The Black Blade
The scream tore through the Academy's dawn silence like the cry of the damned.
Raelith was out of his bed and across the room before the sound fully faded, his heart hammering as he took in the scene before him. Leizar sat upright, his entire body shaking with a terror so profound it seemed to radiate from him like heat. But it wasn't the terror that made Raelith's blood run cold.
It was the satchel.
Leizar clutched it against his chest with both hands - a small leather satchel soaked with blood so fresh it still steamed in the cool morning air. The careful stitching was barely visible beneath the crimson staining, but Raelith could make out the words worked in loving letters: "Fairy Prince."
"She made it for me," Leizar whispered, his voice breaking. "With her own hands. She called me her fairy prince and made this for me and now..." He held up the blood-soaked leather. "Now it's all that's left of her."
Raelith moved without thinking, gathering his broken roommate into his arms. Leizar collapsed against him, sobbing with a grief that seemed too vast for his young frame to contain.
"Lysa," Leizar choked out between sobs. "Little Lysa with her wildflowers and her bright laugh. I can taste her fear, Raelith. I can feel her terror as my shadow lowered her into the ground. She was still breathing. Still calling for her mama."
Raelith's throat closed with emotion he couldn't show. The boy in his arms was sobbing over a murdered child, broken by guilt and horror he couldn't understand. To see someone he cared about reduced to this - trembling and blood-soaked and clutching evidence of his shadow's hunt - was almost unbearable.
"Easy," Raelith murmured, his voice steady despite the chaos of his emotions. "Easy, it's all right. You're safe now."
But even as he spoke the comforting words, Raelith knew they were lies. How could anyone be safe from darkness this powerful? How could any of them be safe when something this dangerous was fragmenting into madness?
Other students had begun gathering in the doorway, drawn by the screaming, but Raelith waved them away with sharp gestures. This was not for curious eyes.
Thalawen, the black cat, leaped onto the bed and pressed against Leizar's side, her purr vibrating through his chest like a healing frequency. She seemed to sense the depth of his anguish.
"Come on," Raelith said gently, helping Leizar to his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He guided Leizar to the small washroom attached to their dormitory, running warm water into the basin while his roommate stood swaying like a broken reed. Blood covered his nightclothes, his hands, even streaked across his face.
"I remember everything," Leizar whispered as Raelith began washing the blood from his hands. "Every moment. She was picking wildflowers for me, Raelith. For me. And my shadow found her there in the meadow and she smiled at it because she thought I had come to play."
The water in the basin turned pink, then red. Raelith worked with steady hands, washing away the evidence of whatever had happened in the night.
"She wasn't afraid at first," Leizar continued, his voice hollow with self-loathing. "Not until my shadow began digging. Not until she realized what was happening. Then she started crying, started begging. 'Please, fairy prince, please don't hurt me. I love you, fairy prince.'"
Raelith's hands stilled for just a moment, his jaw clenching. To hear the victims calling Leizar 'fairy prince' as they died... it was almost too much to bear.
"She made this for me because she loved me," Leizar said, holding up the ruined satchel. "And that love killed her. Everyone who cares about me dies, Raelith. Everyone who sees what I really am gets destroyed by it."
"No," Raelith said firmly, resuming his gentle washing. "You're not responsible for what your shadow does while you sleep. You're not a monster, Leizar. You're just... broken. And broken things can be fixed."
It wasn't entirely true. Raelith suspected Leizar was capable of far more than he realized. But this version of him, this broken boy who sobbed over dead children, deserved whatever comfort could be given.
When the blood was washed away and fresh clothes found, Raelith helped Leizar back to his bed. The satchel sat on the nightstand between them, the words "Fairy Prince" now clearly visible despite the dark stains.
"She saw something in me," Leizar said quietly. "Something the others couldn't see. She called me her fairy prince because she believed I was something magical, something good."
"Maybe you are," Raelith replied, though the words tasted like ash. "Maybe she saw the person you could be, not the person you've been."
"The person I could be doesn't bury children alive."
"No," Raelith agreed. "He doesn't. So maybe it's time to become that person instead."
A knock came at their door - soft but insistent. Pendacore's voice called through the wood. "Is everything all right in there?"
Raelith looked at Leizar, then at the blood-stained satchel. "We need help," he said quietly.
Pendacore entered, his emerald eyes immediately taking in the scene. His expression darkened as he saw the satchel, understanding dawning.
"Another child," Pendacore said grimly. "The girl from the market yesterday."
"Lysa," Leizar whispered, clutching the satchel tighter.
"Yes." Pendacore reached into his bag and retrieved a crystal vial filled with shimmering liquid. "This cannot continue. Your shadow acted independently while you slept, beyond any containment the Academy's wards should have provided."
He extended the vial to Leizar. "This is a stronger preparation. It will bind your shadow completely, no matter the cost."
"What cost?" Raelith asked sharply.
Pendacore hesitated. "Some memories may be affected. The binding process can... blur the lines between conscious and unconscious experience."
"Will it stop the killing?"
"Yes."
Leizar took the vial without hesitation. "Then I don't care what it costs me."
Leizar uncorked the vial and tilted it back, swallowing the contents in one quick motion. The liquid was cool and tasted of mint and starlight, with an aftertaste that reminded him of deep water and winter mornings. As it went down, he felt a strange sensation, as if invisible threads were being woven through his chest, binding something that had been trying to pull away.
Almost immediately, he felt different. The constant low-level anxiety that had plagued him since arriving at the Academy began to fade. The sensation of being watched by his own shadow, of something moving at the edges of his vision, settled into stillness. For the first time in weeks, his shadow lay flat against the floor, obedient to the morning light, no longer writhing with independent will.
But there was something else, something he couldn't quite identify. A presence that had been external now felt internal, as if whatever force had been trying to separate from him had been forced to inhabit the same space. It was like having a second heartbeat, a rhythm just slightly out of sync with his own.
"Better?" Pendacore asked.
"Much." And it was true. For the first time in days, Leizar felt truly calm. "Thank you."
"Excellent. Classes begin after breakfast. Don't be late." Pendacore moved toward the door, pausing only to nod at the other boys. "Sylas."
"Master Pendacore," Sylas replied, his voice carefully neutral.
After the instructor left, the room remained quiet for a long moment. Then Severan spoke, his bright sapphire eyes calculating probabilities with manic intensity.
"Temporal correlation probability: significant. Statistical variance suggests deliberate intervention rather than coincidental timing."
"Is it?" Raelith asked, swinging down from his bunk with practiced ease.
"Binding tonics: emergency protocol implementation," Severan stated with mathematical precision. "Deployment occurs when primary containment methods achieve failure threshold."
Leizar looked between his roommates, suddenly uncertain. "Control?"
"Nothing sinister," Raelith said quickly, shooting a warning look at Severan. "Just magical theory. Shadow magic can be... unpredictable in young wielders."
But Thalawen had begun to pace, her tail lashing with agitation. She jumped back onto Leizar's bed and fixed him with an intense stare, as if trying to communicate something urgent.
"What's wrong with her?" Sylas asked, speaking for the first time.
"I don't know." Leizar reached out to stroke her fur, but she pulled back, still staring at him with those unsettling amber eyes. "She's been strange since we arrived."
"Familiar behavioral patterns indicate sensitivity to magical flux variations," Severan observed clinically. "Probability assessment: tonic effects causing disruption to established magical resonance patterns."
That seemed to satisfy everyone except Thalawen, who continued to pace with increasing agitation. But the tonic had made Leizar feel so much better that he chose to ignore her distress. Whatever was bothering her would surely pass.
He had no way of knowing that Pendacore's kindly meant solution had just created a problem far worse than the one it had solved.
After breakfast, they were scheduled to join the other new students for a comprehensive tour of the Academy grounds. Master Helaine, a cheerful woman with silver-streaked brown hair, had gathered the group of fifteen first-years in the main courtyard, armed with maps and a practiced speech about Academy history.
"The Academy of Ages was founded three centuries ago," she began, gesturing toward the towering main building with its Gothic spires and flying buttresses. "Our founders believed that students with unusual gifts needed not just education, but sanctuary. A place where they could develop their abilities safely, away from those who might not understand."
Leizar found himself studying the architecture with new appreciation. The buildings seemed designed to inspire awe while providing comfort, their soaring lines balanced by welcoming alcoves and sun-drenched courtyards. Gardens bloomed in impossible profusion despite the season, tended by students whose botanical magic kept flowers blooming year-round.
They had just begun walking toward the library when Pendacore appeared, seemingly from nowhere, falling into step beside Master Helaine.
"Master Pendacore," she said, clearly surprised. "I wasn't expecting you to join us today."
"Change of plans," he replied smoothly, his emerald eyes already scanning the group of students. "I thought I'd take over the tour, if you don't mind. Give these new students a more... personalized introduction to Academy life."
Master Helaine looked confused but didn't argue. "Of course. They're all yours."
As she departed, Pendacore positioned himself at the front of the group, but Leizar noticed his attention wasn't focused on the buildings or the planned route. Instead, his gaze kept drifting to the ground around Leizar's feet, where his shadow fell across the cobblestones.
"Let's begin with the dormitory wings," Pendacore said, leading them toward the residential buildings. But as they walked, he gradually maneuvered himself closer to Leizar, until he was walking directly beside him instead of leading the group.
That's when Leizar felt it.
His shadow, which had been lying flat and obedient since drinking the tonic, suddenly began to writhe. Not obviously, not enough that the other students would notice, but he could feel it moving beneath him like something trapped and struggling to break free.
Pendacore stepped closer, close enough that his own shadow merged with Leizar's on the ground. The moment their shadows touched, Leizar's went completely still, but the sensation inside his chest intensified. That second heartbeat he'd noticed earlier began pounding in rhythm with his pulse, and he had the strangest sense that something was probing at the edges of his consciousness.
"The Academy grounds cover nearly fifty acres," Pendacore continued his tour commentary, but his voice sounded distant to Leizar's ears. "We have specialized facilities for every type of magical study you can imagine."
They moved through the gardens, past the greenhouse complex where Advanced Botanical Studies took place, around the combat training grounds where older students sparred with weapons and magic alike. Through it all, Pendacore stayed pressed close to Leizar's side, their shadows constantly overlapping, and through it all, Leizar felt that invasive presence testing the boundaries of whatever the tonic had bound inside him.
"This is our meditation garden," Pendacore said, gesturing to a circular space surrounded by flowering hedges. "Students often come here when they need to center themselves, find balance with their magical abilities."
But even as he spoke, Leizar could see his focus was elsewhere. The instructor's emerald eyes kept darting downward, watching the interplay of shadows on the ground with the intensity of someone reading a complex text.
Raelith, walking on Leizar's other side, seemed to notice the odd dynamic. "Master Pendacore, is everything alright? You seem... distracted."
"Just observing," Pendacore replied, his tone carefully neutral. "New students often have adjustment periods. It's important to monitor how they're settling in."
But the way he said 'monitor' made Leizar's skin crawl. This wasn't casual observation. This was evaluation, analysis, investigation. Every step they took together, every moment their shadows merged, Pendacore was learning something about what the tonic had done.
When they reached the library, a magnificent building with stained glass windows depicting scenes of magical learning throughout history, Pendacore finally stepped away. The moment their shadows separated, Leizar felt the probing presence withdraw, leaving him with a sensation like an echo of violated privacy.
"Any questions about what you've seen so far?" Pendacore asked the group, but his eyes remained fixed on Leizar.
"The buildings are beautiful," offered a girl with short blonde hair. "But they seem... old. Are there any modern additions?"
As Pendacore launched into an explanation of recent renovations, Severan leaned closer to Leizar and whispered, "Statistical anomaly detected."
"What was?"
"Instructor behavioral deviation from established patterns. Shadow magic specialists: typical probability of tour intervention, three point seven percent." Severan's bright sapphire eyes calculated rapidly. "Current scenario suggests targeted monitoring protocols."
Leizar felt cold despite the warm afternoon sun. "Monitoring what kind of situation?"
But Severan had already straightened, returning his attention to Pendacore's commentary about the library's rare books collection. And when Leizar looked down, he could swear his shadow seemed darker than it should be, more solid, as if the probing had somehow changed its very substance.
The tour continued for another hour, visiting the dining halls, the administrative offices, the specialized laboratories where advanced students conducted magical research. But Pendacore maintained his position close to Leizar throughout, their shadows merging and separating in a careful dance that felt less like coincidence and more like systematic evaluation.
By the time they returned to the main courtyard to collect their class schedules, Leizar was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally, as if something inside him had been examined and tested beyond its limits.
"Schedules are available at the registrar's desk," Pendacore announced to the group. "Classes begin officially tomorrow, but feel free to explore the facilities and get familiar with your surroundings."
As the other students dispersed, chattering excitedly about their first day, Pendacore lingered. His emerald gaze fixed on Leizar with an intensity that made conversation impossible.
"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly. "Any... unusual sensations since this morning?"
The question felt loaded with meaning Leizar couldn't decipher. "I feel fine. Better, actually."
"Good. That's very good." But Pendacore's expression suggested he'd learned something during their shadow-merged walk that wasn't entirely reassuring. "If you experience any discomfort, any sense of... internal conflict... come see me immediately."
He turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and Leizar? Try to get a good night's sleep. Rest is important when your magical system is... adjusting."
After he left, the four roommates stood in silence for a moment, processing what had just occurred.
"Well," Raelith said finally, "that was definitely not a normal orientation tour."
Sylas, who had been unusually quiet throughout the entire experience, looked directly at Leizar with an expression that might have been concern or recognition.
"No," he agreed softly. "It definitely wasn't normal."
The Academy's Great Hall buzzed with conversation as students filtered in for breakfast, their voices echoing off stone walls lined with portraits of distinguished alumni. Tiny Luminari drifted between the tables like whispers of light, drawn to students sharing their bread or offering encouraging words to struggling classmates. Their small orbs pulsed gently within their oversized hoods, making the morning meal feel warmer and more nourishing. Leizar followed his roommates to a table near one of the tall windows, Thalawen padding silently at his heels. WindRaven had already claimed a seat, his mysterious leather bag resting carefully beside his chair - he'd developed a habit of keeping his strange stone-like object close, especially after Severan's talk of "incubation parameters."
She had refused to leave his side since drinking the tonic, which was unusual. Typically, she would explore their surroundings with feline curiosity, investigating corners and chasing dust motes. Today, she stayed pressed against his leg, amber eyes scanning the room as if searching for threats.
"Your cat is... intense," observed a girl from the table across from theirs. She had auburn hair and freckles, and was watching Thalawen with interest.
"She's protective," Leizar replied, reaching down to stroke Thalawen's head. She leaned into the touch but didn't stop her vigilant observation of the room.
"Protective—statistical analysis confirms hypervigilant behavioral patterns," Severan murmured rapidly, low enough that only their table could hear. "Monitoring protocols active for all proximity encounters. Surveillance coefficient: one hundred percent."
It was true. When a boy from their Theoretical Magical Applications class had approached to ask about homework, Thalawen had positioned herself between him and Leizar, fur slightly bristled. When a servant had come to refill their water glasses, she had tracked his every movement with predatory focus.
"Maybe she doesn't like crowds," Raelith suggested, but his brown eyes were thoughtful as he watched the cat.
"Or maybe," Sylas said quietly, "she senses something we don't."
The words sent an odd chill down Leizar's spine, though he couldn't say why. The tonic had left him feeling more stable than he had in weeks. His shadow lay properly beneath him, responsive to his movements, no longer writhing with independent life. He should have felt relieved.
Instead, he found himself unconsciously echoing Thalawen's wariness, his gaze drifting around the Great Hall with new attention to the students and staff moving through the space. He noticed that while Luminari drifted freely around most tables, they kept a respectful distance from his own, their tiny forms hovering at the edges of the light cast by nearby candles, clearly sensing something that made them wary.
"Like what?" he asked.
Sylas was quiet for a moment, his seafoam eyes distant. "Change coming. The kind that can't be stopped, only... managed."
The cryptic response might have irritated Leizar under normal circumstances, but today it simply added to the sense of anticipation that seemed to thicken the air around their table. Even the other students seemed affected by it, voices slightly subdued, movements carrying an extra tension.
"We should head to class," Raelith said, standing and gathering his books. "Master Thorne doesn't appreciate tardiness."
WindRaven shouldered his bag carefully, making sure his mysterious object was secure. "I still can't get over what Severan said yesterday," he murmured to the group. "Incubation parameters. What if it really isn't just a rock?"
As they left the Great Hall, Thalawen fell into step beside Leizar with the precision of a trained guard, while WindRaven walked close enough that he could keep one protective hand on his bag. Her behavior was drawing looks from other students, whispers following in their wake.
"Current behavioral trajectory yields eighty-four percent probability of unwanted attention escalation," Severan calculated quickly.
"Good," Leizar found himself saying, surprising them all with the firmness in his voice. "Let them look."
It was an odd response, unlike his typically self-conscious nature. But something about the way Thalawen moved, the protective intensity of her presence, made him feel stronger. More confident.
More like someone who deserved to be protected.
Their first class of the day was Local Customs and Governance with Master Thorne, a woman with kind eyes and graying hair who had clearly spent years studying the communities surrounding the Academy. The classroom was bright and welcoming, with maps of the local region covering the walls and shelves lined with books about regional folklore.
"Today we'll be discussing Darrows Hollow," she began, pointing to a detailed map showing the town's layout. "Since many of you will be visiting there for supplies and services, it's important you understand the local customs and authorities."
She traced the main thoroughfares with her finger. "The town is governed by Mayor Aldwin Corven, a practical man who's served for nearly two decades. He's fair but protective of his people, especially lately." Her expression grew troubled. "The town has been dealing with some... concerning developments."
A girl in the front row raised her hand. "What kind of developments?"
Master Thorne hesitated, then seemed to decide on honesty. "Missing children. Ten total over the past several months. Young ones, between the ages of five and twelve. The constabulary has found no trace of them."
The classroom fell silent. Leizar felt something cold settle in his stomach, though he couldn't say why the news affected him so strongly.
"The townspeople have turned to their traditional protectors," Master Thorne continued. "They worship primarily Telaria, the goddess of order and protection, with shrines maintained by Father Matthias at the central chapel. There are also smaller shrines to the harvest deities and the smith-god Vaeleth, who watches over Flandis's forge."
She moved to a different map showing the religious sites. "When visiting the town, be respectful of local customs. Many residents carry small talismans blessed by Father Matthias, and it's considered polite to acknowledge the shrines with a brief bow if you pass them."
Severan raised his hand. "Have the disappearances affected local attitudes toward strangers?"
"Somewhat. The people of Darrows Hollow are naturally welcoming, but the missing children have made them more cautious. As Academy students, you'll likely be received well, but don't be surprised if parents keep their children close when you're around."
Master Thorne's expression grew even more somber. "I should mention that just yesterday morning, Mayor Corven sent word that another child has gone missing. The most recent victims include Clara Stanton, the eleven-year-old who sang in the church choir." Her voice caught slightly. "And just yesterday, little Lysa from the market square disappeared on her way home from school. Ten children total now. Their families are... devastated."
Leizar found himself gripping his pen so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The names echoed strangely in his mind, as if he'd heard them before, though he was certain he'd never visited the town until today.
Beside him, Thalawen had gone very still, her amber eyes fixed on Master Thorne with an intensity that seemed almost human. WindRaven had gone equally quiet, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by something more somber. He clutched his bag tighter, as if the discussion of missing children had triggered some protective instinct toward whatever he carried.
"The local constable, Roderick Ironwood, has requested that anyone with information about these disappearances come forward immediately," Master Thorne continued. "As Academy students, you represent our institution when you visit the town. Please keep your eyes and ears open, and report anything unusual to me or Master Pendacore."
The lesson continued with details about market customs, proper etiquette when dealing with craftspeople, and the significance of various local festivals. But Leizar found himself distracted, his attention drifting to the window and the road that led toward the town.
Somewhere out there, children had been vanishing without a trace. And something deep in his chest began to stir - a darkness that seemed to recognize the names, that wanted to remember things he couldn't quite grasp.
When the lesson ended, Master Thorne dismissed them with instructions to complete their reading assignments before their town visit. Students began filing out, chattering about their plans for the afternoon, but Leizar remained seated, staring at his notes without seeing them.
The names Clara and Lysa echoed in his mind with a familiarity that made his chest tighten.
Their next class was Dimensional Theory with Master Aldrich, a thin man with prematurely gray hair and the habit of gesturing wildly when explaining complex concepts. The classroom was arranged in tiered rows, ancient wooden desks scarred by generations of student carvings.
Leizar chose a seat in the middle tier, with Raelith on his left and Severan on his right. Sylas sat directly behind him, close enough that Leizar could sense his presence like a cool breeze at his back, while WindRaven took the seat to Sylas's left, carefully placing his bag on the floor where he could keep one foot against it. Thalawen settled herself at Leizar's feet, finally seeming to relax now that they were stationary and surrounded by his roommates.
"Today we'll be discussing the fundamental barriers between realms," Master Aldrich began, pulling down a detailed chart that showed overlapping circles connected by intricate lines. "Can anyone tell me why these barriers exist?"
Several hands shot up. Aldrich pointed to a girl in the front row with elaborate braids.
"To prevent contamination between different magical systems?"
"Close, but not quite complete. Anyone else?" His gaze swept the room and landed on Severan. "Mr. Severan?"
"Dimensional barrier function: cosmic order maintenance protocol," Severan replied, his bright sapphire eyes calculating. "Barrier collapse scenario results in chaos cascade effect, threatening stability across all connected dimensional matrices. Statistical probability of total system failure: ninety-seven point three percent."
"Excellent. Yes, dimensional barriers are essentially..." Aldrich launched into a detailed explanation of cosmic architecture that should have been fascinating, but Leizar found his attention drifting.
The tonic had settled his shadow magic, yes, but it had also left him feeling strangely disconnected from the academic discussions around him. The concepts felt abstract, theoretical, when part of him seemed to know they should feel immediate and personal.
"Mr. Blackthorne?"
Leizar snapped back to attention to find Master Aldrich looking at him expectantly. The entire class had turned to stare.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?"
"I asked if you could give us an example of what happens when dimensional barriers fail catastrophically."
The answer rose in his mind with disturbing clarity: *Reality unravels. The Pattern breaks. Every soul screams at once.* But those weren't his words, weren't his knowledge. He had no idea where they'd come from.
"I... I'm not sure," he said instead.
Master Aldrich frowned slightly, then moved on to another student. But Leizar caught Sylas leaning forward in his peripheral vision, heard the soft intake of breath that suggested recognition.
The rest of the class passed in a blur of technical discussions and theoretical frameworks. Leizar took notes dutifully, but his hand moved almost without conscious direction, filling pages with information he somehow already knew despite never having studied it.
When the bell chimed to signal the end of class, he looked down at his notes in confusion. The handwriting was his, but the content included details that Master Aldrich hadn't mentioned, connections between concepts that went far beyond the introductory level they were supposedly studying.
"Interesting notes," Severan observed, glancing over Leizar's shoulder as they packed their books.
"I don't remember writing most of this."
"The tonic," Sylas said quietly. "It's not just binding your shadow. It's... clarifying things. Removing barriers."
"What kind of barriers?" Leizar asked, but Sylas had already moved toward the door, leaving the question hanging in the air like smoke.
Their next class was Interdimensional Politics and Relations with Master Aldwyn, a distinguished man with a carefully groomed beard who spoke with the authority of someone who had spent decades studying the various realms.
"Today we'll be discussing the Fae Wild," he announced, pulling down a detailed map showing the ethereal realm's known territories. "One of the most misunderstood realms, largely due to the reputation of its ruler."
He pointed to an elaborate castle drawn at the center of the map. "The Fae Wild is ruled by King Elderak, a monarch known for his..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "ruthless protection of his people. Many scholars consider him one of the more dangerous rulers among the dimensional monarchies."
Leizar felt something stir in his chest, a flicker of... indignation?
"The King has twelve children," Master Aldwyn continued, "though little is known about them. Fae royalty tends to be secretive about their bloodlines, likely due to the King's paranoid nature. Historical accounts suggest he's willing to commit atrocities to protect his offspring, making diplomatic relations nearly impossible."
The words felt wrong, fundamentally incorrect in a way that made Leizar's teeth ache. Before he could stop himself, he was speaking.
"Fifteen children. Twelve boys." The correction came out sharp, certain. "And Elderak isn't evil."
The classroom fell silent. Master Aldwyn turned to look at him with raised eyebrows.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"King Elderak has fifteen children. Twelve boys, three girls," Leizar repeated, the details flowing from him with absolute certainty. "And he isn't evil. He's just... a protective father."
He spoke with such quiet conviction, such intimate knowledge, that several students turned to stare. The words had come from somewhere deep inside him, carrying a certainty that had nothing to do with textbook learning.
Master Aldwyn studied him for a long moment, his expression shifting from surprise to curiosity. "That's an... interesting perspective, Mr. Blackthorne. Have you had personal experience with Fae politics?"
"I..." Leizar faltered, suddenly uncertain. Where had that knowledge come from? Why did the name Elderak feel so familiar on his tongue? "I don't think so. It just... the way you described him doesn't seem right."
"Fascinating." Master Aldwyn made a note in his teaching ledger, his eyes never leaving Leizar's face. "We'll certainly explore different interpretations of Fae leadership styles as the semester progresses."
But the instructor's attention remained fixed on Leizar for the rest of the class, and when they were dismissed, he lingered at his desk, still making notes and glancing thoughtfully at the door through which Leizar had departed.
Their final class before lunch was Weapons and Combat with Master Kaelen, held in the Academy's training complex. The space was vast and practical, with polished wooden floors, mirrored walls, and racks of practice weapons arranged along the perimeter.
"Today we'll be doing initial assessments," Master Kaelen announced. He was a stocky man with graying temples and scars that spoke of extensive combat experience. "I need to understand your current skill levels before we can design proper training regimens."
Students began selecting practice weapons from the racks. Leizar found himself drawn to the bows, his hand closing around a recurved composite model that felt familiar in his grip. Beside him, Raelith chose a sword, while Severan selected an array of throwing knives. Sylas picked up a staff topped with a crystal that seemed to absorb light. WindRaven hesitated before finally selecting a simple wooden sword, though he kept glancing back toward his bag where he'd left it safely against the wall.
"These are practice weapons," Master Kaelen explained, moving through the room to observe their choices. "Designed to simulate combat without causing permanent harm. However, they will respond to your magical energy and fighting intent, so treat them with appropriate respect."
The first round of assessments went smoothly enough. Students demonstrated basic forms, showed their familiarity with their chosen weapons, and received initial feedback. Leizar's archery drew approving nods from Master Kaelen, though he noticed the instructor making detailed notes.
It was during the second round, when they were asked to demonstrate their weapons' interaction with their magic, that things went interesting.
Raelith's sword began to glow with warm golden light. Severan's knives left trails of shadow when thrown. Sylas's staff pulsed with dark energy that made the air around him shimmer like heat waves. WindRaven's wooden sword remained stubbornly mundane, though he wielded it with surprising competence for someone who claimed to have no combat training.
When it came to Leizar's turn, he deliberately avoided trying to channel any magic into his bow. Instead, he focused entirely on his father's lessons - stance, grip, draw, aim, release. The desperate concentration of someone trying to prove he could be normal, human, controllable.
The first arrow hit dead center. Then the second. Then the third.
By the fifth consecutive bullseye, the entire class had gone quiet, watching this display of purely mundane excellence from someone they'd expected to show magical prowess.
The training hall fell silent.
"Well," Master Kaelen said after a long moment. "That's... exceptional technique. Purely mundane, but exceptional."
But his eyes held curiosity rather than wariness as he made his notes. "Interesting approach, Mr. Blackthorne. Most students your age are eager to show off their magical abilities. You seem determined to avoid yours entirely."
"I think," the instructor continued, "you'd all benefit from a visit to the local weaponsmith. Quality equipment makes a significant difference, whether you're channeling magic or relying on pure skill."
"There's a blacksmith in the nearby town who specializes in both magical and conventional weaponry. High-quality work, very reliable." Master Kaelen glanced at the other four roommates. "All of you should probably visit him. Group assessment suggests you're all working above the level I initially expected."
"When would we go?" Raelith asked.
"This afternoon, if you're available. No point in delaying when we clearly need better equipment." Master Kaelen started gathering his notes. "Ask Master Pendacore for a travel pass. Tell him I recommended the visit."
As they left the training hall, Leizar felt a mixture of anticipation and unease. The day's classes had revealed capabilities he didn't remember having, power that felt both familiar and foreign. The tonic had stabilized his shadow, yes, but it had also unleashed something else.
"Probability matrices suggest fascinating outcome variables ahead," Severan murmured, his analysis rapid and excited as they walked toward the administrative offices.
Thalawen, who had watched the entire weapons demonstration from the sidelines, pressed closer to Leizar's leg. Her amber eyes held an expression he'd never seen before, something that looked almost like recognition.
Master Pendacore granted them a travel pass with surprising ease, barely glancing up from his paperwork as he signed the authorization. Within an hour, they were walking the road toward Darrows Hollow, their Academy uniforms drawing respectful nods from the few travelers they encountered.
The town appeared before them like something from a fairy tale, with its cobblestone streets and cheerful market stalls. They found Flandis's forge easily enough - the steady ring of hammer on metal and the glow of the furnace marked it clearly among the other shops.
"Welcome, Academy students," Flandis greeted them, wiping sweat from his brow with a leather apron. He was a broad man with kind eyes and the steady hands of a master craftsman. "Master Kaelen sent word you'd be coming. Looking for quality weapons, I take it?"
"Practice weapons, mostly," Raelith said, examining a rack of swords along the wall. "But well-made ones."
"Ah, you'll want these then." Flandis led them to a section of the forge where polished weapons gleamed in the firelight. "Sturdy construction, balanced for learning. Won't shatter in training, but won't bankrupt young purses either."
Leizar selected a well-balanced sword with a plain crossguard, testing its weight and grip. The blade felt familiar in his hands, comfortable. Raelith chose a simple longbow, testing its pull with practiced ease. Severan picked out a set of throwing knives, their edges keen but not ornate. Sylas found a staff topped with a crystal that seemed to absorb the forge's light. WindRaven selected a basic training sword, though he kept one hand on his bag throughout the process, protective instincts clearly still active.
"Good choices, all," Flandis nodded approvingly as he tallied their purchases. "These will serve you well in your studies."
They were concluding their business when the shouting began outside - voices raised in argument echoing off the stone buildings of the square.
The commotion drew them toward the forge's entrance. Voices raised in argument, the ring of steel, and underneath it all—something else. A thrumming in the air that made his teeth ache and his bones vibrate with a frequency that felt ancient, hungry.
The forge sat at the corner of the square like a mouth of hell, its stone chimney belching black smoke that stung the eyes and tasted of sulfur and old iron. The crowd pressed three deep around its open doors, their faces lit with the particular excitement that comes before violence—that twisted fascination with destruction that lurks in every human heart.
Merchants had abandoned their stalls to watch, leaving their goods unattended in a way that would have been unthinkable on any other day. Children perched on shoulders, their eyes wide with the innocent bloodlust of youth. Even Father Randell stood among them, his usual disapproval drowned beneath something that looked unsettlingly like hunger.
The crowd murmured and shifted, a living thing with its own pulse. Coins changed hands as bets were placed. Women whispered behind their hands while their eyes never left the forge's door. Men straightened their shoulders and flexed their hands, as if the promise of violence in the air had awakened something primal in their bones.
Leizar pushed his way through the crowd with his roommates, muttered complaints breaking off when people saw their Academy uniforms. They stepped aside quickly, uneasy without knowing why. Some crossed themselves. Others simply looked away.
Inside the forge, heat shimmered like liquid distortion, oppressive and close enough to choke on. The air itself seemed thick, viscous, as if the very atmosphere had been infected by the presence within.
The anvil glowed faintly, forgotten mid-work, its surface scarred by decades of honest labor. A rack of common swords lined the wall—plain, serviceable weapons that had served their purpose without complaint or hunger. They seemed almost quaint in comparison to what hung above them all.
The Blackened Blade.
It was no sword meant for daily battle, no mere tool of war. This was a two-handed broadsword that seemed to drink space itself—five feet of iron-black steel that existed like a void in the world's fabric.
The metal was dark beyond simple color, a black so complete it seemed to extend infinitely inward. Looking at it was like staring into the space between stars, where light went to die. The weight of it strained the iron hooks that held it, bending them slightly downward despite their obvious thickness.
Strange script curled along its fuller—not etched, but somehow grown from the metal itself. The characters shifted when viewed directly, writhing like living things. Ancient words in a language that predated human memory, spelling out truths that human minds weren't meant to comprehend.
Flandis stood before the blade like a guardian at the gates of hell, his broad chest heaving, rivers of sweat running down his soot-blackened face. His hammer-hand—steady enough to shape steel with the precision of a surgeon—trembled like a leaf in a storm.
"I'm telling you for the last time, don't touch that blade!" His voice cracked with desperation, echoing off the forge's stone walls. "It's not for sale. It never has been. It never will be."
"Don't touch?" The challenger laughed, but the sound was wrong—too harsh, too sharp. He was built like a siege engine, all corded muscle and scarred knuckles. Garrett, they called him. A mercenary from the southern campaigns, where men learned to take what they wanted and ask questions of the corpses.
"You display it like a trophy but won't sell it? What kind of blacksmith are you?" His voice carried the particular arrogance of a man who'd never encountered a problem he couldn't solve with violence.
The crowd pressed closer, drawn by the promise of confrontation. Their whispers filled the air like the buzzing of angry wasps.
Garrett took a step forward, eyes locked on the blade. "Look at it," he breathed. "You can feel it. That's not decoration. That's power."
His companion tugged his arm. "Garrett. We should go. I don't like it."
But Garrett shoved him off. "By law, any displayed weapon can be examined by a customer. You can't stop me from looking at it."
Flandis's shoulders sagged. "I can warn you. I have warned you. What happens next is your choice."
Behind the anvil, the forge sat unattended except for Flandis himself. Tools lay scattered across the workspace, evidence of interrupted labor.
Garrett shoved past the blacksmith with casual brutality. Flandis stumbled backward, his protests dying in his throat as inevitability settled over the forge like a shroud.
Garrett's scarred fingers stretched toward the hilt, and the moment they entered the blade's sphere of influence, the world changed. The air grew thick as honey, heavy with potential. Temperature dropped ten degrees in an instant, turning everyone's breath to mist. The forge's fire flickered and dimmed, as if something was drawing its heat into itself.
Every Luminari in the square simply vanished. The tiny creatures that had been drifting peacefully around the market stalls, drawn to acts of kindness and generosity, fled so completely it was as if they had never existed. Their sudden absence left a hollow feeling in the air, like a song cut off mid-note.
The crowd shifted uneasily, parents instinctively pulling children closer. Dogs throughout the square began to howl, a mournful sound that seemed to come from their very souls.
His fingertips brushed the leather grip, and the world held its breath. For one perfect moment, silence reigned absolute. Then Garrett's fingers closed around the hilt, and reality screamed.
The sword came free of its mount with a sound like tearing silk.
The crowd followed like moths to flame, forming a ring on the cobblestones. Mothers pulled children back with trembling hands, but their eyes remained fixed on the spectacle. No one could look away. No one wanted to.
Garrett hefted the blade with both hands, and for a moment his grin was triumphant. "Now this—this is a weapon worthy of me."
The weight should have been impossible, yet it seemed to float in Garrett's grip, eager, cooperative. His companion had gone white as bone. "Garrett, put it back. Please. Something's wrong."
But Garrett wasn't listening. His eyes had taken on a glassy quality. "Wrong? It's perfect. Alive. Hungry. And it's been waiting for me."
He swung it once, experimental. The air didn't whistle—it screamed. The blade left a trail of darkness in its wake, a scar across reality that took long seconds to fade.
"Test of blood!" Garrett roared, shoving his companion into guard position. "Come on, Thomas! Let's see what this beauty can do!"
Thomas raised his sword with shaking hands—good steel, honest metal. Their blades met with a sound that was not steel on steel. It was a lock turning. A door opening. A cage splitting wide.
Thomas's sword—tempered steel that had turned aside killing blows—shattered like glass. The fragments tinkled to the cobblestones, already rusting as they fell.
And then the feeding began.
It started slowly, almost gently. Garrett screamed—not in pain, but in understanding that came too late. The blade moved on its own now, twisting in his grip like a living serpent, its leather hilt fusing to his flesh with wet, organic sounds.
"I can't let go!" he shrieked. "It won't let me go!"
Black veins spread up his arms like infection. Blood first. The blade drank with visible hunger, the ancient script flaring brighter as Garrett's life poured into it. His skin grew pale, then translucent.
Then muscle. His arms began to shrink as if the flesh was being wrung out like water from cloth. His chest collapsed inward, ribs pressing against his tunic like bars of a cage that held nothing.
"Help me," he wheezed, but his voice was barely a whisper now.
No one moved. They were trapped by horror, yes, but also by fascination. The same morbid curiosity that makes men stare at roadside gallows.
Garrett's scream dwindled as his throat dried into cords and sinew. His jaw unhinged with a wet, tearing sound, teeth chattering loose to scatter across the cobblestones like cursed dice.
The feeding crescendoed, the blade's glow reaching painful intensity. Garrett's body jerked and twitched as the last of his essence was drawn out, until nothing remained but a scarecrow of cloth wrapped around desiccated bones.
Even that lasted only moments. With a sound like autumn leaves crumbling, the corpse collapsed. Cloth fell away from bones that were already dust, scattering in patterns that hurt to look at.
At last, there was nothing but empty clothes and a small pile of ash. The sword clattered free onto the stones, the metal still warm, still pulsing with satisfied red glow. Fed. Content. Waiting.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The square erupted. People ran, screaming, trampling one another in their panic to escape. Within minutes, the square stood nearly empty. Only six remained in the circle of scattered ash—Leizar, Raelith, Severan, Sylas, WindRaven, and Flandis, whose weathered face had aged a decade. WindRaven had gone pale as bone, clutching his bag protectively against his chest as if whatever he carried might somehow be affected by the soul-eating blade's presence.
"I tried to warn him," Flandis said hoarsely. "They never listen."
The sword lay on the cobblestones, no longer glowing but somehow still wrong. Steam rose from the metal—not heat, but something else.
Leizar stepped forward. Every instinct screamed warnings, but his feet carried him anyway. His hand reached down, drawn by a pull he couldn't name or resist.
His fingers closed around the hilt of Alerath.
Every precedent demanded that death follow that touch.
Instead, the great blade settled into his grip like it had been waiting for him alone. Five feet of shadowed steel, perfectly balanced despite its obvious mass. The weight that had strained iron hooks felt natural, comfortable.
The leather grip was warm against his palm, not with heat but with something more intimate—body temperature, as if it were part of him returning home.
Flandis staggered backward. "You don't fear it? After what you just witnessed?"
Leizar lifted the blade, testing its weight. "Fear is often a lack of understanding. You warned him. His ignorance got the lesson of his life."
The words felt strange on his tongue, too old, too knowing.
"Who is the rightful wielder of Alerath?" Leizar asked, the name coming unbidden.
He held out the blade—hilt in his right palm, blade resting in his left.
Flandis watched him for a moment, then carefully took the blade. As he lifted it away, the steel slid across Leizar's palm, opening a thin line of crimson.
The moment the blood touched the metal, everything changed.
The runes along the blade's edge flared to life—not with sickly phosphorescence, but with something warmer, more welcoming. A light that spoke of recognition, of completion. The ancient script writhed with what looked almost like joy.
Sylas, who had been standing with the group, stepped closer to Leizar, his seafoam eyes fixed on him with sudden, intense recognition.
"Raziel," he whispered, barely audible above the murmur of the dispersing crowd.
Leizar turned, confused. "What?"
Raelith crossed his arms and smirked, emerald eyes dancing with amusement. "This just got interesting."
Severan's bright sapphire eyes went wide, calculations spinning rapidly behind them. "Statistical probability matrices... realigning. Identity confirmation coefficient: ninety-seven point eight percent. Historical patterns suggest..." His voice dropped to an awed whisper. "Oh my god, that's why you defended King Elderak in—"
"Severan," Raelith cut him off sharply, his smirk fading into something more serious. "Not here."
Sylas studied Leizar intently, as if seeing him clearly for the first time. "Nothing. Just... thinking out loud."
"I have no idea what any of you are talking about," Leizar said, genuinely confused by his roommates' strange behavior. "That was... educational, but I think we should get going."
Flandis wrapped Leizar's cut hand with surprising gentleness, his expression troubled but not entirely unsurprised. As he worked, both Sylas and Severan moved closer to Leizar, studying him with new intensity.
"We should go," Raelith said quietly, glancing around the now-empty square. "This has been... educational... for all of us."
As they gathered their purchases, simple, practical weapons that seemed mundane after the drama with Alerath, Leizar caught Sylas watching him with those strange pale eyes. There was knowledge there now, recognition of something that went far deeper than roommate familiarity.
Walking back toward the Academy, Thalawen pressed against his leg with renewed intensity, as if she too understood that something fundamental had changed. Behind them, smoke rose from Flandis's forge in thick, dark columns, carrying away the last traces of Garrett Whitmore's existence.
And in Leizar's bandaged palm, the cut from Alerath's blade throbbed with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat, as if the sword had marked him for something he wasn't yet ready to understand.