Morning light bled through the classroom windows, too bright, too ordinary, as if the world hadn’t splintered apart just days before.
Elliot slid into his usual seat, the wood uncomfortably familiar beneath him. His fingers drumd a restless rhythm against the desk—not energy, but the twitching exhaustion of a sleepless night.
(He hadn’t slept. Again.)
The thought slithered through his mind, venomous.
What is he now?
Not who.
What.
Sylra shouldered through the door, her steps heavier than usual, and sank into the back row. The space beside her yawned empty, a conspicuous void where Towan’s laughter should’ve been.
She didn’t look at it.
The classroom echoed with absence.
No boisterous chatter. No last-minute sparring debates. Just the scattered presence of the few First-Class students still whole enough to sit upright. The others—bandaged, broken, or worse—were missing.
Professor Kaelin swept in, her heels clicking like a trono against the floor.
"Good morning, class."
Her voice was crisp, professional, utterly devoid of acknowledgnt for the blood still drying on the courtyard stones.
"Let’s continue where we left off last week."
No pause. No questions.
She turned to the chalkboard, her nails scraping white lines into the black, the sound grating, deliberate.
As if nothing had changed.
As if everything were normal.
The lie was almost impressive.
Then—the door creaked open.
Towan stood there, his silhouette too precise against the hallway’s light.
"Forgive my lateness," he said, the words polished, deliberate, each syllable weighted like a blade balanced on its edge. "I forgot which classroom we had classes in."
Professor Kaelin blinked.
That vocabulary—formal, almost archaic—wasn’t his. The Towan she knew would’ve barged in with a grinning apology, a joke, sothing careless and alive.
This?
This was a performance.
"Oh, Towan." Her voice stuttered, betraying the composure she’d worn like armor. The professors had debated, whispered, agonized over what to do with him—but in the end, they’d settled on pretending.
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"Don’t worry," she said, too quickly.
Towan glided to his seat—not Sylra’s usual spot in the back, but beside Elliot.
Elliot’s fingers dug into his desk, his pulse hamring loud enough to drown out Kaelin’s lecture.
"Won’t you sit with Sylra?" The question burst out of him, raw and too loud in the hollow classroom.
Towan turned his head, just slightly, his gaze locking onto Elliot’s with unnerving focus.
A beat.
Two.
"I thought I sat with you," he replied, tone flat, factual.
And then—
He didn’t move.
Not to correct himself. Not to reassure.
Just still.
As if the decision were already made.
As if he’d always been there.
Elliot’s mind refused to settle.
The lecture droned on, Kaelin’s voice fading in and out like a bad signal, but the words wouldn’t stick. His notes—usually precise, ticulous—were just a ss of half-ford glyphs, the ink blurring under his restless grip.
Across the room, Sylra kept glancing at him, her brow pinched. Not with worry.
With curiosity.
Because Towan—
No, not Towan—
—was taking notes.
Not the lazy scrawl he used to default to, not the doodles and sarcastic margin notes that had once made Elliot sigh in exasperation.
Clean, deliberate strokes.
Flawless recall.
Professor Kaelin paused mid-sentence, her chalk hovering above the board as she caught sight of it. Her lips parted, just slightly—the closest she’d co to genuine surprise in years.
He wasn’t just listening.
He was absorbing.
As if he’d heard it all before.
As if he were cross-referencing.
Elliot’s stomach twisted.
Because that?
That wasn’t studying.
That was a predator morizing its prey.
The academy halls stretched before Towan, their familiar contours warped by ti and mory.
"These halls are longer than what I rember..."
His voice dissolved into the silence, a murmur not ant for living ears. He was used to this—the weight of solitude, the echo of his own thoughts in the hollow expanse of the void.
He paused at an open classroom door, his gaze skimming the chalkboard with detached scrutiny.
Elental Compression.
The theory was flawed.
A flicker of sothing—annoyance? Amusent?—passed through him as he lifted a finger, Essentia coiling at his fingertip like ink.
No chalk. No hesitation.
With a precise, fluid motion, he rewrote the equations, the energy searing corrections into the board itself. The symbols glowed faintly, then settled, permanent.
"You're not supposed to expand the energy."
His voice was calm, instructive, as if addressing a room full of students.
"It should naturally expand itself—to achieve natural reactions. And further force."
The words hung in the empty air, unanswered.
Of course.
No one was there.
No one ever was.
A shadow of a smirk tugged at his lips.
"That's what Sylra would say."
For a mont, the ghost of another ti, another place, flickered behind his eyes.
Then—
Gone.
And he walked on, leaving the corrected board to gather dust in the dark.
Elliot’s fists cut through the air, each strike harder, sharper than the last. Lightning crackled at his knuckles, not in its usual wild arcs, but coiled tight, a storm leashed to his will.
He wasn’t training.
He was preparing.
For what, he didn’t know.
But every punch, every pivot, carried the ferocity of soone fighting shadows—ghosts that wouldn’t stay dead.
Then—
A prickle at the nape of his neck.
(Don’t tell that—)
He whirled, sweat stinging his eyes—
—and there, half-shrouded in the pillar’s shadow, stood Towan.
Watching.
"His style is completely different," Towan murmured, voice too low to carry.
A single glance.
That’s all it took.
Where others saw lightning, he saw the laws beneath it. The way Elliot didn’t command the elent—but mimicked its nature, replicating its speed, its violence, without the middleman of Essentia.
"Not commanding lightning," Towan mused, rubbing his chin. "Doing the sa thing—with greater force."
A pause.
"Interesting."
The word hung, laced with sothing between admiration and warning.
"Dangerous, if uncontrolled. It could lead to internal channel destruction."
Elliot couldn’t hear him.
But the weight of that gaze—clinical, dissecting—settled over him like a suffocating mantle.
His breath hitched.
He didn’t need words to understand.
He’d just been read like an open book.
Elliot turns.
“Towan, wait—”
The pillar’s shadow is empty.
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