The Severance Grounds screamed behind them. The metal corridors twisted violently, walls grinding against themselves as if the dungeon itself resented their survival. Chains whipped out of the shadows, snapping and writhing in frustration, but The Lost Ones had already slipped through.
Eryndor led at a relentless pace, cloak torn and boots slamming against the blood-slick floor.
No hesitation. No backward glance.
The iron doors of the Grounds slammed shut behind them with a hollow, final boom.
Silence.
The Obsidian Plaza stretched out before them under the pale, broken sky of Vaelith Academy. Waiting. Watching.
Students from other factions, assembled in tight formation around their House leaders, turned as one to stare. Conversations fell into uneasy murmurs. The Severance Grounds had claimed dozens of factions over the years. None returned from the Trial of Severance.
Until now.
The System projected brilliant crimson text high above the Thrones.
[First-Year Faction Trial: Completed.]
[Oathbrand Sigil secured.]
[New Recognized Faction: The Lost Ones.]
[Leader: Eryndor Vaelith.]
The last line struck like a blade.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"That's impossible."
"The Vaelith curse was supposed to kill him first."
"The System made a mistake…"
Students stepped back instinctively as The Lost Ones crossed the Plaza. Some watched with pale faces twisted by fear. Others sneered in open disgust at the ragged, mismatched group of rejects following Eryndor's calm stride.
House banners swayed arrogantly.
House Dawnspire's golden phoenix.
House Varyn's crimson lion.
House Irelith's black serpent.
And above them all, the looming, silent Thrones.
Eryndor ignored them all.
The Lost Ones had no banner. Not yet.
The sky darkened again.
The System voice returned, colder than ever.
[All Factions: Prepare.]
[First-Year Faction War Declaration: Active.]
[In 48 hours, Seats will be contested in Combat Trials.]
[Victory: Advancement, Resources, Authority.]
[Defeat: Stripping of Seats, Exile, or Termination.]
The wind died.
A single figure stepped forward from the line of cloaked Academy instructors gathered at the edge of the Plaza.
The Oracle of Shattered Threads.
Tall, emaciated, wrapped in ragged silk veils that whispered unnaturally with every breath of wind. Where a face should be, only shifting fragments of broken glass and swirling void remained. Her hollow voice crawled across the stones.
"The games begin again."
Her unseen gaze lingered on Eryndor far longer than necessary.
An omen.
The Lost Ones stood silent behind their leader as the Oracle dissolved into mist.
Eryndor's cold smile returned.
The Lost Ones trudged behind Eryndor in exhausted silence as the iron gates of the temporary faction quarters slammed shut behind them.
The Academy had granted them a ruin.
Cracked walls, exposed stone, faded runes long since bled dry of power. It had once belonged to a minor House long forgotten, wiped out in a previous Faction War. Now it belonged to them.
Perfect.
Eryndor stood at the center of the hollow hall as the others slumped to the ground, too drained to speak. The boy with flickering aura collapsed against the wall. The Mana-Cursed Girl dropped to her knees, head bowed low, shoulders shaking.
Eryndor's eyes swept across them all without warmth.
Weak. Broken. Afraid.
Good.
They had survived, and survival meant potential.
He walked to the center table and unfurled a crude hand-drawn map of the Academy's inner grounds. Names. House sigils. Faction sizes. Probable alliances. Known bloodline capabilities. All cold facts recorded and organized in his mind.
House Dawnspire, House Varyn, House Irelith… all comfortable in their illusion of superiority.
They would not expect him to strike first.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor.
The others jolted upright as a lone Academy messenger entered cautiously under the white flag enchantment. The student wore the pristine uniform of House Dawnspire, golden embroidery flashing like a warning.
The boy bowed stiffly.
"A formal request from the Dawnspire heir."
The parchment scroll sealed in phoenix wax was placed on the table.
"Eldric Dawnspire invites Eryndor Vaelith to a private audience at House Dawnspire's Spire of Light. Midnight."
The boy hesitated. His voice lowered.
"He says… he believes you two have unfinished business."
The silence stretched.
Eryndor stared at the seal. The fire-red wax caught the flicker of the dying torches.
The System's puppet wanted a meeting.
Perfect.
Eryndor's crimson eyes burned cold.
"Good," he murmured as his gloved hand crushed the scroll seal. "I was going to find him anyway."
The bell tolled once in the distance, marking the coming midnight hour.