The world felt smaller without Gaelus.
Even with the wide skies above Asael's Vigil, even with the towering spires and violet crystals gleaming from every rooftop, the space around the boy had shrunk. Where there was once his father's tall silhouette—a cloak sweeping behind him, the crunch of armored boots on cobblestone—there was now only silence. That suffocating kind that clung like mist.
He sat at the edge of the plaza, where the polished stones gave way to the overlooking cliffs of the Vigil. Far below, the forest stretched endlessly into the haze, broken only by the pale shimmer of the Illune River. His scythe leaned beside him, its crescent blade hidden beneath a tightly bound cloth, stained in places. It wasn't ceremonial anymore. It was a weapon.
People passed, avoiding his gaze. No one talked to the boy with blood in his aura now. Not after the accident. Not after Gaelus died.
He no longer cried. Not outwardly. That weakness had been carved out of him like rot from fruit. But something twisted in his chest, something sharp and ice-cold, every time someone mentioned his father's name like it was just another knight fallen in battle.
They didn't know.
They didn't see how Gaelus screamed as the warding spell shattered. They didn't see him throw himself into the collapsing spellframe to protect the others. They didn't see the look he gave his son before being swallowed by the raw magic that tore him apart.
Only he did.
And he could never forget it.
"Are you going to keep sulking until your bones turn to dust?"
He turned. She was there again—again—when he least expected it. Always showing up when he wanted to be alone and never saying what he wanted to hear. Serayna.
She stood with arms crossed, her short cape fluttering in the wind. Her uniform still had the burn marks from their last training session with the aura conduits. Her long black hair was tied back, and her gaze was sharp, clear—judging, like always.
"I'm not sulking." He stood, dusted his robes, then bent to lift his scythe.
"You've missed three dueling practices," she said. "The Watcher-Masters are noticing. If you're trying to get expelled, you're doing great."
"I'm training on my own."
"Is that what you call brooding in the plaza?"
He didn't respond.
"You've changed." Her tone shifted. Softer now. "Since your father—"
"Don't."
She fell silent.
He adjusted the leather strap that secured the scythe to his back. "I don't need you to understand me. I just need you to stay out of my way."
Serayna stepped closer. "Then why do you always wait here, where you know I'll find you?"
He flinched, just slightly. Enough for her to see.
She didn't press the point. "Come back to the training halls. You're slipping. Your mana is unstable. You nearly fainted during the crystal binding last week."
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
He turned away, but not before she caught the flash of pain behind his eyes.
"You're pushing yourself too hard. Again."
"I have to," he said. "No one else will do what needs to be done."
"And what exactly is that?"
He looked back, and for a moment, there was fire behind his mask of indifference. "I'm going to destroy Azkaris."
Serayna's breath caught.
"You can't mean that."
"Why not?" he snapped. "You know what they did. You know what they're doing."
"But they didn't kill your father."
"Didn't they?"
She hesitated.
"They forced him to use forbidden blood rites," he said. "They blackmailed him. Sent threats. Trapped him between loyalty and family. And when he refused to become their pawn, they made sure he had no other way out."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
His eyes narrowed. The blood magic mark etched on the back of his left hand pulsed faintly beneath the glove. A heartbeat. A memory. A promise.
"I'm going to expose them," he continued. "Every last one. The council of mind-mages. The illusions. The chains. All of it. I'll rip it apart with my own hands if I have to."
"And then what?"
He didn't answer.
That night, he sat alone in the archives beneath the Vigil. Old tomes circled him, layered with dust and sealed in mana-locks. Forbidden spells. Ritual blueprints. Blood resonance theory. He copied diagrams into a leather-bound journal, each page drawn with disturbing precision.
He paused only when a sharp jolt cracked behind his eyes—another headache. He clenched his teeth, gripping the sides of his head.
"Focus," he hissed to himself. "Not now."
The pressure subsided slowly, leaving a ringing in his ears. He reached for the vial of diluted crimson beside his lamp and poured a single drop onto the back of his hand. The mark absorbed it greedily, and for a moment, he felt the pain ease.
But he also felt something else.
A presence.
He looked behind him—nothing.
He was always alone. Wasn't he?
Except...
In the edges of his vision, he saw motion. A figure. Cloaked in shadow. Watching. Whispering.
"Are you real?" he murmured.
The whisper didn't respond, but he felt its smile.
He returned to his notes. If he kept moving, if he kept preparing, the visions didn't get worse. He had to stay sharp. He had to be strong.
That's what his father would've wanted.
Right?
Later that week, during a mission outside the village to inspect a fallen surveillance crystal, he encountered something that shifted everything.
They traveled in a group of six—apprentice mages and squires—under the guidance of a Knight-Enchanter. The shattered fragment of the surveillance artifact, a silver orb laced with runes, pulsed erratically as they approached.
"It's broadcasting distortion," the knight said. "Someone's tampered with the ley-thread."
While the others formed a perimeter, he moved closer. The crystal's hum vibrated in his bones. He reached for it.
And then—
—he saw it.
A flash of Azkaris.
A vision. Sharp. Unfiltered. The city of illusions. A chamber with crimson chains. A woman weeping. His father's voice—no, not voice, memory—echoing:
"The truth is buried in the light."
He staggered back, nearly vomiting. The knight grabbed him.
"What did you see?"
He wiped blood from his nose.
"Everything," he said.
And just like that, his path became clear again.
The following morning, he returned to his room to find the walls scribbled with symbols—his own handwriting, though he didn't remember writing them. His journal was open. Pages filled.
He stared. Some of the diagrams... weren't his. Not entirely.
One of them had instructions.
A ritual.
To amplify blood resonance through emotional trauma.
He closed the book slowly.
"Who are you?" he whispered into the empty room.
No answer.
Only a voice in his mind:
"We are what's left of you. The part that remembers the pain."
He was slipping. But maybe that was okay.
Because what he was becoming—what he needed to become—couldn't be held back by doubt or grief. There wasn't time. Not anymore.
He'd learned one thing from watching Asael's Vigil slowly sink into quiet servitude:
No one would fight for him.
So he'd fight for everyone.
Even if it meant losing himself completely.
Even if it meant becoming the monster they feared.
He glanced out the window. The sun was rising beyond the peaks.
He didn't have time for sleep.
There was still too much to plan.