Darkness. Thick, suffocating darkness.
Ansel stood alone in a vast room shrouded in shadows. The walls pulsed like they were alive, the air heavy and humming with an ancient energy. In the center stood a massive throne—twisted, obsidian, and cold like it had been carved from the night itself.
He couldn't move. His feet were rooted to the floor, and yet... he wasn't afraid.
A whisper echoed in the room. Low, inhuman, echoing in a language he couldn't understand.
Kael... voren...
It came from the throne. A shadow sat upon it—massive, regal, unmoving. Its eyes glowed faintly with violet light, watching him.
"What are you?" Ansel tried to ask, but no voice came out. The whisper grew louder, clearer, calling his name now.
Ansel... Ansel...
The room cracked like glass, and the whisper turned into a scream.
---
Ansel shot up from his bed, drenched in sweat. His breaths came fast, chest heaving. His blanket lay twisted on the floor, and morning light crept through the curtains of his small academy room.
"Again..." he whispered to himself, pressing a palm to his forehead. "That dream again."
It was the third time this week. Always the same—throne, voice, darkness. And every time, he woke up more exhausted than before, like the dream had drained him.
But he didn't have time to dwell on it. He was already late.
Ansel threw on his uniform, grabbed his worn satchel, and rushed out the door toward the training grounds.
Mistress Leona's combat class waited.
---
The training field buzzed with activity. Students were sparring under the stern gaze of Mistress Leona—tall, composed, and fierce. Her braided silver hair whipped in the wind, and her twin swords hung at her hips like extensions of her own limbs.
She barked commands with military precision. "Footwork, not fancy tricks! Keep your guard up—yes, even if you're using magic!"
Ansel found his spot in the back, just as Leona's eyes flicked in his direction.
"Late again, Nighthawk."
"Sorry, Mistress," Ansel muttered, bowing.
Leona narrowed her eyes but didn't press further. She gestured with one of her blades. "Pair up. We're practicing defense today. No magic. Only swords."
Ansel blinked in surprise. No magic? Finally a chance to not be useless.
As students scrambled to form pairs, Reena appeared at his side.
"You're with me," she said with a soft smile.
Ansel blinked. "Reena? Aren't you usually partnered with Class c girls?"
"I asked to switch."
He looked confused. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Maybe I wanted to see how strong you've gotten."
Ansel blushed slightly, gripping the wooden training sword handed to him. "I've been… practicing."
"I can tell," she said warmly. "Let's see if it paid off."
They moved into position, swords raised. Reena attacked first—light, graceful strikes. Ansel focused on footwork and parrying, remembering Vulcan's instructions. He wasn't fast, but he held his ground.
"Not bad," Reena said as their swords clashed. "You're sharper today."
"I'm trying," Ansel panted, blocking her next strike. "I want to get stronger."
Reena's expression softened. "I know."
As their practice continued, the weight of the strange dream still lingered at the back of Ansel's mind. The throne, the whispers... what was it trying to tell him.