Erevan Kael could feel the weight of eyes before he even reached the upper landing.
Whispers thinned as he passed, threads of conversation curling into silence that felt too deliberate. The marble beneath his boots was slick with the morning's condensation, each step echoing in the high corridors of the Academy like a measured accusation.
He told himself it was nothing. That the students always looked. That the rumors about the duel had already burned themselves out.
But the air disagreed. It pressed close, thick and aware, carrying the faint metallic scent of fear—the kind that wasn't his alone.
He shifted his satchel higher on his shoulder, the strap biting into his palm. His pulse beat there, an uneven rhythm that wouldn't quiet.
Keep walking.
The archways seemed narrower than usual. Every polished panel of glass caught his reflection and threw it back at him—his expression controlled, his mouth set, his eyes a little too sharp. He looked composed, but inside, threads frayed.
At the turn toward the eastern hall, he nearly collided with a pair of first-years. They froze, eyes wide, and stepped back as though he carried contagion. Erevan muttered a quiet apology, but they were already gone, shoes skidding against the stone.
So it was true. The story had grown teeth overnight.
By the time he reached the antechamber, the low hum of conversation had gathered again. The carved doors of Chamber Nine loomed ahead—ancient wood darkened by centuries of inquiry.
A quiet voice from the guards: "They're expecting you."
His fingers trembled once, then steadied. He pushed the door open.
Inside, the chamber was colder than the halls. Lanterns hung high, their light heavy and deliberate. The air smelled faintly of ink and salt. A long table waited in the center, surrounded by figures in slate-colored robes.
No one spoke at first. Only the sound of the door closing behind him, then the slow scrape of a chair.
"Erevan Kael," said the magister at the head of the table. "You understand why you're here."
His throat tightened. "Because of the duel."
"Because of what happened after," the magister corrected, voice smooth but edged. "An uncontrolled surge. A student injured. Others frightened."
He tried to speak, but the words tangled. "I didn't—"
"We're not accusing," another interrupted, though the tone made the lie transparent. "We're clarifying."
Clarifying. Such a gentle word for flaying.
He forced his hands to stay open at his sides, nails biting into his palms just enough to anchor him.
Questions came—too measured, too polite. Each one wrapped in courtesy and barbed with doubt: Had he noticed any changes in his conduit channels? Any interference with control? Any… voices during spellwork?
The last question hit too close, and something flickered in his eyes before he could hide it.
The silence that followed was merciless.
When they dismissed him, he left without bowing. The door closed behind him like a verdict.
The corridor outside was blindingly bright. For a moment he just stood there, chest tight, the world sounding too far away.
A hand caught his arm.
Cassian.
"You didn't tell me they'd called you in," Cassian said. His tone wasn't angry, not yet—it was worse, the brittle edge of concern about to break.
"I didn't think it mattered."
Cassian exhaled, slow, controlled. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
Their eyes met. Cassian's gaze searched him—steady, light-brown, always too honest—and for a heartbeat Erevan almost let the truth slip. The exhaustion. The whispers that weren't human.
Instead, he looked away. "Drop it, Cassian."
The silence stretched, taut and unspoken. Finally Cassian released his grip. "If something's wrong, you know I'll find out anyway."
"I know," Erevan said quietly. "That's what worries me."
He turned and walked toward the far staircase, the echo of his own words following him down like a shadow that had learned to breathe.
Night fell heavy and low, pressing against the dormitory windows until the glass fogged with its weight.
Erevan hadn't lit a lamp. He sat at the edge of his bed, boots still on, eyes tracking the slow pulse of light from the tower across the courtyard. Every few seconds it blinked, then went dark again, as if the city itself were hesitating between breaths.
The echo of the interrogation clung to him.
Every question, every polite pause, replayed with surgical precision. He had answered each one carefully, but the spaces between his answers felt louder than the words themselves.
A knock broke the stillness—soft, uncertain.
"Erevan?"
Aria's voice.
He hesitated before opening the door. The corridor's torches cast her in a wavering light; her hair looked like burnished copper, and her expression carried that mixture of worry and stubborn courage she always wore when she was about to defy a rule.
"I heard about Chamber Nine," she said quietly. "They shouldn't have—"
"They did," he interrupted, a little too quickly.
She stepped closer, searching his face. "Are you all right?"
He wanted to lie, but his voice came out thin. "I don't know."
Aria looked at him for a long moment, then reached out and brushed her fingers against his sleeve. The contact was barely there, but it steadied something in him.
"They're frightened," she whispered. "That doesn't mean they're right."
The words lodged deep, half comfort, half warning.
When she finally left, the room felt larger but emptier. He sat back down, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together until his knuckles whitened.
A whisper slipped through the quiet—his own memory speaking in the back of his skull, or something like it.
Power is never silent. It only waits for someone to listen.
He closed his eyes. The sound wasn't a voice, not exactly. More like the shape of a thought brushing past his own. A tide retreating just far enough to remind him that it could return whenever it wished.
He tried to breathe through it, slow and even, the way the healers had taught for grounding.
But grounding felt useless when the ground itself was shifting.
He rose and crossed to the mirror. The moonlight traced a faint silver edge along his reflection—the same uniform, the same dark hair, but a stranger's eyes staring back. Too alert. Too aware.
"I'm still me," he said aloud, just to hear it. The sound cracked halfway through.
The reflection didn't argue, but it didn't agree either.
He stayed there a long time, waiting for the world to blink first.
Outside, the tower light flickered once more and went out completely.