Night fell like a velvet noose over Vaelith Academy.
The ruins that served as The Lost Ones' quarters lay silent beneath a fractured moon, its pale light casting jagged shadows across broken walls and crumbling pillars. Wind whispered through the hollow stones like faint, mocking laughter.
Eryndor stood alone at the highest point of the ruin, cloak billowing faintly. His eyes burned cold crimson as they watched the figures below. They thought he was asleep. They were wrong. He was studying.
The Mana-Cursed Girl sat by herself at the edge of the cracked fountain, trembling fingers curling tightly around her knees. Blue sparks flickered uncontrollably from her skin, burning harmless holes into the dirt. Her gaze stared blankly into nothingness.
A quiet voice.
"I won't lose control again… not tomorrow… I won't…"
The Unborn stood motionless in the far corner, hulking frame outlined against the distant towers of the Academy. His chains rested like dead serpents coiled around his massive arms. Head bowed, he said nothing.
Not human. Not student. Not accepted. Only weapon.
The boy with the flickering aura knelt nearby, blade laid across his lap. His hands shook as he sharpened the edge obsessively, over and over, even though the metal was already perfect.
"I won't be the first to fall…" he whispered to himself. "Not again…"
Other Lost Ones whispered in scattered groups or huddled against cracked pillars. A few stared at the night sky with hollow, resigned expressions. One or two fought off sleep with clenched fists, knowing the dreams would be worse.
Eryndor's expression didn't change.
The System had built this.
Had discarded them.
Cursed bloodlines. Rejected experiments. Unstable anomalies.
They were meant to break tomorrow.
Eryndor turned away, slipping back into the deeper shadows.
Not yet.
"One more night."
The ruined hall creaked softly as the wind slipped through broken archways. Faint torchlight flickered against the cracked stone, throwing the ragged forms of The Lost Ones into wavering silhouettes.
Eryndor moved silently along the outer edge, unseen.
They had no idea how closely they mirrored what he once was.
The boy with the flickering aura sat with his back against a cold pillar, head bowed, muttering fragments of battle stances under his breath. His hands still trembled despite the steady sharpening of his blade.
"I'm not weak… I'm not weak…"
Eryndor paused.
The boy reminded him of another soldier. Another battlefield. Another System that had whispered the same lie.
Expendable.
The Unborn shifted faintly nearby, heavy chains rattling softly as he stared up at the empty sky. No words. No fear. Only quiet waiting.
Eryndor wondered—briefly, coldly—what it felt like to know you weren't meant to exist at all.
The Mana-Cursed Girl wiped at her eyes hastily when she thought no one was looking. The unstable mana flared again at her touch. She bit her lip until it bled, forcing the surge back inside.
"Not this time…" she whispered, trembling.
Eryndor clenched his fist beneath his cloak.
He had never encouraged them. Never spoken of hope. Hope was a weakness. But they had built something fragile among themselves despite it.
A bond.
The one thing the System couldn't predict.
Eryndor's inner voice was cold, distant, almost bitter.
"This is survival. Bonds are liabilities… but they also breed loyalty."
The Academy bell tolled once, sharp and cruel against the silent sky.
[Combat Trials: Commencing at first light.]
The whispers stopped. The last sparks faded. The hall fell still as a tomb.
Eryndor turned from the sleeping forms and slipped into the deeper dark.
No attachments. No promises. No comfort.
Just survival.
One more night.