The candlelight flickered low in Andrew's dormitory, casting long shadows across the room filled with scattered parchment and glowing sigils. The aftermath of the magical surge still lingered in the air like burnt ozone. In the center of the chaos stood Andrew or what looked like him his golden eyes pulsing faintly in the dim.
He stood motionless for a moment, soaking in the silence. Then, a voice soft, but determined—spoke from within.
"Hey… you are me, right?"
A laugh echoed through his own mind. Rich. Confident. A mirror warped into arrogance.
Grinning outwardly, the golden-eyed version of Andrew replied, "Just call me Whitmore. And don't get it wrong. I'm not you. On the contrary you are me."
Andrew, trapped somewhere in the corner of his own consciousness, scoffed. "Same thing, dumbass."
The grin faltered.
"Dumbass?"
Andrew continued, pressing while the momentum was his. "Alright, look control your urges, don't go rampaging, and swap with me for a moment. Let's not destroy the only room we're allowed to have books in."
Whitmore chuckled again, stepping over the melted wax pooled at the foot of the desk. He rolled his neck, stretching the stolen limbs like a cat basking in stolen heat. "I'll switch with you in a moment. Lemme just get some fresh air. It's been years since I've touched wind."
But before he could take another step, the dormitory door slammed open.
Albrecht burst in, coat damp with rain, breathing heavily as though he had sprinted across the entire academy. His eyes scanned the room, noting the floating ash of dissolved books, the runes still trembling, the unmistakable glow in Andrew's gaze.
"Are you okay, Andrew?"
Whitmore turned slowly, the grin creeping back onto his face like ink bleeding into paper.
"I'm fine, Professor," he said smoothly, eyes bright with something ancient. "Never felt better."
Albrecht stared at him. "Your eyes… they've shifted."
Whitmore gave a dramatic bow. "The better to see you with."
Albrecht frowned, taking a cautious step forward. "Andrew, listen to me. You need to breathe. Ground yourself. You're losing hold of...."
"I'm more grounded than ever," Whitmore interrupted. "Finally awake, finally free."
Albrecht's expression darkened. "You're not him. Not completely."
"No," Whitmore said, tilting his head. "I'm more."
The tension crackled in the room. Sigils hummed. The wind outside rattled the windows.
From within, Andrew gritted his teeth. He had to do something. This wasn't a curse. It wasn't a spirit possession. It was him. A buried piece. A split of self that wielded power the rest of him could never fully comprehend.
And for some reason, that part had been locked away until now.
"Whitmore," Andrew said inwardly, calmer this time. "What do you want?"
Whitmore blinked. It was odd, responding to a voice no one else could hear.
"What do I want?" he echoed mentally, eyes flicking around the room. "To exist. To stop being a passenger. To burn away the things that kept you soft."
"You mean friends?"
"I mean weakness."
"I don't buy it," Andrew said. "You're not here just to tear things down. Otherwise, why talk to me at all?"
There was a pause. Then a low, almost reluctant chuckle. "You were always the thinker."
"I still am. So let's strike a deal."
Whitmore's grin returned. "Go on."
"You let me take the lead most of the time. But when I need it, when things get rough, you step in. We use what you have together. You help me control this power instead of unleashing it."
Whitmore seemed thoughtful. He touched the edge of a ruined parchment, letting the golden flecks drift through his fingers.
"You'd trust me with that?"
"No," Andrew replied. "But I trust me. And like it or not, you're a part of me."
There was silence.
Then Whitmore gave a slow nod. "Alright. You get your boring lectures and poetry. But when the storm comes, I take the helm."
"Deal."
"Then take it, Andrew," Whitmore said aloud, grinning as he tilted his head back. "Your stage."
Andrew's eyes fluttered. The golden glow dimmed. His posture shifted, straightening, less languid. More himself.
Albrecht immediately took notice.
"Andrew?"
"Yeah," he said, rubbing the side of his head. "Headache's gone. Sorry for the theatrics."
The professor approached him cautiously. "You were glowing. And the magic here… what happened?"
Andrew hesitated, then pointed to the remaining tomes. "A phrase in Latin. Something old. It triggered… something. But I've got it under control."
Albrecht frowned. "You're sure?"
"Positive," Andrew said.
Albrecht studied him for a long time before sighing. "The council will need to know. But they'll give you time if I vouch for you."
Andrew nodded. "Thank you."
Albrecht turned, heading back toward the door. But before he stepped out, he paused.
"Andrew," he said, "be careful. What you unlocked it's not just strength. It's heritage. And heritage always comes with a cost."
The door closed behind him.
Andrew stood alone once again. He looked down at his hands. Still trembling. Still warm with power.
In the mirror across the room, his reflection blinked.
And winked.
Whitmore was watching.
And waiting.
The Mercier estate sat on the edge of a coastal cliff, carved into the ancient stone as though it had always belonged there. Gothic spires clawed into the clouds, and ivy trailed up the mansion's facade like old scars. Rain tapped on the glass domes overhead, a subtle, constant rhythm that never stopped.
Inside the manor's great drawing room, the air was still.
A man stood by the fireplace, arms crossed, dressed in a tailored black suit that hugged his broad frame. His face, carved of stone and pride, betrayed no emotion as he turned toward the doorway. His eyes, sharp and merciless, landed on the young man walking in with his hands in his pockets.
"You've left the girl?"
Jason, slouched and disheveled as always, replied without looking up.
"Yes, I have."
His tone was devoid of remorse. Like he'd simply tossed aside a textbook he'd grown bored of.
A woman's voice flowed in from the archway, musical and warm.
"Darling, let him be. He's just a kid and you know that."
Jason's mother entered the room gracefully, her presence softening the austere space. Her dress trailed behind her like moonlight, and her eyes were still bright with the stubborn optimism of someone who refused to see her son as anything but lost, not broken.
The man Alaric Mercier stared at her, his gaze finally softening.
L
"He has responsibilities, kid or not," he said firmly.
She touched his arm gently. "I know. But give him a chance to be himself."
Jason rolled his eyes.
"Get a room or just send me out in peace," he muttered. "You made me leave mine, my lady, and now you flaunt yours… father of the year, husband of the century"
His mother giggled, hiding it behind a delicate hand.
Alaric's jaw tightened.
His mother eases the tension
"Don't speak to your father like that, Jason."
Jason offered no apology, just a half-smile that dripped with irony. He turned on his heel, giving a mock bow as he walked toward the door.
"Blessed be the bloodline," he muttered under his breath.
"Out," Alaric ordered.
Jason left the room without another word, boots echoing down the marble corridor.
Once he was gone, silence settled like dust.
Alaric stared into the flames.
"I just hope he gathers himself quickly."
His wife's smile faltered, replaced by a quiet worry.
"Indeed," she murmured.
Jason's room in the estate was an odd combination of luxury and neglect. Silken sheets lay untouched, while the mattress bore signs of frequent use crumpled at the edges, blankets bunched up like war-torn flags. Half-read books cluttered his desk. A sword leaned against the bookshelf, untouched for weeks.
He tossed his coat onto a chair, pacing restlessly. Rain beat harder against the window.
"She's not the one," he said to no one in particular.
From a drawer, he pulled out a small wooden box. Inside was a single coin black on one side, etched with a roaring lion on the other. He flipped it absentmindedly, watching it spin in the air.
Emma's face crossed his mind. Not her laugh or her eyes but her disappointment. That fragile, aching kind that clung to you longer than it should.
He sat down and stared at the coin.
"You saw something in me," he murmured. "Something I wasn't ready to become."
The rain gave no answers.
Back in the drawing room, Alaric sat down with a sigh.
"He's not like us."
His wife nodded. "He's not supposed to be."
"He's a Mercier."
She sipped her tea. "I wonder how that has anything to do with our conversation"
He smiled slightly. "When I was his age I had already awakened.....you make it seem like it's easy to watch him the way he is"
"It is, when you stop trying to mold him into your past."
Alaric's smile faded.
"I just worry he'll waste the gift."
She looked toward the window, where the gray sky met the sea.
"Or maybe… he's just waiting for the storm to call him."
Jason didn't sleep that night. He wandered the east wing halls, the ones filled with old portraits of ancestors who stared down at him like judges in oil and canvas. One painting in particular always caught his eye a man who looked exactly like him, down to the posture and jawline but with an air of majesty he couldn't replicate.
Beneath it read
Cassian Mercier. The Flame of Velden.
Jason scoffed.
"Great. Even my ghosts are overachievers."