Loud footsteps echoed down the dimly lit corridor, heavy boots striking against the stone floor with urgency. The infirmary doors burst open, swinging wildly as two guards stormed in, carrying Shinjiro between them. His body hung limp, his breathing shallow, his skin unnaturally pale.

  The cultists inside the infirmary, dressed as humble healers, turned in surprise—at least, that’s how they made it seem. A flicker of something passed between them, a silent understanding masked beneath their feigned panic. They rushed forward, their robes rustling as they moved, hands already reaching for jars of dried herbs and mortar and pestle.

  Cultist 1: (voice trembling with forced concern) He’s in bad shape. We’ll do everything we can.

  The guards, unshaken, merely nodded, placing Shinjiro carefully onto a wooden cot. They stood still for a moment before giving each other a glance, then, without another word, turned on their heels and exited. They didn’t need to speak—their training demanded silence unless addressed by a superior.

  As the doors shut behind them, the air in the infirmary grew tense. One of the cultists, a man with sharp eyes and a clenched jaw, stepped closer to the unconscious Shinjiro. He examined him carefully, his fingers hovering over his chest as if feeling for something unseen.

  Cultist 1: (low, urgent) Look at him. The memory seal… it’s breaking.

  The second cultist’s face darkened as he moved to the bedside, his fingers trailing over Shinjiro’s forehead. Aether pulsed faintly beneath his skin, flickering like embers beneath dying ash.

  Cultist 2: (whispering) The Aether is reacting to him.

  Cultist 1: (gritting his teeth) We need to kill him.

  Cultist 2: (sharp) Are you insane? We were ordered to repair the seal, not to get rid of him.

  Cultist 1: (voice shaking with restrained anger) We can’t afford another one like him.

  Cultist 2: (glancing away, uncertain) Vulcan?

  Cultist 1: (grimly) You know what happened last time. I won’t risk it.

  The second cultist swallowed, a cold weight settling in his stomach. He couldn’t deny the fear gnawing at his insides, but orders were orders. He steeled himself and shot the other a glare.

  Cultist 2: (low, firm) If we sabotage this, everything we’ve worked for could fall apart. If the Aetherblades realize what we are, it won’t just be us—our entire network will burn.

  Their eyes met, a silent battle waging between duty and fear. Finally, the first cultist exhaled sharply and pulled a thin, ritualistic dagger from within his robes. He pressed the tip to his finger, slicing it just enough to let a single drop of blood fall onto Shinjiro’s skin.

  Cultist 1: (murmuring) Fine. Let’s fix the seal.

  They began their incantation, voices whispering in the ancient tongue. The air in the room thickened, growing colder as unseen forces stirred. Shinjiro’s breathing steadied, his heartbeat slowing into a rhythmic pulse. The feverish heat in his body cooled as the seal was forcefully mended, suppressing whatever fragment of memory threatened to resurface.

  Then—knocking.

  Both cultists stiffened.

  Rose’s voice filtered through the thick wooden door, light but insistent.

  Rose: Excuse me? Is Shinjiro here?

  Cultist 2: (eyes widening, whispering) What do we do?

  Cultist 1: (hushed, urgent) Stall her. Distract her for a few minutes. The ritual is almost done.

  One of them rushed to the door, cracking it open just enough to peer outside. Rose stood there, arms crossed, her brows furrowed slightly in concern. The flickering torchlight in the hallway caught the softness of her face, but her expression was unwavering.

  Cultist 2: (clearing his throat) What is your purpose here? Are you sick?

  Rose: (blinking) No, I just came to check on my friend.

  Cultist 2: (nodding quickly) He’s being treated right now. You’ll be glad to hear that he’s stable.

  Rose: (relieved) That’s good to hear. Can I see him?

  Cultist 2: (shaking his head) Not at the moment. His body is adjusting to Aether energy. If you disturb the process, it could set back his recovery.

  Rose frowned, tilting her head slightly. Something about this didn’t sit right with her.

  Rose: (quietly) …That doesn’t sound right.

  Cultist 2: (firmly) You wouldn’t want to risk harming him, would you?

  Rose hesitated, biting her lip. She didn’t like this. Something was off. But she had no choice but to nod, taking a slow step back.

  Rose: (softly) Alright.

  The cultist quickly shut the door before she could ask anything else.

  Rose lingered for a moment, staring at the door. Then she turned on her heel and strode down the corridor, her heart unsettled.

  She found Donius Marshall exactly where she expected him—in the library. The room was silent except for the faint crackle of a candle’s flame, the scent of old parchment and ink hanging in the air. The instructor sat hunched over a thick tome, flipping through its pages with the ease of someone who had spent decades among books.

  Rose: (softly) Instructor?

  Donius glanced up, his eyes settling on her as he snapped the book shut and placed it gently on the table.

  Donius: (flatly) What brings you here?

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  Rose hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward.

  Rose: Shinjiro passed out earlier. He’s in the infirmary now.

  Donius: (raising an eyebrow) Yes, I heard.

  Rose: (firmly) Something feels wrong.

  Donius: (calmly) And what makes you say that?

  Rose: The man I spoke to—he seemed… different. He wasn’t the old physician I remember.

  Donius’s fingers tapped once against the cover of his book. His expression didn’t shift, but Rose noticed the slight way his shoulders tensed.

  Donius: (murmuring) Interesting.

  He stood, brushing the dust off his robes.

  Donius: Come with me.

  They walked together in silence. By the time they reached the infirmary, the cultists had finished their work. The old physician stood near a wooden counter, methodically crushing herbs, the scent of neem and cinnamon filling the air. He turned as Donius entered, his face calm, aged but kind.

  Physician: Ah, Donius. You arrived quicker than I expected.

  Rose’s heart skipped a beat. This was the same voice from before—but now, without the mask.

  The physician continued, completely unbothered.

  Physician: I was about to send word for you, but it seems the young lady beat me to it. She was here earlier, asking about the boy.

  Rose: (slowly) …Yeah. I guess I was.

  She frowned. Had she really imagined it?

  Donius: And his condition?

  Physician: He is fine now. His Aether has stabilized, but he needs rest.

  Donius sighed, rubbing his temple.

  Donius: The trainees are leaving with the Masters soon.

  Rose: (immediately) I can stay behind.

  Donius: (thoughtful) That may pose a problem.

  Physician: (nodding) From what I heard, Iris is staying behind for a while. You could entrust him with the boy and this young lady.

  Donius considered it for a long moment before finally giving a small nod.

  Donius: I will speak with him.

  Rose didn’t say anything. But as she glanced one last time at Shinjiro. The old physician left the room with Donius.

  Then came the silence.

  No wind. No rustling leaves. No distant howls of wolves or chirping insects. The world held its breath.

  And then, as if nature itself could no longer contain the dread—it began.

  A wretched cry tore through the air, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of those who heard it. A horse reared violently in the stables, its eyes wide with terror, foam dripping from its mouth as if it had been poisoned by the very air. Crows circled aimlessly before crashing into the ground, their bodies twitching, wings flapping uselessly against the dirt.

  A woman screamed. Then another. Then more.

  The streets of Lennox erupted into chaos as livestock collapsed where they stood, eyes rolling back, legs twitching in death. Dogs whimpered and crawled under carts, their tails tucked, their bodies trembling as if sensing something unseen. A merchant dropped his basket of fruit, his hands shaking as the apples rolled into the dirt, forgotten.

  "What’s happening?!" A man clutched his chest, staggering back.

  "It’s the blood moon!" someone cried.

  "Gods have cursed us!"

  Lightning ripped through the sky, illuminating the terrified faces of the townspeople. Thunder roared so loud it felt as if the heavens themselves were splitting apart. The wind returned in a violent gust, tearing through banners and ripping rooftops from homes. Rain followed, but it was thick, heavy, and wrong—falling in slow, dense sheets as if the sky itself bled alongside the moon.

  Inside the infirmary, Rose turned her head toward the window, watching the madness unfold. Her breath hitched.

  "Something’s not right," she whispered.

  The old physician's hands trembled over the herbal mixture he was preparing. His usual steady demeanor was gone. Even Donius Marshall, usually unreadable, had a flicker of unease in his eyes.

  "This... this isn't natural," Donius murmured, stepping toward the window.

  Outside, people ran for shelter. Some fell to their knees, praying to gods who would not answer. The royal guards tried to contain the panic, shouting orders, but they themselves were shaken.

  Then, in the distance, past the outer gates of Lennox, past the farmlands and hills—something moved. A figure, standing still in the storm, its presence unnatural. Watching. Waiting.

  A cold shiver ran down Rose’s spine.

  Whatever was happening—it had only just begun.

  Rose sat beside the bed, arms crossed, staring at Shinjiro’s unconscious face. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his expression unnervingly peaceful despite everything that had happened. The candle beside her flickered, its glow barely pushing back the shadows crawling up the infirmary walls.

  She exhaled through her nose, shifting in her chair. She wasn’t sure why she was even here. She didn’t know him—not really. They had barely spoken, exchanged only a few words since the trials began. Yet, here she was, watching over him like it meant something.

  Rose: (muttering) This is stupid.

  The rain outside hammered against the roof, the wind howling as if the world itself was screaming. Thunder rumbled in the distance, shaking the glass panes of the infirmary windows. Everything outside was chaos, but here, he just slept through it. Unaware. Detached. It pissed her off for some reason.

  Rose: You’re lucky, you know. Sleeping through all of this.

  She leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on her knees. The room was too quiet, save for the storm outside and the occasional crackle of the candlewick. She hated silence. It let her think too much.

  Her gaze dropped back to him. The way his face looked—pale, drained—it reminded her too much of something she didn’t want to remember.

  Rose: (softly) I know that look.

  She clenched her fist in her lap, her nails digging into her palm. She’d worn that same expression before. When she woke up in a bed just like this, staring at a ceiling she didn’t recognize, feeling like a part of her had been ripped away. She knew what it was like—to lose everything, to have no idea what the hell to do next.

  Rose: (quietly) It doesn’t go away.

  She swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat down. This wasn’t about her. She had no reason to be here.

  But…

  Rose: (muttering) I get it.

  Her fingers tapped restlessly against her arm. She didn’t expect him to wake up and hear her, but maybe, if he did—maybe it would mean something.

  Rose: I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I know how it feels. The emptiness. The anger.

  Her jaw tightened. She hated talking like this. She wasn’t the kind of person who spilled her feelings to a stranger, let alone someone who couldn’t even respond.

  Rose: (clearing her throat) Anyway. Get better soon or something.

  She pushed herself up, brushing off her coat. She hesitated for a moment, looking at him one last time.

  Rose: Don’t let it eat you up.

  The door creaked open behind her. Rose turned her head slightly, catching the silhouette of the old physician stepping inside, his robes trailing against the stone floor. The scent of herbal medicine clung to him, strong enough to overpower the lingering dampness of the storm outside.

  Old Physician: (softly) You’re still here?

  Rose: (glancing back at Shinjiro) I was just leaving.

  The old man nodded, stepping closer to the bedside. His tired eyes swept over Shinjiro, checking his pulse with practiced ease, his fingers lightly pressing against the boy’s wrist.

  Old Physician: His condition is stable now. The worst has passed.

  Rose said nothing. She already knew that. She had been watching him breathe for what felt like forever.

  The old physician turned to her, studying her for a moment longer than she liked.

  Old Physician: (calmly) You care for him?

  Rose: (scoffing) I don’t even know him.

  The physician hummed in response, clearly unconvinced but wise enough not to push further.

  Old Physician: (quietly) Sometimes, we don’t need to know someone to recognize their pain.

  Rose’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. She hated that he was right.

  Rose: (flatly) Whatever. He’s not my problem.

  She turned toward the door, pushing it open just enough to let the cold air brush against her face. Before stepping out, she cast one last look at Shinjiro, still unmoving, his face lost in a sleep that seemed almost too deep.

  With that, she left, the door shutting behind her, sealing the silence inside.

  The infirmary settled into an eerie stillness. The old physician worked quietly, crushing herbs into a fine powder, the rhythmic grinding filling the space. The dim candlelight flickered against the walls, shadows stretching unnaturally, moving in ways they shouldn’t.

  Shinjiro’s breathing remained steady, but something was off. The air inside the room thickened, like the weight of something unseen pressing down. The faint scent of herbs was drowned by something else—something metallic, something cold.

  Beyond the infirmary walls, the storm raged on. The wind howled through the cracks, carrying whispers that didn’t belong to the wind. In the far distance, past the mountains, beyond where human eyes could see, something stirred.

  Something ancient. Something waiting.