A Beautiful Morning.
Sunlight poured like honey through the soaring stained-glass windows of Elkarath Upper Academy of Magic, painting dancing shapes across the stone floor in shimmering beams. Birds circled the cloudless sky, their cries sharp as needle-pricks, fading into the wind. The garden stirred awake, blossoms and leaves stretching in lazy yawns as subtle scents drifted silently into the ancient halls.
In the dormitory—reserved for first-year students—Geal stirred from sleep, blinking up at the oak-carved ceiling above. The room remained the same: cluttered bookshelves, the mingling scent of dry ink and tanned leather forming a fragrance too complex to name. On the desk, spell manuscripts lay still, like unsent letters.
Geal rubbed his eyes, then glanced toward the bed opposite his own.
Empty.
The blankets had been neatly folded. The curtain beside Lyre's bed still fluttered, the sunlight spilling across her sheets—as if she had risen long before.
"What the… she woke earlier than me?"
He sat up with a jolt, ran a hand through his tousled hair, and hurried to wash his face. Surprise had overridden his usual laziness. Lyre—his roommate, who would typically grumble at the morning bell—had vanished so quietly it was almost suspicious.
Today was a day off. No classes, no combat practice, no professors shouting over tardiness. The only reason Lyre would wake up so early… was if something was off.
Geal threw on his student cloak, tucked a book into his leather satchel, and headed straight to the library.
---
The academy's library felt like another world—silent, sacred, and at times, unnerving.
Towering shelves reached the ceiling, crammed with ancient tomes, beast-hide manuscripts, dragonhide scrolls, and books sealed with forbidden magic. The air was thick not only with the scent of old paper but something else... weightier, like the breath of long-dead souls still lingering nearby.
Geal stepped in, moving slowly through the aisles, his eyes scanning for a familiar silhouette.
And then he saw her.
In the farthest corner—where light barely reached, where most students couldn't be bothered to go—Lyre sat alone.
Her platinum hair shimmered faintly beneath a narrow beam of light from above. She was absorbed in a book, her demeanor quieter than usual. A figure... almost melting into the stillness around her.
Geal walked over, gently pulling out the chair across from her.
"When did you wake up? This is the first time I've had to come looking for you in the library."
Lyre didn't look up. She turned a page silently, then smiled—soft as wind:
"It's a beautiful day. The sunlight wouldn't let me sleep."
He glanced outside—the light was lovely. But something about her reason felt... odd. He leaned over, glancing at the book in her hands: The Deterioration of Lightbound Spirits.
A difficult subject in magical research.
"You've... been studying lightbound spirits since when?"
Lyre's voice remained even, her eyes on the page:
"Lately... I've felt like my body isn't the same. I just want to understand what's happening to me."
Geal paused, then looked down at Lyre's hand resting on the table.
A small cut. Thin, sharp, slightly swollen and red. Many wouldn't notice—but Geal did.
That wound didn't come from a book. And it wasn't an accident.
"Lyre." – He said softly.
She didn't lift her head.
"What cut your hand?"
She froze for a second, then slowly pulled her sleeve down, hiding the wound.
"It's just a little cut. Not worth mentioning."
"You're terrible at lying."
"Geal…" – this time she looked at him—those dark eyes, deep and silent, screamed something wordless. Then she smiled.
"It's just a scratch. Don't look at me like I'm about to die."
That sentence sent a chill down Geal's spine.
She stood, closed her book, voice light as mist:
"It's a day off, right? Go enjoy it. I just want to be alone for a while."
And with that, she walked away, leaving Geal in a cold, uneasy silence.
"The way she speaks… it's full of contradictions."
Lyre stepped out of the library, Geal's worried gaze trailing her from behind. Down the stone corridor, her footsteps echoed like ghostly whispers on repeat.
Each step, each breath, each heartbeat.
Her hand trembled. The one she had hidden in her sleeve now throbbed as if pierced from within. That cut… wasn't made by anyone else.
She had made it herself.
She slipped into the garden behind the academy—a place few ever visited, where an overgrown dry well sat beneath tangled vines, where she could sit and quietly... vanish from everything.
She closed her eyes.
And then... a voice echoed inside her mind.
---
"Why are you afraid? You know exactly what that thing inside you is."
Lyre clenched her fists, whispering back inside her head:
"...No. This is a power I was given. I just need to learn how to control it."
"Control?" – the voice laughed, cold and sharp.
"You think the light in you is salvation? No, Lyre. It's a whip of fire, burning you from your blood to your bones. Every time you use it, your soul fractures a little more."
"Shut up..."
"You like it, don't you? The way people admire you. You try to act strong, try to smile, but you're dying piece by piece. It's time, Lyre. Ask yourself... who's really in control of this body?"
She clutched her head, sweat breaking across her brow.
"No… no… I'm still me...!"
"Are you sure? Then who made that cut on your hand? Do you really think Geal would accept a 'lightborn monster' like you?"
"I'm not a monster!"
"Aren't you? Then why did you hide your arm? Why did you conceal that book? You're afraid of the light—the thing that's eating you alive day by day, aren't you?"
She gasped, collapsing onto the cold ground. The wind hissed past her ears, cold as invisible claws raking through her mind.
"…Someone… please… save me…"
"No one's coming, Lyre. You'll have to cross that line alone. And when you reach the other side of the light..."
"…there will be only darkness."