The echoes of the Hall Test still lingered in the academy corridors, yet the news spreading across the continent spoke of a far stranger truth: the top student was revealed to be a vampire. The weekly paper of the Chorus had captured it in bold letters, painting the academy's mysteries onto its front page. It was not unusual—for nothing stirred curiosity more than the secrets locked within Trinity Academy's gates. No outsider was permitted entry, and so every fragment of rumor, every whisper of scandal, became fuel for the world's imagination.
When Connor's eyes scanned the parchment, he found something unnerving. The report was far more detailed than any civilian should know, filled with insights only professors or students ought to possess. And worse—among the column of Students to Watch was his own name, sketched with a small portrait. He felt the weight of unseen gazes pressing closer, the dangerous tug of fame that he had never desired. The shopkeeper's wandering eyes shifted from paper to face, recognition dawning in silence. Connor fled before words could become chains, ignoring the voice that followed him into the streets. Fame within the academy was already a burden; to be hunted by it beyond the walls was a noose tightening around his neck.
The Chorus Market stretched endlessly, alive with merchants who thrived on the wealth of noble students. Trinkets glittered beneath the sun, from enchanted rings that promised minor fortune to potions steeped in alchemical herbs harvested from dangerous beastlands. Yet each price stung like a blade—beyond what common-born students could ever dream of affording. Even Connor, hardened mercenary and rich with the spoils of blood-earned coin, felt suffocated in the marketplace's grasp.
Guided by his unseen companion Kyle's grumbling, Connor drifted into the alleys where wealth dared not tread. The air grew stale, and the lanterns dim. Here, in the forgotten shadows, he discovered a shop marked by a weathered sign: Traditional Ornaments. The wooden door creaked like an omen, opening into a world lit not by clean arcane lamps but flickering oil flames. Stuffed beasts leered from the walls, their glass eyes glimmering with jagged light. Behind a desk sat a skeletal man, tattoos etching his face into something otherworldly, ribs pressing against starved flesh. Connor felt the weight of wrongness, yet curiosity anchored his steps.
Inside, relics of strange design whispered of forgotten lands. Feathers woven into crowns, bark carved with ancestral sigils, necklaces of bone and fang that carried the aura of primitive rites. And in the far corner, almost swallowed by shadows, stood a figure who did not belong among such things.
Small in frame, cloaked in garments that hid hands and feet, with lilac hair so long it brushed the floor—Whipney Somnia. The companion of his assigned group, the one who was always drifting in sleep, was awake. Her usually half-lidded eyes were open wide, carrying a clarity that startled him more than any fanged necklace. She seemed both misplaced and utterly at home, as though these relics called to her bloodline.
For the first time, Connor saw her as something more than a drowsy burden. She carried herself lightly, wandering among ornaments with genuine delight. Her fingers traced the grain of carved wood, her smile warmed at the sight of crude trinkets, and her voice, no longer weighed down by slumber, lilted like a hidden melody. She spoke of her family—keepers of a souvenir trade—whose lives revolved around gathering such curiosities for travelers. And in her expression, brighter than he had ever seen, Connor realized his intent to buy a prankish trinket for his old captain was childish compared to her sincere joy.
When he asked her to choose something fitting for a mercenary leader, her languid gaze sharpened briefly, then softened once more. From the shelves she produced a necklace strung with three lion fangs, primal and regal. It was inexpensive, yet commanding in presence. Connor could already picture the weathered neck of his captain bearing such a wild token, and a smile pulled unbidden at his lips.
Whipney, too, selected her own piece—a dull, rough stone strung onto twine. She cradled it with quiet reverence, claiming that, with care, the lifeless rock would reveal itself as a gemstone. For her, transformation was a hobby, a secret patience. Connor could not help but feel the strange rhythm of fate, watching her embrace what seemed worthless with such faith.
Outside, the two stepped into the fading light of the alley. The lion's fang necklace dangled in Connor's hand, while Whipney fiddled clumsily with her stone amulet. Her endless hair tangled the chain, forcing Connor to intervene. His fingers brushed through strands softer than silk, weaving them aside to clasp the cord around her pale neck. She shivered faintly at his touch, lowering her head in thanks.
It was in that fragile moment that the world shattered.
A thunderous blast rolled through the marketplace, smoke rising in the distance. Whipney stumbled, startled, her wide eyes snapping to Connor's calm face. He did not flinch, for Kyle had whispered of this event that very morning. The explosion was no surprise—it was an inevitability. Yet his lack of reaction drew Whipney's suspicion, her gaze narrowing as though she had glimpsed the cracks in his mask. He deflected with mercenary pragmatism, but the weight of the moment lingered.
The streets hushed, breath held in tension. Beneath the stillness, Connor felt the faint rumble of fate shifting. Smoke curled into the skies of Chorus, a harbinger of the trials yet to come.
And then, with almost childlike innocence, Whipney's voice broke through the heaviness. She invited him to share a meal, her tone as soft as the necklace she now wore. His stomach growled in answer, echoing the earlier blast, and he allowed himself a rare smile.
For a fleeting instant, amidst chaos and suspicion, there was something almost ordinary—two companions, lost in the heart of a dangerous world, about to sit and eat together while destiny smoldered in the distance.