As Elyon made his way to his next class, his mind remained clouded with unease. The mystery of the missing student gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to let go. The corridors of the academy, usually filled with chatter and movement, felt unusually quiet—too quiet.
He moved past rows of ornate doors, each leading to lecture halls, offices, or forgotten corners of the institution. As he rounded a bend, he passed one particular door, slightly ajar. Just as he was about to continue walking, a sudden burst of shouting made him stop in his tracks.
A man's voice, furious and trembling, erupted from within.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE IS DEAD?!"
Elyon's heart jumped. He stepped back toward the door, now alert, his curiosity overtaken by concern. Slowly, cautiously, he leaned in and pressed his ear to the cold wooden surface.
Another voice responded, calmer, more controlled—clearly trying to manage the situation.
"We… we apologize for your loss, Count Dark. But your son's body was found in a state beyond saving. From the condition of the wounds, it is evident he was murdered by—"
The first man cut him off, his rage now volcanic.
"YOU'RE ALL WORTHLESS! How are we supposed to place our trust in this academy if you can't even protect our children?!"
"What kind of institution is this?!"
There was a heavy pause, filled only by the muffled sound of footsteps and shifting fabric. Elyon held his breath. He recognized that name—Count Dark. One of the noble familys in Liria . His presence here meant this was no ordinary death.
The calm man spoke again, this time with a slight tremor in his voice.
"We understand your anger, Count. And we're taking this very seriously. We have a lead on the killer. So far… the evidence points to one of the students."
Elyon froze.
One of the students?
He pulled away from the door, his pulse quickening. The corridors suddenly felt heavier, as if the walls themselves were closing in. He took a step back, unsure whether to report what he had heard—or to keep listening.
'IF THESE STUDENTS ARE THE ONES RESPONSIBLE FOR KILLING MY SON, I WANT THEM HANGED'
Then, another voice—familiar but muffled—spoke in protest.
''Sir, please. We can't punish any random student. We must find concrete evidence of who did it."
"Fine," the count growled. "But if you don't do something about this... I will."
The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the sound of approaching footsteps. Elyon's eyes widened in alarm. He stepped back and quickly pressed himself against the stone wall beside the door, holding his breath.
The door creaked open. A tall man stormed out, not noticing the boy crouched just to his right. Elyon watched him go. He had sharp features, a broad build, brown hair pulled back into a tight tail, and a thick brown beard. His eyes blazed with fury. Elyon didn't need to be told who he was—that was Count Dark.
As the man disappeared down the hallway, Elyon thought to himself, This has to be connected to the missing student... it has to be.
Before he could move, a hand rested firmly on his shoulder. Elyon nearly jumped from the cold touch. Panic surged through him. He slowly turned, expecting punishment—or worse.
Behind him stood Headmaster Kaelen, a composed figure with silver hair pulled into a tight knot, and eyes like pale sapphires—piercing, but calm.
''Oh? What are you doing here, young man?" the headmaster asked with a faint smile. "You should be heading to your next class."
His tone was measured, almost pleasant. But his gaze lingered too long to be casual.
''S-sorry, Headmaster," Elyon stammered. "I was just on my way."
"Mmm." Kaelen stepped aside. "Then don't let me stop you."
Elyon nodded and briskly walked away—not quite running, but clearly eager to escape. As he disappeared down the corridor, Kaelen watched him with narrowed eyes and murmured to himself:
"He truly is the spitting image..."
Elyon turned the corner and finally exhaled.
"Phew… That was a close one."
He spotted his classroom door just ahead and slipped inside.
The room was nearly full, students chatting in clusters or quietly reviewing notes. The teacher had yet to arrive. Elyon scanned the room and spotted Luke, his best friend, waving from a bench near the back. Elyon made his way over and dropped into the seat beside him.
"Hey," Luke said. "What took you so long?"
"Got a little… distracted," Elyon replied, his voice lower than usual.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
Luke nodded, then pointed to a colorful poster pinned beside the desk.
"Check this out. The Serpent's Way Labyrinth Tournament is coming up!"
Elyon leaned closer. The poster was gilded in green and silver ink, showing a coiling serpent wrapped around a massive underground structure.
"Serpent's Way?" Elyon asked. "What's that?"
"It's a massive labyrinth underneath Starfall Academy. Originally used for material gathering and monster research. Now it hosts tournaments—and they're huge."
"Sounds intense."
"It is! This year's prizes are insane. First place gets crowned top student in the academy gets 5,000 gold, and gets to choose a monolith to gain a new sigil."
"That's… a lot."
"Exactly! I'm thinking of entering."
"Really?" Elyon raised an eyebrow. "You do realize those kinds of prizes will bring in serious competition, right?"
Luke grinned.
"Guess I'll just have to crush them."
Elyon chuckled and thought to himself, He's way too confident sometimes…
Just then, the classroom door opened. The room hushed.
A woman stepped inside, her presence commanding immediate attention. She was tall, with smooth obsidian skin and flowing white hair woven into an intricate braid. Her eyes were a vivid violet, glowing faintly. She wore a long black coat trimmed in silver, and leather boots that echoed softly on the stone floor.
"Good morning, class," she said with a voice like cold velvet. "I am Miss Lila Vernel. I will be your history instructor for this term."
She set a large tome on the desk with a resonant thud.
"We will begin not at the start, but at the most recent and significant events of our age. The rest will follow when they are needed."
She turned, writing something on the board.
"Our first topic: The Fourth Imperial War. A conflict that defined the last six centuries. It began on June 12th, Year 4100, and ended in 4700."
A student raised a hand.
"Miss, what was the war about?"
Miss Lila turned, her expression unreadable.
"It was a clash between the four great powers—Serenos, Azerath, Mesorath, and Nocthera. Old kingdoms crumbled. New empires rose. Heroes and tyrants alike etched their names into history. Many of the Ascended perished in that war… but a few remain even now, walking among us."
Elyon blinked. Ascended? He'd heard the term before, but never clearly understood it.
As Miss Lila continued her lecture, a weight settled in Elyon's chest. The academy felt different today—stranger, darker. And he was sure that what he'd overheard this morning had only scratched the surface.
Meanwhile… in the House of Blackthorn
The echo of a slap rang through the marbled halls.
Riven stood motionless, his head bowed, face stinging with the fresh imprint of a hand. A red mark bloomed across his cheek. His posture was rigid—not from discipline, but from defeat.
In front of him stood a tall, imposing man with sharp blue hair and piercing yellow eyes. His expression was cold, unreadable, but his glare was enough to pierce steel.
"Why were you fighting in the Commoners' district?" his father asked, each word laced with venom.
Riven said nothing.
"You've disgraced this family in front of the future king of the nation. Do you understand the damage you've caused?"
Still, Riven didn't look up.
"This family has a name. Blackthorn. You don't wear it—you drag it through the dirt."
Another pause.
"I don't want to hear of this again."
"Yes, Father," Riven said quietly, eyes still on the floor.
"Dismissed."
Riven turned and left the chamber. His shoulders were square, but each step was heavy. The scorn of the Blackthorn name weighed more than any punishment.
As he walked down the corridor, he whispered to himself
''One day, I will end this man.''
It wasn't a threat spoken in rage or shouted in the heat of the moment. It was a quiet, solemn vow—a thought that had lived inside him for years, now rising to the surface with clarity. The man he referred to was his father, the man who had shaped his life with cold hands and an iron will, stripping away anything that could resemble joy, warmth, or love.
Riven's footsteps echoed as he walked, but his mind was far away. He was lost in the weight of his own memories, drifting back into the recesses of his childhood—a place he rarely allowed himself to go. Yet now, in the silence, the memories poured in like a tide.
He remembered the days of discipline. The endless rituals, the harsh structure. There was no room for error, no room for softness, and certainly no room for being a child. From the moment he could walk and speak clearly, he had been groomed to become a noble. Every single thing had to be learned, memorized, and mastered—courtly manners, ancient history, fencing, languages, strategy. His days were filled with tutors and drills, his nights with revision and repetition. There was no comfort in it, no pride from his father when lessons were completed flawlessly. The standards were always rising, always shifting, always unreachable.
Even when Riven met them—when he succeeded beyond what was expected—his father showed no interest. There were no words of praise, no approving glances, only cold silence or the occasional nod, as if Riven's efforts were nothing more than basic obligations.
And still, Riven tried.
He tried every day to earn even a sliver of recognition, to see even the faintest flicker of pride in his father's eyes. But it never came. All his father ever saw in him was a project, something to mold and harden, not a son to love.
Yet in those bleak, joyless days, Riven had one memory that still brought him a flicker of warmth—a memory that refused to die.
He remembered the cat.
He had found it on a cold, rainy day. The sky had been gray, the ground soaked, and the garden nearly empty. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and fallen leaves. He was only a child, wandering alone, as he often did when left to his own devices between lessons. Then, from beneath a thick bush, he heard a soft, trembling sound—a weak meow.
He crouched and found a small kitten, shivering and soaked, its fur clinging to its thin frame. It was terrified, eyes wide and alert, yet too exhausted to flee. Without hesitation, Riven had reached in and gently pulled it out, wrapping it in the folds of his cloak and shielding it from the rain.
He took it in and dried it off. He fed it scraps from the kitchen. He kept it hidden in his room for days, sneaking bits of food and cloth for a bed. Eventually, he gave it a name—Ash, for her soft, smoky gray fur. And before he knew it, he loved her.
Ash became more than a pet. She became one of his only friends. A living creature that looked at him with something resembling affection. While everything else in his world was harsh, cold, and disciplined, Ash was soft, warm, and playful. He would spend time with her only after his lessons were done, never allowing her presence to interfere with his studies. She never judged him. She was simply there.
He remembered the good times—her darting across the room chasing crumpled paper, curling up beside him as he read by candlelight, resting her head against his arm while he wrote essays. For once, something in his life brought him comfort.
And then, one day, Ash was gone.
He had woken to find her missing from her usual spot. At first, he wasn't worried. She often hid or wandered around the room. But as hours passed and there was still no sign of her, panic began to rise. He searched everywhere—under the bed, behind the curtains, even out in the garden where he first found her. But she was nowhere to be found.
Finally, he asked his father.
The answer came cold and unbothered. "I sold the cat," his father said, not even looking up from his desk. "It was a distraction from your studies."
Riven had stared at him, disbelief turning to rage. "I only spent time with her when my studies were finished," he had protested, his voice shaking.
"That's not the point," his father replied, calmly, dismissively.
But Riven understood. The words about study were nothing but a thin excuse. The truth was simple and cruel his father couldn't tolerate the idea of Riven finding joy in anything outside the mold he had created for him. The cat was not a threat to his education—it was a threat to his father's control.
That day left a scar on Riven. Not the kind you could see, but one that sat deep in the chest, where pain simmers quietly for years. It wasn't just about the cat. It was about what the cat represented. A chance at love. A tiny bit of happiness. And his father had taken it away without hesitation.
His mother had not been spared that same cruelty.
She had once been gentle and kind. Riven remembered how she would smile at him when he passed by, how she would take his hand quietly when his father wasn't looking. She tried so hard to love her husband. She did everything to gain his affection—tending to his needs, standing by his side during public events, speaking softly even when ignored. She waited and waited, hoping perhaps one day he would show her the love she so willingly gave.
But he never did.
His father never showed her affection, never kissed her forehead, never held her hand. It was as if she were a ghost that existed to fill the role of a wife and nothing more.
When she fell sick, the cruelty deepened.
Her illness had started quietly—fatigue, coughs, nights of shivering. It worsened over time, and while the servants and maids brought her warm towels, soups, and medicine, her husband never came to her side. Not once.
Even when she was bedridden, her breathing shallow and voice fading, he did not visit her. Riven remembered standing at her bedside, watching her eyes scan the room every time the door creaked open—hoping it would be him. But he never came.
The maids sat by her bed longer than he did. They held her hand. They sang to her softly. The house staff, with no blood connection to her, showed more love than her own husband.
Riven had stood there, watching, feeling helpless. Feeling rage. Feeling sorrow.
And now, years later, that rage had fermented into purpose.
As Riven walked away, the past wrapped around him like a stormcloud. The cold halls of his childhood, the sound of rain against the window, the absence of a cat's meow, his mother's dying breath—all of it fed the fire inside him.
''One day, he thought again, fists clenched at his sides, I will end this man.''
And he meant it. With every part of his soul, he meant it.