In the aftermath of rampage and fire, only the echoes remained.
Dean Godsthorn reappeared before the sealed gates of the central core—his long white coat and hair fluttering gently despite the still air.
Behind him, the shimr of recently displaced space slowly faded, it’s almost nonexistent presence reminding him that Veyra had managed to escape.
The mallet and needle-like tools still rested in his hands, both now dark and inert. Their work had been done.
He took one last look at the massive vault door. Now restored and radiating gentle waves of energy, it pulsed with stability.
The repair wasn’t complete—not entirely.
But it would hold.
He placed one hand on the seal, closed his eyes, and offered it a stream of pure essence. Not as an attack, not as an anchor, but as recognition. A final command.
"Return to slumber."
The runes flared one last ti before receding into stillness. The danger to the heart of the academy had passed—for now.
Dean Godsthorn stepped away from the vault, exhaling deeply. He could already feel his reserves thinning. Even for soone of his rank, stabilizing a spatially-anchored core layered with ancient protections was no trivial task.
But he didn’t complain. His own essence core was already working to fill itself up once again, sucking in essence from the atmosphere like an imperceptible black hole.
Dean Godsthorn’s mind was already turning.
Sothing about this still didn’t add up.
At the aftermath of Dead Calm cause by Dean Oryll, the wind returned to the charred battlefield like a whispered apology.
Dean Oryll straightened slowly, eyes narrowing as the bodies of the transford infiltrators crumbled into ash. His spell—Dead Calm—had perford perfectly. Just as he’d intended for it to work.
The eerie silence left behind made the massacre feel almost sacred.
But Oryll wasn’t interested in reverence.
He was thinking.
What was Veyra’s angle? The explosion earlier—an attempt to break the vault? Or perhaps just to kill whoever was guarding it?
Had she expected Godsthorn to be absent?
Or had she wanted to lure him there?
He shook his head.
Questions. Always more questions.
He pulled a communication orb and contacted the Sub Dean of ElderGlow. "Status?"
A calm, static-lined voice replied.
"Stable. Our path has been cleared. Razel and Elias neutralized their targets."
Oryll grunted. "Good. Stay sharp."
Smoke curled lazily from the ground as Razel Acheon wiped demon blood off his knuckles.
His once pristine robes were now stained, torn at the sleeves, and flecked with gri. Beside him, Elias Verdan leaned against a broken wall, breathing heavily but still composed.
The last of the enemy forces lay scattered across the rocky plaza.
Charred.
Crushed.
Cut down.
Their ambush had failed spectacularly.
"That’s... the last of them," Elias said, exhaling.
Razel glanced toward the faint outline of the western core’s concealed entrance. Still untouched.
He nodded. "For now."
They’d stopped the worst of it here, but Elias could feel it—a deeper current behind all this.
And that unsettled him.
"Back to the central building?" he asked.
Razel nodded again. "Let’s regroup with the others."
As they walked, a flicker of sothing unseen followed them from the rooftops. A wisp of shadow trailing behind their steps, unnoticed.
Inside of the various dorms and buildings, the students were restless. They couldn’t rest. Not after what they’d just witnessed.
Most of the students had been forced back into their dormitories under strict orders from the Sub Dean.
So obeyed out of fear.
So obeyed out of habit.
And others... simply watched from their windows, eyes wide as flashes of fire, wind, and darkness illuminated the night outside.
One such student was Damon Terrace.
He stood beside the large, arched window in their upper dormitory, arms folded, brow furrowed. His silver hair shimred in the dim glow of the ergency lanterns.
Beside him, Anaya, arms wrapped around her middle, asked quietly, "Is this... normal?"
Damon didn’t respond right away.
After a long pause, he said, "No."
He glanced up at the moon.
"Whatever this is... it’s big. Too big."
While chaos had scorched the southern and western borders, the northern side remained quiet.
Still.
Too still.
Lord Terrace, still seated lotus-style, opened his eyes and looked upward.
Sothing stirred within him.
He felt it. Not with his senses. But sothing deeper.
The calm here wasn’t rcy.
It was a delay.
A pause.
And in that pause, sothing ancient and unfamiliar began to awaken.
He rose to his feet slowly, eyes narrowing.
And waited.
Dean Godsthorn returned to his study chamber.
His fingers still pulsed faintly with the aftermath of core repair, and his white robes were dull from magical discharge.
But his expression was sharp as a blade.
He summoned a projection orb, reaching out ntally to Oryll, Koven, and Lord Terrace.
"I need a mont of your ti," he said when they each responded.
They all appeared in the orb one by one, their expressions mirroring his own: tension barely hidden beneath practiced calm.
"She was trying to get into the central core," Godsthorn said. "But she left before I could confront her properly."
"She snapped her fingers right before disappearing," He added.
"That’s probably what triggered the transformation of those that ca with her," Oryll confird. "The mont it happened, they turned into... things. Demonic, almost."
"I suspect that snap was a trigger seal," Godsthorn murmured.
"Then we should hunt her down before she completes whatever she’s started," Koven said. "What was she after? Do you know?"
Dean Godsthorn paused.
His hand hovered over his desk.
He had an idea. A theory.
But...
He wasn’t ready to voice it.
Not yet.
Not until he was sure.
"I’ll look into it," he finally said.
"And until then?"
Godsthorn looked out the window. "Until then, we lock the academy down. No one leaves. No one enters. Not even with clearance."
He turned back toward the vault.
"But we still need to do sothing about the barrier keeping us locked in."
And then... sothing flickered behind his eyes.
A pattern. A mory. A symbol.
His frown deepened.
He had seen it—sowhere in the core’s inner seals. A mark far too ancient. One that existed before even his birth.
"Leave the barrier to ." Lord Terrace responded from his end.
User Comments
0 comments from readers