just a delivery system," he muttered.
His brother's lips twitched.
Then something smiled from behind his teeth.
And spoke without moving his mouth.
"Mindborn. We are learning you."
Alaric's eyes narrowed.
"Learn this."
He raised his hand again.
Vector Crush
— Compressed the space around his brother's chest in a tight burst. Not lethal. But final.
The air cracked.
His brother flew backward—slammed into the floor, skidding across the marble.
Unconscious.
Breathing.
But whatever was inside… gone.
For now.
---
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Inquisitor Kael approached carefully.
"You didn't kill him."
"I kill threats," Alaric said. "Not puppets."
The headmaster joined him.
"That wasn't just demon magic," he muttered. "That was… layered."
"Possession, half-channeling, maybe even Crown-bound influence," Alaric said, brushing his sleeve. "My family's really branching out."
He turned toward the balcony, where the nobles had already begun to argue.
But one voice rose above the rest.
Seraphine.
Alaric's sister.
Eyes locked on his. Face unreadable.
She mouthed a single word:
> "Careful."
Alaric nodded.
Because this fight was over.
But the real war?
Was about to start knocking.