"Zeron," Vexen spoke at last. "The Demon Lord who was recently slain."
The mere mention of that name made Soren stiffen. Inwardly, his breath caught.
He didn't show it—but his mind spun.
Why bring Him up?
He was that being, the one who gave him his now left eye...
"Ever since Zeron's death, the world has shifted," Vexen began, his voice echoing across the chamber. "Every major nation whose heroes took part in the ambush that felled the Demon Lord now turns their eyes to a single purpose: wiping out the Demon Territories for good.
"They've formed what they call the United Front—a massive coalition army of elites from across the continent. Their temporary base? The Blackened Marsh. Deep within the Blighted Lands, soaked in miasma and ancient curses.
"Even now, they gather. Preparing for the next war."
Elder Vexen's calmly narrated the event occured.
Soren let out a subtle breath. At least the man wasn't implying he had any connection to the dead Demon Lord. Still, the unease wouldn't leave him.
What was Vexen aiming at?
But everyone else in the chamber had already guessed.
They could see where this was going.
"Not long ago," Vexen continued, "the coalition extended an invitation to us. Astralis Academy. They requested our participation in the campaign."
No one interrupted. Because they all knew what was coming.
"And so," Vexen concluded, not bothering to mask his intent, "I propose we send Instructor Soren Noctis… as our representative. As fitting punishment for the transgression he committed."
Silence. Then—
"You're suggesting we send him to the frontlines?" Elder Haden asked, voice even. "As punishment for insubordination?"
"Yes," Vexen replied. "Because what he did was no small thing. Disobeying the Academy as an instructor. Shielding a wanted man. Even if the situation was complicated—if we excuse him without consequence, what precedent does that set? This way, he can prove his loyalty. With his life, if needed."
None of the other six core council could argue. As much as Vexen's motives were transparent, his logic was sound. Insubordination of that scale—especially when it involved aiding a fugitive and disrupting an official arrest—wasn't something the Academy could overlook.
Even Lady Senora and Mirelle, who had earlier spoken in Soren's defense, could find no proper counter. This punishment, harsh though it was, matched the rules.
But they also knew this wasn't entirely a death sentence.
Soren had defeated the Crimson Apostle. He wasn't just some blind, expendable pawn. If anyone had a chance of surviving that battlefield—it was him.
And so, one by one, the council members nodded.
The silent consensus passed through the chamber like a breeze laced with frost.
Finally, all eyes turned to the head of the chamber.
Headmaster Eryndor, still seated, offered a slow exhale.
"It appears the vote is decided," he said.
His gaze turned downward, toward Soren.
"As you've heard yourself, Instructor Soren—your punishment will be to serve as Astralis Academy's envoy in the Demon Subjugation Campaign. The united front has requested our support within three months. You will not leave immediately, but you are expected to prepare."
Soren remained still, processing the weight of it all.
But in truth, he had no choice.
"I accept," he said quietly.
"Bind him with a soul contract," Vexen added swiftly. "To prevent him from fleeing his duty."
The words made the atmosphere shift.
A soul contract.
A binding method forged through arcane means—connecting the subject's soul to the terms agreed upon. If broken, the backlash would tear at the soul itself.
"I understand," Soren replied.
"Step forward, then," said Caelin Draven. "And receive the binding."
Soren took a step, moving to the center of the room.
Caelin glanced toward the council. "The contract is two-way. Who among us will serve as the binding authority?"
Before Vexen could volunteer, a quiet voice spoke:
"I will."
All turned toward the speaker—Eryndor.
Raising one hand, the Headmaster conjured a single sheet of parchment from thin air. It hovered midair before Soren, glowing with a pale silver light.
"You will serve in the Demon Subjugation Army," Eryndor recited. "As Astralis Academy's chosen envoy. You will not abandon your duty. If you return alive, your sentence will be considered fulfilled. And your transgressions—absolved."
With each word, glowing runes appeared upon the parchment.
Soren stood with eyes closed. But he could feel it—feel the weight of magic beginning to wrap around him like chains.
Chains forged not from iron, but obligation.
"I accept," he said.
The floating parchment caught fire—not with flame, but with raw magical energy. It disintegrated into sparks that rushed forward, merging with his chest in a sharp burst of heat.
A thin trail of silver light returned to Eryndor himself, sealing the contract.
Vexen watched with quiet triumph. He had done it. He had cornered the boy who had cost him so much.
Soren, meanwhile, felt a pressure in his chest. A tightness—like his very soul had been tethered. Then, just as suddenly as it came, it faded.
He opened his mouth in a dry grimace. A hollow, helpless smile.
Again.
Fate pushes me into places I never asked to be.
Marked by a dragon. Dragged into Black Vow's shadow. Now bound by soul to march into a war he never chose.
"Don't let it weigh you down," Eryndor said suddenly, his voice gentler. "The contract merely requires that you participate and return alive. Nothing more. It does not demand you win the war."
There was a pause.
Then the Headmaster added, "Do not take it to heart. Fulfill your duty, Soren Noctis… as you must. As an instructor of this prestigious Academy."
---
Eryndor stood by the tall window, his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed downward.
Far below, the figure of Soren Noctis walked through the stone path leading away from the council chamber. Freed. Dismissed. Burdened with a mission.
The trial was over. The Council had dispersed.
"Father," Mirelle's voice came from behind him, hesitant.
Eryndor didn't turn. "What? You usually speak your mind like a chatterbox when it comes to your own father. Why the sudden hesitation?"
She took a breath.
"Soren Noctis... that moment earlier—when he lost control. I saw his left eye. It was active. Glowing. There was something… eerie about it."
Eryndor listened quietly.
"I saw a reddish crack expanding beside the eye," Mirelle continued. "It wasn't just magic. It felt… wrong. I wonder if he—"
"You want to ask if he might be a demon?" Eryndor finished for her. "But we sensed no demonic presence."
Mirelle frowned. "Could it be some kind of curse? Maybe something left behind by the Crimson Apostle as a final act of vengeance? A hex that latched onto the one who killed him?"
"You have a vivid imagination," Eryndor said, amused. "Perhaps. I won't rule it out."
She stepped forward, her brows knitted. "That eye—when it glowed red… it looked manic. Wild. Even if it wasn't demonic, the aura it gave off was dangerous. It was like standing in front of a sleeping beast… or a dormant natural disaster. You felt something was there, didn't you?"
Eryndor's expression didn't change. "Yes," he said simply.
Mirelle folded her arms, eyes narrowing. "Then why are you being nice to him? He's suspicious as hell, Father."
Eryndor finally turned from the window, arching a brow. "Same could be said about you. And mind your words, Lady Thalrune. Don't go cursing with that pretty face of yours that you inherit from me."
She huffed but said nothing. Especially about his last word. To be honest she think she inherit it most from Mother.
Eryndor's gaze drifted briefly to where Soren had disappeared from view.
"I'm just saying," he continued, tone more thoughtful now, "we need to tread carefully. Whatever Soren is, I don't believe he's evil. Not yet. Morally… he feels decent."
He paused, voice lowering slightly.
"I just don't think we should make him our enemy carelessly."
Eryndor finally turned from the window. "If he truly holds that much power… then isn't it a blessing that he's still with us? That he's chosen to stay?"
He let out a low chuckle.
"A man like that—strong, restrained, and mysterious—he's either a curse waiting to explode… or the rarest kind of asset."
Mirelle wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
Blessing? she thought.
They were discussing a man whose power was unknown, who radiated danger, and who might—or might not—be touched by something demonic… and her father was calling him a blessing?
She didn't know if Eryndor was being wise… or simply starting to go senile.