The classroom was unusually cold. Not in temperature, but in mood. Professor Langston had lit the fireplace tucked in the corner, and yet, the silence hung heavier than the falling rain outside.
Emma sat by the window, eyes distant, fingers absently moving across her notebook. But it wasn't notes she was writing it was a series of small, intricate doodles. Spirals, crescent moons, faceless figures drifting into blankness. There was no smile on her lips, no spark in her eyes. Only a bone-freezing stillness that mirrored the gray skies.
Kate sat beside her, a calm, measured presence. Their friendship had evolved in Andrew's absence, and while Emma never said it aloud, she found Kate's quiet steadiness a balm in this fractured world.
Kate peeked at Emma's sketchpad, then gently nudged her arm. "You might want to focus. Langston's eyes are on you."
Emma blinked, glanced up, and indeed caught Professor Langston staring, arms folded across his chest. His silver-rimmed glasses rested low on his nose.
"Have any of you heard from Andrew?" he asked suddenly, looking not just at Emma and Kate, but at the entire class.
A beat passed. Then several heads shook. Emma and Kate exchanged a glance.
"We haven't," Kate said softly.
Langston sighed. It wasn't frustration. It was something older. Something sad.
"He's a good lad," he murmured, almost to himself.
Then he turned to the board, erased the day's topic with a wave of his hand, and muttered, "That's all for today."
The class filtered out slowly, murmuring among themselves.
Emma and Kate gathered their things, walking out into the drizzle-slick corridor.
They took their time strolling back toward the dorms. The halls were half-empty, most students off to the canteen or the student library. Footsteps echoed faintly behind them, but neither turned.
"Next year is our final year," Kate said, slipping her hands into her coat pockets.
Emma nodded. "Indeed. Finally." Then, after a pause: "I published my novel last month. It's getting reviewed. I might be contracted soon. Like you."
Kate grinned. "But you know I'll always be the better novelist."
Emma raised a brow. "Debatable."
Just then, Michael appeared from the side corridor, a smug grin pasted on his face.
"Not while I'm here," he said, slipping into step with them. "Just got contacted this morning. Felt the need to share. Hehe."
Kate rolled her eyes. "And how's that our concern?"
Michael gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. "Oof. Right in the ego."
Emma giggled. "She's just kidding. Congrats, Michael."
He beamed. "Thanks. I'll try not to let it go to my head. But between us three? The literary world better be ready."
They reached the entrance to the girls' dormitory. Emma turned slightly, her smile softer now.
"It's nice. That we're all still doing something, I mean. Even if things feel…"
Kate finished for her, "...incomplete."
Emma nodded.
Michael waved. "Alright, I'll leave you to your tea and existential dread. I have edits to suffer through."
He sauntered off.
That night, as the city slept under layers of cloud and electric rain, something ancient stirred at Halberd.
In the undercroft beneath the South Spire, a book closed itself.
A symbol glowed on its cover.
Elsewhere in the east wing, a mirror cracked without cause.
Students whispered of strange dreams, of candlelight that flickered blue, of wind that spoke in riddles.
And in the headmaster's chambers, the Dean stood alone, watching as one of the oldest tomes in their collection began to rewrite its final chapter.
The ink flowed upward.
A name was being erased.
A new one written.
Andrew.
Halberd was not just observing anymore.
It was preparing.
The dormitory assigned to Andrew in Halberd's east wing had slowly transformed from a modest room into something resembling a private archive. The walls were no longer lined with posters or certificates. Instead, leather-bound tomes leaned against each other like old soldiers, scrolls spilled over the sides of his writing desk, and half-melted candles dripped wax onto silver trays beside enchanted bookmarks.
It was here, beneath flickering runes and within a circle of arcane literature, that Andrew sat on the cold floor, hunched over a book so old its title had been lost to time.
His hair fell into his face, and ink smudged his fingertips. His eyes tired but relentless scanned each page with mounting frustration.
"All records of this presumed ability of mine have been wiped," he muttered, flicking the page with more force than necessary. "But I'm expected to learn how to use it. What a bother."
He sighed, stretching his back, muscles stiff from hours without motion. Books surrounded him like loyal servants silent and demanding.
A glint of gold ink caught his eye.
At the bottom of one parchment-thin page, scrawled in a fading script, was a phrase in Latin
'Verba mea potentiam habent'
He stared at it.
At first, the words meant nothing. Just another incantation lost to the ages.
But then..... something change something beyond human.
He felt it.
A resonance.
Something ancient stirred within him, coiling like a breath being held in his lungs.
His lips moved before he even realized it.
"My words have power."
The moment the translation left his mouth, the air changed.
A sudden chill rolled across the floor. The flickering candlelight froze. Not extinguished but frozen mid-flicker, like time itself had been caught off guard.
His head jerked back.
His fingers twitched.
And then everything inside him... shifted.
It was like someone had grabbed the wheel of his thoughts and yanked it sharply. Andrew blinked. But when he opened his eyes again, they weren't quite the same.
He felt like himself but removed. Like he had taken a step back from the cockpit of his own mind. He watched now, an observer trapped inside.
A presence moved forward. It wore his face. It flexed his fingers.
And it grinned.
"Finally," the voice that used his tongue sneered. "I'm free. This weakling had his body for years and couldn't do anything. Tsk. What a waste."
He looked down at his limbs, rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck
The energy around him rippled. Tomes on the floor shivered as if caught in a silent storm. The magical seals guarding them flickered uncertainly.
The figure Andrew, but not Andrew knelt beside one of the larger books. He touched its spine with disdain.
His eyes flicked to the Latin phrase.
Then, with a voice like velvet laced with venom, he said, "Disperse."
The tomes didn't burn. They didn't crumble.
They evaporated.
Like thousands of fireflies dispersing into sparkles, the texts broke apart mid-air, their magical contents released into the room like stars disintegrating.
His eyes glowed gold.
Bright.
Unnatural.
A grin split his face inhuman. Hungry.
"I'm free," he repeated, more to himself than the empty dormitory. "Let them come. Let them try to chain me again."
Inside his own mind, Andrew screamed.
But no sound left his lips.
He was trapped.
And something else now walked in his skin.
Far below Halberd, where even the professors rarely ventured, the Headmaster's scrying orb pulsed violently.
The Dean stood, one hand braced on the table, eyes wide.
Albrecht, who had been preparing for a class, barged in seconds later.
"I felt it," he said. "Tell me it isn't what I think it is."
The Dean turned to him slowly.
"He read the phrase."
Albrecht paled. "Which one?"
"Verba mea potentiam habent."
A long silence passed. Then the Dean asked, "Can you bring him back?"
Albrecht's jaw tightened. "I don't know."