09:46 — Upper Council Hall, Atlantis Magic School
The marble chamber stood in stark contrast to the tombs below, an icy breath that seeped deep into Rinoa's very bones. She occupied a rigid chair, its surface adorned with ancient carvings that pressed uncomfortably against her spine, while the Council's somber countenances loomed in shadows from their semicircle of dim light and glinting gold.
A low hum thrummed through the air, a tangible reminder of wards cast to bind or destroy. In the heart of the chamber, her eyes were drawn to the Grand Inquisitor's staff, its tip scraping against the stone, the sound sharp and unsettling.
The seat of power at the head of the table remained eerily vacant, its absence a weighty presence in the room.
So, Headmaster Marquez has also fallen, the thought pierced Rinoa's awareness, an agonizing revelation that intertwined sorrow with a gnawing dread.
"For the record, state your name," commanded Magister Zeskar, leaning forward, his fingers entwined in a steeple as his gaze pierced her like dark glass.
"And your affiliation?" Zeskar's eyes narrowed, a predatory hawk on the prowl, seeking any hidden truth.
Swallowing hard, she hesitated for just a moment before replying, "Second-year, School of Transmutation."
The scribe beside them diligently took notes in the shadows, the faint sound insignificant against the heavy silence that enveloped them.
High Archivist Mama Taal, robed in deep sapphire, scrutinized her with a piercing gaze, his half-lidded eyes assessing her every breath. "Disclose the findings from the research wing," he commanded, his tone infused with an authority that brooked no defiance.
Rinoa felt a tightening knot of dread in her stomach, her fingers clenching the fabric of her robes until her knuckles blanched. "I... I did not ascertain their location," she stuttered, the chaos of that night echoing in her thoughts. "I was unconscious for a considerable span of the evening. Upon stirring, Professor Yaldin informed me—" She faltered, her breath caught in her throat. "Lenz. Professor Elbert. Headmaster Marquez. They are missing."
Soft whispers swirled like phantoms among the councilors, their mutual suspicions coalescing into a weighty presence that saturated the air.
Zeskar's lip twisted in barely masked disdain. "Vanished, or slain?" he pressed, each word thick with insinuation and burdened by unspoken expectations.
Rinoa met his piercing glare, a clash of fear and resolve playing out within her. "Murdered. Lenz... was the first. The others—" Her voice wavered, tormented by the bitter images that haunted her mind, of blood and grotesque, animated corpses. "Someone has wielded necromancy. There were... cadavers that walked."
The Inquisitor interjected sharply, his voice a blade that cut through the tension, "You were the only survivor in that wing. Why is that?"
Rinoa held his gaze with a steadfast intensity, her eyes glistening with a tumultuous blend of fear and defiance. "He died. Lenz... he was the first," she revealed, her voice trembling yet infused with resolve. "The others—" Her words faltered, a shiver racing up her spine as chilling images of bloodshed and grotesquely contorted bodies surged vividly in her mind. "Someone mastered necromancy. There were... moving corpses. I can still hear their mournful groans."
The Inquisitor leaned forward, his brow furrowed with concern as he cast an intense glare in her direction. "You were the sole survivor in that wing. Why? What allowed you to prevail?" His voice dripped with doubt, a heaviness of concealed accusations lurking just beneath the surface.
Rinoa lowered her eyes, gathering her thoughts before she boldly met his scrutinizing gaze once more. "I was confined in the lower vault," she confessed, her tone more even now, though laced with an undercurrent of fear. "I fell ill. And then... someone came to visit me." She hesitated, replaying the vision of that figure in her mind. "Wrapped in a gray robe. I never saw their face." Her fists clenched instinctively as the disturbing memory washed over her.
Mama Taal narrowed her eyes, a spark of skepticism igniting within their depths. "A gray robe? Were they a man or a woman?" she pressed, her voice low and sharp, like the keen edge of a dagger.
Rinoa shook her head, her brow knitting together as frustration surged within her. "I cannot be certain. The voice—it wavered, sometimes deep and resonant, while at other times it was gentle, almost soothing," she confessed, confusion threading through her expression. "It felt as though it enfolded me, like a shadow creeping in."
Magister Zeskar struck the table with his knuckles, the sharp sound echoing through the austere chamber, shattering the heavy tension that lingered in the air. "You claim ignorance regarding this visitor's identity, yet your glyph remains vibrant. Might there be a connection?" His voice carried the weight of authority, keen and probing, as he studied Rinoa's response, searching for any trace of deceit.
Rinoa raised her palm, revealing the blue-gold glyph that flickered ominously in the dim light of the chamber. "This magic does not hail from the Academy," she stated, her voice steadier than the turmoil within. "It bears no ties to Gaia's teachings. This manifestation appeared on the very night Elbert met his end." She swallowed thickly, her gaze flickering across the faces that watched her, seeking a glimmer of understanding. "I fear it originates from Fitran."
A collective gasp rippled through the gathered mages, disbelief intertwined with fear in the sound. "Nay, that cannot be," someone murmured, their voice trembling, brow knitted with suspicion.
"Fitran Fate disappeared from our realm two years ago," the Inquisitor snapped, his tone sharp enough to cleave through the thick tension. His eyes, dark and piercing, pierced with a scrutinizing intensity. "He is believed to be dead. Do you comprehend the weight of your assertion?"
Rinoa did not flinch. She met his gaze with unwavering resolve, steadying her breath. "He is not dead. I feel it in my heart. Do you truly think this glyph would let me remain in ignorance?" A spark of defiance ignited in her vivid turquoise eyes.
Mama Taal regarded her closely, her expression softening as she spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, laden with concern. "You were always dear to him, Rinoa. Is there aught you wish to confess? Were you implicated in any forbidden studies? Did you witness Elbert or Marquez engaged in those dark rites? You must speak the truth."
Rinoa's jaw tightened as tension wound tightly within her. "No," she answered with conviction, shaking her head as if to banish any lingering doubt. "All I know is what Elbert conveyed to me: someone was seeking knowledge that ought to have remained concealed in shadows. He urged me to flee, if I were able." Her hands trembled slightly, a subtle rebellion against the weight of her words.
Silence stretched between them, a heavy thread interwoven with unspoken fears. Outside, the distant tolling of the city's bells rang like ominous whispers of spirits warning against the encroaching darkness. Each chime sent tremors of unease through the air, a stark reminder that time was slipping away, like sand through an open palm.
Zeskar finally broke the silence, his eyes narrowing sharply. "What else did the visitor say?" His voice was low, tinged with a conspiratorial tone, as if drawing Rinoa into a deep web of secrets.
Rinoa's memories writhed within her mind. "There was a chill that froze in their voices," she began, her brow creasing as she recalled that fateful encounter. "They spoke with a strange blend of comfort and threat. 'You stand on the precipice,' they warned. 'You may seize your power, or allow it to seize you.'"
The gaze of the High Archivist shifted, betraying a hint of sorrow. "Did they coax you into acting against the Academy? Were there directives given?" His voice rose with urgency, pressing for more than just the surface of her words.
"No," Rinoa replied steadily, her determination only growing stronger. "They merely urged me to remember—nothing more." She locked her gaze onto his with unyielding strength, the weight of exhaustion mingling with a defiant air.
The Inquisitor scoffed, his lips curling into a cynical smile. "How remarkably comfortable for you, isn't it?" He leaned back, arms crossed, as if assessing her through a lens of skepticism.
Rinoa's gaze remained steadfast. "Had I any intention of bringing ruin to Atlantis, you would not seek answers from me; all you would find is my absence and the aftermath of my actions," she countered, her voice sharp as a dagger. Tension hung thickly between them, palpable and real.
Mama Taal furrowed her brow, her gaze fixed intently on Rinoa. "Very well," she said, her voice steady but resonant with resolve. "Until we unravel this knotted riddle, you are to remain within your quarters. I must urge you to shun all contact with others. This directive is for your protection—and ours," she declared, the weight of her authority rendering any disputes futile.
Zeskar raised his hand, a silent signal that marked the end of their exchange. "You may take your leave," he articulated, his tone laced with a weary resignation that suggested he had faced this burdensome duty many times before.
Rinoa stood, her legs shaking from a storm of adrenaline and anxiety, yet she urged herself to keep her composure as she left the chamber. The murmurs of the councilors faded into the distance, their muted accusations and hushed names echoing off the ancient stone walls. The heavy doors creaked as they shut, the sound resonating like the final judgment of her destiny.
In the dim corridor, Rinoa paused, her fingers gripping tightly to the glyph that had once provided her comfort. Fitran. I know it is you, lurking in the shadows. But what drives your secrecy? Why now? The questions gnawed at her mind, heightening her mounting distress.
As she moved on, each step echoed like a mournful dirge, the sorrowful peal of the city's tolling bells tugging at her spirit, serving as a grim reminder of the fateful decisions that lay before her.