The girl's sobs wouldn't leave him.
Even long after Erevan Kael fled the practice hall, the sound clung to him like a second heartbeat—ragged, uneven, and cruelly human. Every cry replayed in his skull until it felt carved there, pressed bone-deep.
He'd run through the corridors half-blind, the echo of footsteps and the low hum of mana wards blurring together. Students turned as he passed, their faces flickering in torchlight, their laughter hollow and distant. But all he could hear was her voice.
That last broken sound when her spirit vanished.
By the time he reached his dorm, his lungs were burning. He dropped onto his cot and sat there, hands gripping his knees, trying to breathe through the weight in his chest. The world felt wrong. The air tasted of wax and cold iron.
He'd eaten later, or tried to, though the food turned to dust on his tongue. He could still see her face each time he blinked—the wide, frightened eyes, the trembling hands reaching for a spark that no longer existed.
And beneath all that horror… something darker pulsed.
A rush that still lingered in his veins. Power. It had flooded him like light breaking through glass, searing and intoxicating. His fingers trembled now just remembering it. His body knew before his mind dared to admit it.
He had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
Do not mourn a wisp, child.
The voice slid into his mind like warm smoke. Harrax's tone was almost gentle this time, amused in a way that made Erevan's stomach twist. The thing was hardly more than vapor. You gave me what I hungered for, and in return, you tasted what power truly feels like. That is not tragedy. That is truth.
Erevan pressed both palms over his eyes. His breath came too fast. "She looked at me," he whispered, voice cracking. "She looked at me like I stole a piece of her."
Because you did.
The words were soft, calm, devastatingly certain. Harrax's ember-glow flickered faintly against the wall, though no light burned there. And did you not feel it? The way her spirit came undone as I consumed it? The threads, weaving into yours? That is how bonds are meant to be. Equal. Devouring. Honest.
Erevan's head jerked up. "You'll get me killed."
Or you'll kill to keep me.
Silence followed. Heavy. Absolute.
When dawn came, the Academy was different.
The corridors were the same stone and glass, the same sprawling light filtering through crystal arches, but something unseen had shifted. The usual hum of chatter felt muted, off-balance. Students spoke in low tones near doorways, glancing around before whispering.
"Spirit collapse," one murmured as Erevan passed. "No echo, no trace."
"Not even residue left," another said. "That's not supposed to be possible."
The words pricked his skin like nettles. Erevan kept walking, his hood low, the crowd's noise dissolving into a dull roar in his head.
When he reached the refectory, a shimmering notice had appeared on the far wall. Golden script spelled out:
All students are to report any irregularities in their bonds immediately. Cooperation ensures safety.
The letters pulsed faintly, as if alive.
Erevan's stomach turned to ice.
He found a seat near the edge of the hall, alone. His hands stayed tight around his bowl of broth, though he barely lifted the spoon. Across the room, the novice girl sat hunched at her table, tray untouched. Her eyes were red and swollen, fixed on nothing. The space beside her was painfully, conspicuously empty.
No one dared sit near her.
Pity. Fear. Whispers. They all floated around her like gnats.
Erevan swallowed against the dryness in his throat. The spoon shook in his grip.
She is a reminder, Harrax murmured, silk-smooth. A lesson. The weak are devoured; the strong remain. You gave her a gift, little anomaly. You showed her the world as it is.
Erevan clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. His chest burned, but he said nothing.
From across the hall, Cassian Valt's golden eyes caught his for a fleeting second.
No smirk. No sneer. Just a faint narrowing of the gaze, thoughtful, too sharp. His spirit—a sleek golden feline—arched its back beside him, tail flicking once, eyes trained in Erevan's direction.
Something cold twisted in Erevan's gut.
He suspects, Harrax whispered, amused. He smells the blood in the water. Let him. Suspicion makes the chase sweeter.
Erevan dropped his gaze, his pulse hammering.
By afternoon, the Academy's tension had grown unbearable. In Master Quellan's lecture, the silence was almost suffocating. The old scholar stood at the front, his hands stained with ink, his robe meticulously pressed. But his eyes—normally mild and distant—were sharp as glass.
"You have all heard the rumors," Quellan began, his voice steady but cold. "They are true. A bonded spirit has been lost completely. No trace. No remains."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"This is not a failure," he continued, pacing slowly. "This is an aberration. And aberrations, my students, threaten the very foundation of our craft. The Academy tolerates mistakes. But it does not tolerate danger."
The silence that followed felt alive, stretching between heartbeats.
Erevan's hands dug into the edge of his desk. His throat was dry.
They search for me, Harrax purred. But they will not find me. I am not of their order. Their runes, their records, their tidy laws—they cannot cage what they do not understand.
Master Quellan's gaze swept the room like a blade. Erevan bowed his head instinctively, pretending to scribble notes.
"If any of you possess information," Quellan said, "it is your duty to speak. Concealment will be treated as complicity."
The words landed like stones.
No one moved.
The proctors behind him—one with a hawk of light, the other a serpent of vapor—stood perfectly still, their eyes scanning the rows. Erevan barely breathed.
When the bell finally rang, the sound jolted him like a whip.
Students erupted in whispers as they filed out, voices quick and frantic.
"That's impossible, right?"
"No collapse leaves nothing."
"Unless it wasn't a collapse."
Cassian's voice cut through, quiet but deliberate. "Or unless someone tampered."
The room went still.
Dozens of heads turned toward him. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the crowd—and stopped, just for a moment, on Erevan.
Not long enough to accuse.
Just long enough to make him sweat.
He watches, Harrax murmured. He doubts. But suspicion is not proof. And you, my anomaly, have made a fine art of being underestimated.
Erevan's fingers trembled as he shoved his notes into his satchel. The moment the door opened, he was gone.
The air outside felt too thin to breathe.
Night settled over the Academy like ink spilled across parchment. The towers shimmered faintly under the twin moons, each crystal spire humming with restrained power. From his dorm window, Erevan watched the light bleed over the courtyards below—students crossing in hushed pairs, patrol lamps flickering like tiny stars.
He hadn't moved in hours.
The notice board outside still glowed with that same golden warning. Report irregularities immediately. Each word seemed to burn into his skull.
He told himself he should sleep. Instead, he stood there, fingers pressed to the cool glass, pulse tapping against his wrist like a trapped bird.
You keep vigil as though guilt were penance, Harrax whispered, voice a thread of warmth sliding behind his ear. But guilt is only hunger turned inward. Feed it properly, and it becomes strength.
Erevan shut his eyes. "You sound like you've practiced that line."
I have had centuries, the voice murmured. Mortals have short memories. I collect them.
The air shivered. For a heartbeat, Erevan thought he felt the faint brush of fingers along his neck—imagined, he told himself. Definitely imagined.
A soft knock startled him.
He turned, heart hammering.
"Erevan?" Aria's voice drifted through the door, low but certain. "It's late, I know. But can we talk?"
He hesitated. His room was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of his spirit seal—dormant, pulsing like a quiet wound. He almost said no. Then he opened the door.
Aria stepped in, her robes loose, a silver ribbon tangled in her hair. She looked tired, eyes ringed with the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix.
"I shouldn't be here," she said softly. "They're saying the faculty is questioning everyone who was at the practice hall yesterday."
Erevan's chest tightened. "You think they'll come for me?"
Her gaze flickered. "I don't know. But Cassian's been asking questions. Loudly." She paused, studying him. "You haven't looked like yourself since the trial. It's like—"
"Like what?"
"Like something's watching through you."
He almost laughed. Almost. "That's dramatic, even for you."
Aria didn't smile. "I can feel it. The mana around you—it's wrong. It ripples. Erevan… what did you do?"
The question cracked through the air like glass splitting.
Harrax's voice slid through the silence. Lie, child. She smells the truth on you. Dress it in words she can love.
Erevan swallowed hard. "Something went wrong. That's all. The sprite couldn't stabilize. I—"
"You what?"
"I lost control." The words felt small, pathetic.
Her hand reached for him, then stopped midway, as if afraid of what she might touch. "You've always had control," she whispered. "That's what scares me."
A flicker of pain moved through him, sharp and sudden. He wanted to tell her everything—the bond, the voice, the way power had tasted like fire and freedom. But the thought of her gaze turning from concern to fear made him bite it back.
Harrax purred softly. She fears you already. Why not earn it?
Erevan flinched. "Aria, I can fix this. Whatever's happening, I'll—"
A chill swept through the room before he could finish. The candles along the wall bent sideways, their flames drawn toward him as if pulled by breath alone.
Aria stepped back, eyes widening. "Erevan—"
He tried to answer, but Harrax's laughter filled his head, low and molten. The light around him warped, shadows twisting like living things.
Do you feel that? the demon whispered. That is us, aligning. Your fear, my hunger. It sings.
Erevan gritted his teeth, fighting the pulse clawing up his spine. "Stop."
Aria's voice was trembling. "Who are you talking to?"
The air snapped, mana crackling. Harrax's presence coiled tighter, almost affectionate. She'll never understand. But I can make her see.
"No!" Erevan shouted it aloud this time.
The candles exploded, plunging the room into darkness.
For a heartbeat, the world was nothing but sound—the rush of blood, the sharp inhale, the whisper of silk as Aria stumbled back. Erevan's breath came ragged, his hands shaking as he forced the energy down, forcing it to still.
Then… silence.
When the light flickered back, Aria stood near the door, face pale, eyes wide.
"I don't know what that was," she said, voice breaking. "But if you don't tell the Masters soon, they'll tear it out of you themselves."
She left before he could speak.
The door clicked shut, leaving the room cold and echoing.
Erevan sank to the floor, back against the wall. Every nerve felt raw.
Harrax's voice lingered, quieter now. You see? She runs from what she cannot claim. Let her. Bonds of flesh and fear are brittle. Ours is eternal.
Erevan's fingers dug into the wood beneath him. "You're turning me into something I don't want to be."
You already are, Harrax whispered. You only needed a mirror.
Outside, the night pressed close against the glass, the moon's reflection fractured by the uneven panes.
Erevan stared at it until his eyes blurred. He should have felt shame, or terror, or regret. He did, somewhere deep—but layered over all of it was something hotter.
A thrill he couldn't kill.
The memory of the sprite's power burning through his veins. The pulse of Harrax's voice threading through his heartbeat.
He exhaled shakily, head tipped back against the wall.
Somewhere far below, a bell tolled midnight.
The cracks were spreading.
And he could no longer tell if he wanted to stop them.