The duel was over. But the war had only begun.
Whispers flooded the Academy before dawn. By breakfast, Alaric's name had outgrown its rumors. They didn't call him a "failure" anymore.
They called him something worse.
> "The Mindborn."
"The Veyron Heretic."
"The Noble with No Magic Who Beat One With Too Much."
The hallways parted when he walked through them. Professors gave him tight-lipped nods. Classmates avoided eye contact. A few stared, then quickly looked away—as if his gaze might peel back their thoughts.
Alaric didn't mind.
In fact, he was enjoying the silence.
---
He sat at the edge of the training yard, sipping lukewarm tea. The cup floated three inches off his hand, held aloft by invisible fingers.
Across from him, Gaelin paced with his arms crossed and his coat dragging through a patch of scorched grass.
"You humiliated the heir of a High House in front of nobles, priests, and half the Academy," Gaelin said, counting points on his fingers. "You exposed possible demonic influence, shredded the Council's control protocols, and now there are Church agents sniffing around the lecture halls."
He turned.
"And you're drinking tea."
"I didn't plan the weather either," Alaric said, calmly flicking the cup into his hand. "Want to blame me for that too?"
Gaelin narrowed his eyes. "The king's envoys arrived this morning."
"Good," Alaric said. "Maybe they'll arrest my father."
"They're not here to arrest anyone," Gaelin muttered. "They're here to watch you."
---
That afternoon, a formal notice was pinned to the Academy's central board.
> By Order of the Royal Court:
Alaric Zevran Veyron is to remain under the protection of the Academy until the investigation of House Veyron is concluded.
> Any attempt to remove him from school grounds without royal sanction will be considered a breach of imperial security.
Students crowded around it, whispering.
Alaric passed through them without stopping.
---
By evening, he had a new room.
Top floor. Reinforced walls. Two magical guards stationed outside—not to keep him in, but to keep everyone else out.
Gaelin leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
"You're a national asset now," he said. "How's it feel?"
"Like being wrapped in silk and stabbed with gold," Alaric replied, unpacking a single book.
"Don't get comfortable," Gaelin said. "House Veyron's pride is bleeding. They won't let this stand."
"They never did."
The door shut behind him.
Alaric looked out the window.
He could see the noble towers from here—tall, arrogant, gleaming.
And beneath them, a single shadow moved too quickly across the garden path.
He narrowed his eyes.
Because he felt it:
Something familiar.
Someone watching.
---
Seraphine Veyron moved through the Academy gardens in silence.
It was nearly midnight, and the moonlight spilled silver across the trimmed hedges. She wore no noble crest, no jewelry—only a hooded cloak, unmarked, and gloves to hide the brand on her palm.
She wasn't supposed to be out here.
The Academy had doubled her protection since the duel. Royal watchers tailed her in secret. Professors cast subtle wards in every corridor she walked through. Even Alaric, in his usual sideways way, had left a note on her desk.
> Don't trust shadows. Not even your own.
And yet, she'd come anyway.
Because something in the air called to her.
She reached the edge of the garden path and stopped.
There—beneath the old ivy archway—stood a man in Veyron robes.
Dark red. Trimmed in gold. A half mask over his lower face.
"Lady Seraphine," he said softly.
Her spine went rigid. "You have five seconds."
"I bring no harm."
"Three."
"Your father wishes to speak."
She didn't blink.
"Alaric just crippled my brother in front of the royal court."
"Yes," the man said. "And yet, Lord Malrik still considers you… useful."
She stepped forward once.
He flinched.
But it wasn't her movement.
It was the sudden snap of air behind him.
Vector Grip
— Alaric's invisible hold pulled the man two feet off the ground by the back of his collar and hovered him in place.
From the hedge, Alaric stepped out.
Hands in his coat pockets. No expression.
"Bad idea," he said.
The man gasped, struggling midair. "H-He said she would be unguarded—!"
"That was your first mistake," Alaric said calmly.
He turned to Seraphine. "You good?"
She nodded once.
Alaric's hand twitched.
Vector Crush
— Compressed the air around the man's lungs just enough to knock him out cold. Not fatal. Not even painful.
Just decisive.
The loyalist dropped to the grass like a puppet with cut strings.
Alaric stepped over him.
"Second mistake," he said, to no one in particular, "was thinking I'd wait for them to strike first."
---
Later that night, Alaric walked the Academy's perimeter.
The halls were still. His steps echoed off polished floors. The moon lit the arches like a stage.
But in his mind, he was already at work.
Cognition Split
— One layer mapped every hallway, pillar, stairwell.
— The other wove psychic threads into seams of architecture, invisible and silent.
He wasn't just setting traps.
He was building a net.
Not for enemies.
For answers.
---
In a chamber beneath the Veyron estate, Malrik read a report with blood-stained fingers.
"The girl refused," one voice said.
"And the boy interfered," said another.
Malrik smiled faintly.
"Good."
He folded the report.
"Then we proceed with the second plan."
---
The following morning came heavy with fog and light rumors.
Half the Academy buzzed with theories about Church involvement. The other half debated whether Alaric was human, cursed, or just very good at pretending not to care.
He sat at the corner of the library's upper level, book open, eyes scanning the crowd below—not reading, just watching.
Every movement.
Every glance.
Mind Trace
— Tracked psychic residue in the air. Emotional footprints. Fear, anger, false calm.
He wasn't looking for attackers.
He was looking for liars.
And one had just walked through the front door.
A young man—no older than twenty—dressed in a crisp noble uniform, House Solvan crest polished bright. Clean boots. Perfect sleeves.
Too perfect.
He held a scroll case.
A crest of imperialgold etched along its rim.
> A royal envoy.
Alaric marked his path mentally as the boy was escorted by two instructors to the headmaster's wing.
Five minutes later, a note was slid under Alaric's door.
---
He stood across from the envoy in the Headmaster's receiving hall an hour later. The boy—smiling too pleasantly—extended a hand.
"Envoy Ravel Solvan," he said. "Second cousin to Her Imperial Grace. I've been assigned as your political liaison."
Alaric stared at the hand. Said nothing.
Ravel let it drop. "Right. Formality."
He sat instead.
"You're in a unique position," Ravel said. "A noble, an outcast, a sudden hero, and a potential liability."
"I like how that escalated."
"I'm here to keep you safe. And make sure you don't embarrass the throne."
Alaric sat, folding one leg over the other. "And what do I get?"
Ravel smiled wider.
"Protection. Privileges. And access to records most students would never touch."
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting."
"But," Ravel said, "I need to know something in return."
He leaned forward.
"What exactly are you?"
The room stilled.
The books on the shelves quieted.
Even the dust in the air seemed to pause.
Alaric gave a polite smile.
"I'm a Veyron," he said.
"And we don't answer questions for free."
---
Elsewhere, in a forgotten corner of the Academy's dungeon floor, an unused door clicked open.
Inside, behind chalk-covered walls and half-erased ritual symbols, a circle glowed faint red.
And from within that circle, something sighed.
Awake.
Waiting.
Hungry.
---
The psychic echo came just after midnight.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't violent.
It felt like… a draft in the back of the mind.
Alaric sat upright in bed, eyes already open.
Echo Sensory
— Detected residual emotion from distant spaces.
— The signal? Cold. Silent. Ancient.
Something old was stirring beneath the Academy.
He stood.
Didn't change clothes.
Didn't grab a weapon.
Just pulled on his coat and vanished into the hall.
---
The lowest level of the Academy was off-limits to students.
They called it "The Crawl."
A network of half-finished dungeons, arcane storage, and forgotten wings from three Headmasters ago.
No lights. No guards.
Just dust and locked doors that shouldn't lead anywhere.
Alaric walked without sound.
One hand trailing along the wall.
Each step precise.
Each breath measured.
The further he went, the heavier it felt. Not from magic.
But from memory.
> Someone else had walked here recently.
And something had followed them back.
He stopped at a rusted archway.
The psychic signal pulsed behind it.
A locked iron door barred the way.
He placed one hand on the center.
Vector Grip
— Twisted the hinges silently.
It opened.
---
Inside: a circular room.
Stone floor. No windows. Ancient chalk marks lined the walls—smudged from age, half-erased by time.
And at the center?
A summoning circle.
Fresh.
Glowing faint red.
But wrong.
Not magical. Not divine.
This was patterned. Repetitive. Over-etched.
> A ritual built for automated activation.
Built to trigger with no caster present.
And around it, six sigils.
One of them bore the spiral sun of House Veyron.
Alaric didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He scanned the circle carefully.
Then smiled faintly.
"Cute."
Shatter Pulse
— A sharp, invisible burst of force fired directly into the binding lines. The glyph cracked instantly.
The glow died.
And the room exhaled.
But something in the air laughed.
Not aloud.
Just a flickerofintent in the psychic wind.
> "You found one."
---
Alaric turned around.
There was no one there.
But the message stayed behind.
> There are more.
And some are already open.
---
By dawn, Alaric had mapped the entire circle.
Not just the broken one in the dungeon—but every part of the pattern beneath it.
The lines weren't random.
They were arranged like a net—each summoning circle part of a greater structure stitched across the Academy's foundations.
He stood alone in a disused classroom now, walls lined with dust-covered shelves and rune-etched desk frames. The chalkboard had been turned into a psychic map—drawn by hand, by memory, from what he'd scanned last night.
Seven circles.
Five confirmed.
Two missing.
One… active.
He tapped the chalk once more and circled a location: the northeast lecture annex.
> Too public to perform a ritual unnoticed… unless someone had access. Unless someone had cover.
A knock came at the door.
He didn't react.
"Alaric?" came a soft voice.
He knew that voice.
Celine Ardent. Classmate. Top five in elemental shaping. Usually cheerful. Too curious for her own good.
He opened the door halfway.
She smiled.
"Morning. You weren't at breakfast, so—"
"Wasn't hungry," he said flatly.
Celine stepped inside anyway, eyes scanning the room. Her gaze locked onto the chalkboard.
"…Is that blood magic?"
"No," Alaric said. "It's worse."
He watched her carefully.
No reaction.
No flicker of guilt.
Just confusion.
Good.
Still, he asked:
"Where were you last night?"
Celine blinked. "In bed. Why?"
"You're sure?"
"I had a fever. Ask Elric—he brought me some tea."
Alaric nodded once.
He believed her.
Mostly.
But he filed it away anyway.
Because someone inside the Academy had access to restricted floors. Someone with enough magical clearance to sneak in and out of sealed zones.
And he'd just confirmed that none of them were students.
---
Later that afternoon, Alaric visited the Academy archives.
He wasn't searching for spellbooks.
He was searching names.
He pulled personnel rosters. Staff access codes. Rotation schedules for ward inspectors.
And then he found it.
One name listed twice.
> Instructor Halem Norn
Title: Rune Theory (Guest Lecturer)
Additional Clearance: Underhall Access – Level 2
He flipped the next page.
> Previous Affiliation:House Veyron, Contract Historian
Alaric exhaled once.
"Found you."
---
In another part of the Academy, Halem Norn stood before a mirror, adjusting his coat.
Behind him, a circle glowed softly beneath a rug.
And at its edge, one black coin floated midair—its spiral sun etched deeper than before.