The dormitories of Aetherion were built upon the crest of the academy's floating isle, an intricate cluster of towers suspended over the shimmering depths of the aether sea. From the balcony of his assigned quarters, Iblis could see the threads of power that connected each spire, faint as veins beneath translucent skin.
Inside, the air was cold and immaculate. Bookshelves carved from blackwood stood empty and waiting. The desk bore a single engraved seal: Aetherion Academy – Division of Resonant Sciences.
He ignored it.
Instead, he approached the mirror.
It was a tall oval framed by runic silver, the kind that recorded rather than merely reflected. The surface trembled at his presence, light drawing across his outline as if studying him. For a moment, his reflection was slow to move, hesitant, as though it had not decided what it was yet.
The face that stared back was not beautiful, but it was arresting.
Skin pale, not the soft paleness of nobility, but the kind born of absence, like light stripped of warmth. His hair was black with faint undertones of violet, each strand carrying the sheen of oil upon water. His eyes, if they could be called that, were voids rimmed with a trace of silver luminescence, deep enough that the mirror's runes dimmed when they met them.
His features were precise, sculpted by restraint rather than vanity. The faintest line of a scar ran across his jaw, too thin to suggest violence, an incision, perhaps, a memory of self-dissection. When he breathed, the mirror caught a strange distortion behind him, a faint gravitational ripple that made the air hum.
He touched his reflection. The surface rippled in response.
For a heartbeat, he saw through the reflection—the faint, flickering presence of something vast and waiting, like a memory buried in the foundations of the world. He whispered, almost to himself, "So this is what they see."
The mirror whispered back, in a voice not its own: And what do you see?
He did not answer.
---
Outside, the morning bell rang through the academy's ley conduits, and the first day of orientation began.
Students filled the walkways, their chatter carrying the breathless energy of new beginnings. In the east courtyard, banners shimmered with shifting sigils denoting each discipline, Aetheric Manipulation, Resonant Chemistry, Temporal Geometry, and others. Professors glided among them, their robes alive with glyphs, their eyes bright with academic fervor.
Iblis walked through the crowd like a shadow cutting through light.
He was already late, but punctuality had never interested him. The first class was introductory—"Principles of Aether Conduction." A redundant exercise.
As he entered the lecture hall, heads turned instinctively. It wasn't deliberate; his presence distorted the air, slightly dulling the luminescence of nearby glyphs. Conversations faltered. A few students whispered his name.
He took an empty seat near the back.
At the front stood Professor Arlen Dhor, a thin man with lenses suspended by floating runes rather than frames. His enthusiasm bordered on manic.
"—and the key principle," Arlen was saying, "is harmony. The body and the Aether must align in tone, frequency, and intent. Without harmony, the flow becomes volatile."
He gestured dramatically, and a stream of silver energy formed above his palm, rippling with perfect rhythm. "See? Controlled resonance—"
The energy flickered. The room dimmed for a fraction of a second, as if light itself hesitated. Arlen blinked, startled. His control faltered.
Iblis sighed quietly and lifted a finger.
The fluctuation stabilized.
Arlen froze, eyes darting toward him. "Who—?"
"Your projection was oscillating at a harmonic interval of 0.09 below base resonance," Iblis said evenly. "It was destabilizing."
The professor blinked several times. "Ah, yes. Quite right, young man. Thank you." Then, awkwardly clearing his throat, "Might I have your name?"
"Iblis."
A murmur rippled through the class.
Professor Dhor hesitated, then smiled nervously. "Ah. Yes. Iblis. Well then, good to have you with us."
The rest of the lecture proceeded uneventfully, save for the occasional sideways glance from students trying to measure the quiet presence behind them. When it ended, most filed out quickly, muttering under their breath.
Except one.
The auburn-haired girl from before, the one whose books he'd stepped on. She lingered near the aisle, watching him pack his notes.
"You really don't talk much, do you?" she said.
"I talk enough."
She tilted her head. "You don't sound noble."
"I'm not."
"You're wearing a crest."
He looked down at the faint silver thread stitched inside his sleeve, the Veyrahl sigil, erased by decree, restored only because Aetherion's admission seal required identification.
"It's a ghost," he said.
She frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that matters."
For a long moment, she just looked at him, studying the sharpness of his words, the calm beneath them. Then she said, "You're hard to talk to."
He looked up, meeting her gaze. "You're still trying."
That startled a laugh out of her, light, surprised, genuine. "Maybe I like puzzles."
"Then you'll like Aetherion," he said, standing. "It's full of unsolved ones."
She fell into step beside him as they left the hall, ignoring the curious glances from other students. "You never asked my name."
"True."
She waited, expectantly. When he didn't respond, she rolled her eyes. "It's Lyra."
He nodded once. "I'll remember." And briefly remembered his sister.
"You don't sound sure."
"I don't remember noise," he said, "only significance."
"Was that a compliment?"
He glanced at her. "Do you want it to be?"
She opened her mouth, then stopped. "You're strange."
"So I've heard."
They walked in silence for a while after that. The courtyard wind carried faint motes of blue aether, drifting like pollen. Students laughed nearby, gathering for their next session. Lyra's gaze followed them wistfully, then returned to him.
"What will you specialize in?" she asked.
"Everything."
"That's not—"
"I don't believe in limitations."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "You really are impossible."
"Perhaps."
They reached a fork in the path. One way led toward the dormitories, the other toward the lower laboratories, sealed domes of glass and sigilstone where experiments pulsed like slow lightning. He turned toward the latter.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"To study."
"Classes are over."
He didn't stop walking. "So is leisure."
---
Hours later, the lower labs were empty. Only the hum of dormant aether engines filled the air, mingling with the pulse of distant thunder from the leystorms that circled the academy's edges.
Iblis stood before a containment crucible, its core rotating in slow, silent orbits. He placed his hand against the glass.
Inside, the aether began to move.
Not flow, move. As if responding to something deeper than command, deeper than comprehension. The void within him pulsed once, and the crucible's light dimmed, edges warping into shadow.
He murmured, "Still imperfect."
A voice drifted from behind him, smooth and unhurried. "Most things are."
He didn't turn.
Headmaster Zephyrion Thal stepped into the chamber, his aura subtle yet suffocating. "You shouldn't be here after hours."
"I needed silence."
"Silence is a dangerous teacher."
"Then perhaps I'll learn faster."
Zephyrion studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing faintly. "You don't seem surprised to see me."
"I expected observation."
"From me?"
"From everyone."
The Headmaster smiled faintly. "Tell me, Iblis, do you seek mastery or meaning?"
"Both. The former defines the latter."
"Then you may yet survive here." Zephyrion turned, walking toward the exit. "But be cautious. The void devours even those who believe they guide it."
When he left, Iblis stared once more into the dimming crucible. His reflection wavered in the glass—a boy with hollow eyes and an expression that never quite decided between serenity and sorrow.
"I am the guide," he said softly. "And the destination."
The crucible flickered once more, then went dark.