The morning air of the academy was filled with laughter, clashing swords, and the rustle of pages as students hurried between lessons. On the surface, everything seemed normal—like yesterday's Rift attack had never happened. The cracked stone in the training yard, however, whispered a different truth.
And for Elian, normal was gone.
He kept his hood pulled low as he walked the main corridor, trying to avoid the stares that followed him like a shadow. It didn't matter if he walked faster or kept his eyes on the ground—the whispers always reached him.
> "That's him… the boy with wings."
"No, horns. My brother swears he saw it—horns sprouting from his head!"
"Blessed or cursed, he's dangerous. Just stay away."
Each word was like a blade, cutting deeper into him. He had fought to protect the academy, not destroy it. Yet the very people he saved now looked at him as if he were a monster hiding in plain sight.
"Elian!"
The cheerful voice of Kael cut through the tension like sunlight breaking clouds. The boy jogged up beside him, tray of bread in one hand, his ever-present grin refusing to falter.
"You've got that stormy look again," Kael said, bumping his shoulder playfully. "Careful, people will start thinking you practice frowning in the mirror."
Elian tried to smile, but it came out thin and unconvincing. "Just… tired."
Kael rolled his eyes. "You've been 'just tired' for a week. I know what you're doing, you know—pretending you don't hear the whispers. But I hear them too. And I don't care. You're still my friend."
Behind them, Lyra walked quietly, her hands folded around a book. Her calm presence was usually enough to steady him, but today he noticed the crease of worry on her forehead. She didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. Elian could feel it—her concern, her fear of losing him to whatever was inside him.
The silence pressed heavier than the whispers.
That afternoon, sword practice drew the students into the training yard. Sweat glistened on foreheads, blades clashed, and the instructor barked orders over the chaos.
"Listen up!" the instructor called. "We have a transfer today. Make her feel welcome."
A figure stepped into the ring.
She was unlike anyone Elian had ever seen. Her hair was dark, but streaked with strands of silver that caught the sunlight like threads of starlight. Her amber eyes were sharp, intelligent, and seemed to weigh every soul present in the yard. She carried herself with quiet confidence—not arrogant, not meek, but steady, like a warrior who knew both victory and loss.
"This is Selene Veyra," the instructor announced. "Trained in the northern courts, joining our class effective immediately."
Murmurs rippled through the students. The northern courts were said to be strict, disciplined, producing some of the finest fighters.
Selene tilted her head, her faint smile calm but unreadable. "It's good to meet you all."
From the back of the group, someone muttered, "Another outsider…"
Selene's amber gaze flicked toward the voice. "Outsiders often see truths insiders ignore," she said simply.
The yard fell silent. Elian's chest tightened. Those words—meant casually—felt like they were spoken directly to him.
When sparring pairs were called, fate—or the instructor—placed Elian against Selene.
At first, their blades met evenly. Selene moved gracefully, her strikes fluid, her footwork precise. She was strong, but not overwhelming—like she was measuring Elian, testing his rhythm.
Then the jeers began.
"Careful, Selene!" a boy shouted from the edge of the ring. "If he loses control, you'll end up like the ground he burned last week!"
Laughter erupted.
Another chimed in, harsher: "Better watch out—his parents probably crawled out of the pit of demons too. Guess he'll join them soon enough."
The words froze Elian. His grip trembled, the seal beneath his shirt pulsing angrily. His parents. He didn't even know them, and now they were being used as weapons against him.
Heat surged in his chest. For a moment, he thought the wings of shadow and light might tear through again.
But before the fire could consume him, Selene lowered her blade and turned on the crowd.
"Is that how you treat your classmates?" she asked, her voice sharp as steel. "Mocking them for things you don't understand?"
Her eyes locked on the loudest boy. "Or are you so weak that the only way you feel strong is by tearing others down?"
The laughter died instantly. No one expected the new girl to defend him. A hush fell over the ring.
Elian's throat tightened. For the first time since the Rift, someone had stood with him—not out of loyalty like Kael, or quiet worry like Lyra, but out of pure, undeniable defiance.
That night, Elian sat by the dorm window, staring at the moon. Kael was already asleep, snoring softly, and Lyra's lamp still glowed faintly down the hall.
His reflection in the glass showed tired eyes, shadowed by doubt. He touched his chest, feeling the faint glow of the seal beneath his skin.
The Council fears me. The students hate me. My friends… they're worried I'll break.
For a long moment, he just breathed, listening to the silence.
Finally, he whispered to the night:
"I don't know who I am. I don't know what's inside me. But I won't let them decide for me. Not the Council. Not the academy. Not anyone."
Outside, Selene leaned against the academy wall, also staring at the moon. Her amber eyes glimmered with thought, unreadable, as if she knew more than she let on.
And the night held its breath, as though waiting for what came next.