The Obsidian Spire clawed at the sky, its jagged peak swallowing the dawn. The air hummed with latent magic, thick and oppressive. Liam trailed Adrian through the bone-white courtyard, where statues of former students stood frozen mid-scream, their agony carved into permanence.

  “Ignore the theatrics,” Adrian said, his voice smooth as ever. “The Spire feeds on fear.”

  Liam swallowed hard. The statues weren’t just warnings; they were echoes of failures, reminders of those who had come before and never left. He resisted the urge to glance at them for too long, afraid they might move.

  Inside, the walls pulsed with something almost alive. Shadows stretched unnaturally, breathing with each step. The corridors twisted, shifting like veins within a living body. A voice slithered into Liam’s mind, sibilant and genderless, wrapping around his thoughts like a noose.

  “Convergence… delicious…”

  Liam shuddered, pressing his temples. The voice wasn’t his own, nor was it entirely separate.

  Adrian’s cane struck stone, the sharp sound like a thunderclap. “He’s mine, Spire. Save your hunger for lesser blood.”

  The presence withdrew, though the air still crackled with unseen eyes. They descended deeper, past halls lined with flickering runes, until they reached a massive circular chamber. The floor shimmered with ever-shifting runes that bled black ichor, whispering unintelligible curses.

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  Adrian tossed Liam a training sword. “First lesson: magic is deception. Survive the next hour, and you’ll understand.”

  Before Liam could react, the floor beneath him melted away.

  He plummeted into darkness.

  Cold swallowed him whole before he landed knee-deep in murky swamp water. The air smelled of rot and decay. Liam’s breath came fast and ragged as glowing eyes blinked open in the fog. Wraiths, their forms flickering between human and beast, circled him in silence.

  Adrian’s voice echoed through the abyss. “Control without force. Flow like the tide, strike like the storm.”

  Liam’s first instinct was to release his mana in a wild surge. Light flared from his hands, shattering the nearest wraiths—but with them, the chamber itself convulsed. Energy feedback lashed through him like a whip, sending him sprawling. A distant scream—Amara’s—ripped through his mind.

  The Spire was testing him. Using his fears against him.

  Adapt.

  Liam forced himself to breathe, to think. Wild strength would only turn the Spire against him. He sheathed his sword, letting the weight anchor him, and thought back to Mara’s lessons in herb-weaving. Magic need not be a hammer. Sometimes, it was a whisper.

  He reached out—not with force, but with intent. Gentle threads of water mana coiled around the wraiths, dissolving them into mist. The darkness recoiled, shifting, retreating.

  The scene changed. The swamp melted away, reshaping itself into a sunlit meadow, a near-perfect replica of home. The brook gurgled softly, the air filled with the scent of wildflowers. Amara sat by the water’s edge, her silk-wrapped palm unguarded, the Mark exposed.

  “Stay with us,” a voice called—Mara’s, warm and loving. “Forget the Spire.”

  Liam’s chest ached. It felt so real. The urge to run to them, to escape the nightmare, clawed at him.

  Then he noticed the brook.

  It flowed uphill.

  “Nice try,” he muttered, closing his fists. Power surged, shattering the illusion like glass. The meadow twisted into oblivion, leaving behind the cold, unyielding walls of the Spire.

  Above him, Adrian stood at the edge of the now-restored arena, his eyes gleaming with cold approval. “You begin to see.”