The next morning, the academy didn't sound the same. Conversations halted when Kael walked past. Doors shut quietly behind him. The echo of his footsteps in the marble corridors carried farther than it should have, as if the building itself was holding its breath. The fight against Jorvan had ended with a victory, but the mood was nothing like triumph. The other students looked at him like they were trying to decide if he was human or something else wearing a boy's skin.
The first whisper came during breakfast. Two students at the next table leaned close, one speaking behind a hand. "They said his blade screamed when it broke," the boy murmured. "That it was feeding on him." The girl shivered. "No one's sword does that unless there's blood binding. It's illegal."
Kael kept his head down. The porridge in his bowl was gray and tasteless, but his stomach turned even looking at it. His hands still felt raw from gripping the sword. When he blinked, he saw the flash of Jorvan's blood again, the crack of ribs, the hollow look in the older boy's eyes as he hit the ground. The sound of the crowd fading into a blur, a low hum that didn't stop when the match ended.
He stood abruptly, leaving his tray untouched. The hum followed him.
The hallways were colder than usual, the air heavy with faint traces of incense. The academy's healers burned it after duels to cleanse "residual mana," though Kael had never believed in that. You couldn't wash blood from stone by burning flowers.
He passed groups of students. Some stared. Others turned away. He could hear fragments. "Unnatural," "Possessed," "Did you see his eyes?"
When he looked in the mirror of the dormitory washroom later, he almost didn't recognize his own reflection. There was a faint, silvery vein under his left eye, one that hadn't been there before. It pulsed once, in rhythm with his heartbeat, then faded. He splashed his face with cold water until it went numb.
By the time classes began, the rumors had evolved. Some said he was using ancient rune binding from outlawed schools. Others whispered he had channelled blood magic through the academy's containment wards. One girl claimed she saw a shadow crawl across his arm when the sword broke.
Meran cornered him after the second class, tone unreadable. "You need to keep your head low for a while," he said. "The faculty is already talking. They'll probably review your weapon logs."
Kael nodded, voice flat. "Let them."
Meran frowned. "This isn't a joke. You tapped into something during that fight. Whatever it was, it frightened people."
"I didn't use anything," Kael said. His tone sounded convincing, but even as he spoke, a tremor ran down his right arm. That same silvery vein pulsed faintly beneath the skin before settling.
He left before Meran could say more.
That night, the hum came back. It started as a vibration behind his ears, then spread into his skull like an echo that wasn't sound at all. When he tried to focus on it, it stopped, replaced by silence so heavy it pressed on his chest. He lay in bed, eyes open, listening to the faint rustle of rain against the window.
Something in the corner of the room moved.
Kael sat up, pulse sharp. The light crystal above flickered. For an instant, he thought he saw a figure standing there. It wasn't solid, more like the shadow of something behind thin glass, watching him from the other side. The outline was vague, shifting, almost breathing. Then the light steadied and it was gone.
He didn't sleep after that.
The following day, the whispers turned into avoidance. Students changed seats when he entered a room. A group of apprentices who used to nod at him now crossed the hall without looking up. Even the instructors' voices changed when addressing him, careful, measured, distant.
He began to notice small things. His desk in the lecture hall was marked with faint runes that hadn't been there before, the kind that detect magical surges. Someone was monitoring him. His assigned training sword had been replaced with a new one, its runes dulled, its edges blunt.
In the evenings, when the corridors emptied, he started walking to the courtyard to breathe. The air was damp, and the torches flickered low. The statues that lined the walls seemed to tilt slightly when he passed, their carved eyes following.
One night he heard his own name whispered in the wind. It came from nowhere, soft and tired, like it had traveled from a long distance just to find him. He froze, looking around the courtyard. No one. The voice came again, closer now, under his breath, layered with something else—like multiple tones speaking at once.
He backed toward the door. The torches dimmed all at once, leaving only the faint glow of mana drifting like mist. The voice stopped. The silence that followed was worse.
He didn't tell Seret. She didn't need to know. She would only worry, and there was nothing to say anyway. What could he explain? That he was hearing voices, seeing shapes? That something inside his mana was responding to the name Blood Trials like an old instinct?
The next morning, the reflection in the mirror smiled half a second later than he did.
He punched the mirror until it cracked.
When Seret asked about the bandages later, he told her he had slipped during practice. She didn't press.
The whispers continued to grow. Someone left a note under his door. One word. Monster.
He didn't throw it away. He just stared at it until his vision blurred and the ink seemed to bleed across the paper like it was alive.