The morning haze over Aetherion shimmered with faint ribbons of aether, pale blue and gold, drifting like dust in the first light. The courtyard bells had not yet rung, but students were already stirring, eager, anxious, desperate to impress the instructors who ruled this floating city of knowledge.
Iblis stood beneath the shadow of a vast obsidian archway, hands folded behind his back. The wind brushed his hair across his eyes, whispering through the sigils etched into the marble beneath his boots. His reflection stretched faintly along the ground, distorted by the leyline currents that ran under the academy.
The silence suited him.
Then came noise.
A shout, followed by the dull thud of someone hitting the ground.
He turned.
At the far end of the courtyard, a small circle had formed. Students whispered and laughed, their robes marked with house sigils, golden suns, silver crescents, crimson wings. In the center, a girl knelt on the stone, clutching a satchel as papers scattered around her.
"Typical," said a tall boy wearing the radiant insignia of House Meridion, his voice dripping with confidence. "Even your handwriting bleeds mediocrity."
The girl said nothing. Her auburn hair fell in waves across her face; one hand trembled as she reached for a parchment.
The boy kicked it away.
"Tell me, lesser noble, how does it feel to breathe the same air as those destined to rule?"
The crowd snickered.
Iblis's gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, not out of sympathy, but curiosity. The girl's pulse was steady despite the humiliation. She didn't plead, didn't cry. That caught his attention.
He began walking toward them.
The laughter dimmed slightly as he approached, the murmurs thinning. The boy turned, smirk faltering when he recognized him.
"Lord Iblis Veyrahl," the student said quickly, forcing a courteous bow. "I didn't see you there."
"That is unlikely," Iblis replied.
The tone was calm, measured — neither threat nor warmth, simply an observation. His eyes swept the scene once, then returned to the boy. "You are House Meridion."
"Yes, my lord. Leo Meridion."
"I see." Iblis's gaze shifted toward the girl. "And what offense required punishment?"
Leo straightened, regaining some of his composure. "None, my lord. Only correction. She—"
"She exists," Iblis interrupted, voice soft but cutting. "A terrible crime."
The silence stretched, uncomfortable and taut.
Leo swallowed, then forced a smile. "It was harmless jest."
"Then laugh."
"What?"
Iblis tilted his head. "You said it was jest. Laugh. Convince me."
The boy hesitated. The crowd's attention was no longer on the girl but on the stillness radiating from Iblis, not power displayed, but control so absolute it felt unnatural.
Leo attempted a chuckle. It broke halfway through.
Iblis blinked once, slow and deliberate. "Unconvincing."
Without raising his voice, without even changing expression, he said, "Pick up the pages."
For a moment, Leo didn't move. Then, realizing the eyes on him, he crouched down and began gathering the scattered papers. His fingers trembled.
When he finished, he offered them to the girl, who stared in shock.
"Apologize," Iblis said.
Caius's jaw tightened. "I, apologize."
"Good," Iblis said. "Now leave before your dignity collapses entirely."
Leo turned sharply, pushing past the others. The crowd dispersed quickly after, leaving Iblis and the girl alone in the vastness of the courtyard.
She looked at him uncertainly. "You didn't have to—"
"I did nothing," he said, cutting her off. "I corrected imbalance."
"That's… an odd way to put it."
"I find precision preferable to sentiment."
She gathered her things quietly. "You must enjoy confusing people."
"I don't enjoy much of anything."
She looked at him then, properly, for the first time. There was no mockery in his tone, no kindness either. Only truth stated as fact. It unsettled her more than cruelty would have.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He turned away. "Don't."
She hesitated. "Why not?"
"Because you misunderstand gratitude. You think it's repayment. It's actually debt."
She blinked, caught off guard. "You make everything sound unpleasant."
"It often is."
She smiled faintly despite herself. "Then perhaps I'll thank you anyway, Lord Iblis."
"Do as you wish," he said, already walking away. "Most do."
---
The next lecture was in the Hall of Harmonics, a towering amphitheater of crystalline conduits and floating glyphs. The class was "Aetheric Frequencies and Resonant Law," taught by Professor Serathine Virel, a woman whose poise carried the weight of centuries-old lineage.
When Iblis entered, he noticed Lyra seated near the front, still clutching her repaired satchel. She looked up as he passed, uncertain whether to smile. He ignored her.
The professor's voice was sharp, melodic. "Aether, like music, obeys rhythm. Misstep in resonance, and you invite dissonance. Today, we test your attunement."
She gestured, and the air before each student shimmered into a sphere of light, a fragment of raw aether, pulsing faintly in sync with their breath.
"Stabilize it," she instructed. "Make it sing."
Iblis raised a hand. His sphere hovered effortlessly, vibration near silence. Around him, others struggled — energy sputtering or collapsing entirely.
Professor Serathine approached his desk, intrigued. "Your technique?"
"Observation," he said.
"That's not a method."
"It is when one knows what to observe."
Her lips twitched. "And what do you observe?"
He glanced at the sphere. "The flaws. The rhythm of imperfection."
"And you correct them?"
"No," Iblis said. "I remove them."
The sphere pulsed once, then froze mid-air, motionless, flawless, absolute.
A hush fell over the room. The sphere didn't hum. It didn't need to.
Serathine stared at him for a long moment, then smiled slightly. "Fascinating."
He inclined his head once in acknowledgment, the faintest gesture of politeness. Around him, whispers erupted, admiration mixed with unease.
When class ended, Lyra caught up to him again. "You don't make friends easily, do you?"
"I'm not built for it."
"That's a poor excuse."
"It's not an excuse. It's anatomy."
She laughed under her breath. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
As they crossed the bridge connecting the lecture hall to the dormitory towers, the light dimmed slightly, a passing shadow rippling through the floating structures. The hum of the leyline shifted, low and resonant.
Lyra frowned. "Did you feel that?"
"Yes," Iblis said. "The Aetherion heart pulsed irregularly."
"Is that… bad?"
"It means something is waking."
She looked at him, unease flickering in her eyes. "You sound almost like you're waiting for it."
He didn't answer.
---
That night, he returned to the lower laboratories. The crucibles hummed faintly, still recovering from his previous experiment. He placed his hand upon one, eyes half-lidded.
The void within him stirred.
He whispered into the hum, "Perfection is repetition without error."
The reflection of his hand on the glass twisted slightly, the shadow behind it deepening. For an instant, he saw not his own eyes staring back, but another pair, ancient and patient.
The voice that wasn't his murmured, And yet error defines creation.
He smiled faintly. "Then I'll unmake creation, one flaw at a time."
The hum deepened. The shadows answered.