Chapter 19

  The Study Hall was quieter than usual. With midterms fast approaching, most students buried themselves in books or notes, whispering softly, their voices carrying only the weight of stress and last-minute cramming.

  Ren sat near the back, his notebook open, the pages filled with layers of sketched sigils. He traced over the same faint, irregular lines again and again with his pencil, biting the inside of his cheek. The lines didn’t belong. They weren’t part of the standard formations, yet they repeated in every diagram the Academy provided.

  He’d tried every logical explanation: stylistic marks, calibration guides, even potential mana stabilizers. But they didn’t function that way. They were too deliberate. Too uniform.

  He was close to giving up for the night when two students entered, their hushed voices cutting through the heavy silence. Both wore the fine, ornate uniforms that marked them as upper-year nobles. Ren recognized one immediately. Princess Lyra, daughter of Duke Farrow — a major vassal to the Empire. She sat with her friend two tables down, clearly assuming no one around them was paying attention.

  Ren kept his head down, pretending to focus on his notes, but every word they spoke filtered into his ears with clarity.

  “I still think you’re crazy for even mentioning it out loud,” the friend whispered.

  Lyra glanced around and lowered her voice further, but Ren still caught every word.

  “I only told you because you’ve been working with high-tier formations. You deserve to know. The Academy spells… they’re not just spells.”

  Her friend frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Lyra hesitated, her voice a whisper so faint Ren had to strain to catch it.

  “There’s a hidden structure woven into every standardized academy sigil. My father told me. Only certain noble families know.”

  Her friend blinked, clearly confused. “A hidden structure? What does it do?”

  Lyra shook her head. “No one knows for certain. But my father said the Empire designed it… a failsafe. A control mechanism.”

  Ren’s pulse spiked.

  Lyra continued. “The tiny lines — they aren’t mistakes. They’re fragments of a larger imperial formation. Supposedly, if all students use Academy-standard sigils, their magic is always connected to this formation. It allows the Empire to… monitor things. Possibly more.”

  Her friend looked pale. “That’s—”

  “I know,” Lyra said quickly. “It’s dangerous to even talk about it. But you should be careful. If someone sees you trying to alter those lines, it won’t end well.”

  Her friend glanced nervously around the hall.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” Lyra muttered. “Forget it. Please.”

  The two of them quickly packed their things and left the hall without another word.

  Ren sat frozen in place, heart pounding in his ears.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  A control mechanism. A failsafe built into every spell taught here.

  He slowly closed his notebook.

  For weeks, he’d thought he was discovering a hidden wonder. But now… he realized he’d been walking on a knife’s edge without knowing it.

  He couldn’t breathe for a moment. His instincts screamed at him to leave this mystery alone. To focus on his exams, his training, the tournament.

  But curiosity burned hotter than fear.

  He swallowed hard and left the Study Hall soon after, his mind racing. The corridors felt unusually silent, the flickering crystal lamps lining the hallways casting long, uncertain shadows. His thoughts tangled and twisted, each new theory more dangerous than the last.

  He turned the corner toward the dormitory wing—

  And froze.

  Down the hall, just outside the eastern courtyard archway, stood Instructor Bernard. But not the kindly, measured professor Ren had come to respect. He wore a dark cloak, the hood shadowing most of his face, though Ren recognized the man's profile instantly.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Four men surrounded him, their faces hidden beneath heavy masks, their presences oppressive and suffocating. Even from this distance, Ren felt their auras pressing against his chest like lead. Dark, heavy mana leaked off them in faint ripples, too well-controlled to alert others, but more than enough to make Ren’s instincts scream danger.

  Beneath the archway, half-shrouded by shadows and cloaked in midnight blue, stood Instructor Bernard. His posture was tense, arms hidden beneath his cloak, head slightly bowed. But he wasn’t alone.

  Four men surrounded him. Their faces were obscured by dark masks marked with unfamiliar symbols, but their presence was suffocating. The sheer weight of their auras made the air heavy and cold, as though the world itself had gone still.

  One of them spoke, voice low and sharp.

  “You’ve allowed the boy too close to the truth, Bernard.”

  Bernard’s voice was calm but clipped, like a man balancing on a knife’s edge. “I’ve guided him away. He’s just curious — nothing more.”

  The tallest figure stepped forward. His aura felt like frost and stone, ancient and unyielding. “Curiosity becomes danger. If he unravels the pattern, we will hold you accountable.”

  Bernard’s jaw tightened, just barely visible in the moonlight. “I understand.”

  But something was wrong.

  Ren’s eyes narrowed.

  Bernard’s stance… it wasn’t defensive or fearful. It was careful. Too careful. His eyes didn’t flicker with worry — they gleamed with calculation.

  The men spoke of allowing Ren too close. But Bernard… he wasn’t denying it.

  He was hiding.

  He’s the one pulling me into this, Ren realized with a jolt of cold clarity. He’s been steering me toward the hidden lines. Toward the forbidden formation.

  The masked figures stepped back into the shadows, dissolving into thin air with unnatural silence. The oppressive aura vanished.

  Bernard stood alone.

  And then, without turning around, his voice carried softly across the courtyard:

  “You’re quite talented at being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Ren.”

  Ren’s blood ran cold. He ducked back around the corner, heart pounding.

  Ren stumbled back a step, heart pounding, but before he could turn, something subtle and small brushed against his coat.

  A slight weight.

  He looked down. A folded scrap of parchment had been slipped into his pocket.

  His breath caught in his throat. He spun on his heel, practically running back to the dorms, each footstep sounding too loud in his ears.

  When he finally burst into his room, he slammed the door shut, bolted it, and sat at his desk with shaking hands. He carefully unfolded the paper.

  Strange symbols greeted him first — runes, but unlike anything he had seen in the Academy’s libraries. They swirled and bent in impossible angles, their lines thicker, darker, almost alive. It felt like they pulsed faintly against his fingertips.

  Beneath the runes, a single line of text written in elegant black ink.

  Obsidian Hall wants you.