Ethan slung his knapsack over one shoulder and stepped onto the cracked cobbles of Gutterspur Lane, the shutters of Dimming Hollow still drawn against the dawn. The intermittent clang of a milk cart's bell echoed down the silent street as he made his way toward the city gate. He kept his gaze low, watching for the shifting patterns of gray light and shadow that played across the worn stone. Every footfall felt like a heartbeat, reminding him that with each step he moved farther from home—and closer to an unknown destiny.
The gate itself was an arch of iron and aged brick, flanked by two carved gargoyles whose cracked faces seemed to leer down at travelers. Morning frost still glinted in the air, half-remembered snowflakes clinging to the buttresses. A pair of guards—leather-armored veterans, their breath steaming in the cold—paid him little heed. One flipped through a ledger of departures, the other ground tobacco under a boot. No one asked for tickets where he was headed. No one asked a boy without Nodes why he would stir in such early hours. Ethan offered the faintest nod and passed through, the heavy gates groaning shut behind him with a finality that tugged at his chest.
Beyond the walls lay a different world: the broad highway to Smokefield City, lined with soot-stained brick and rattling tram lines. Steam engines huffed like restless beasts at the distant station, and the acrid scent of coal mingled with the crisp perfume of pines drifting down from Mount Vesper. Ethan scanned the road. Horse-drawn wagons lumbered by, their drivers wrapped in thick wool cloaks. A battered motorcar chugged past, its engine coughing sparks. He should have walked all the way to the Old Rail, but the sun climbed too slowly for his taste—and besides, time was a luxury he could ill afford.
He paused at a crooked signpost pointing toward "Harbuckle's Garage & Transport"—the only private carriage service in miles. The name was scrawled in peeling gold leaf, the iron horses rearing above an arched doorway where lanterns hung unlit. Inside, the smell of grease and oil was thick enough to taste. A lanky young man, overalls smeared with engine grime, crouched beneath a half-disassembled motorcar. He looked up with a grin that was equal parts curiosity and suspicion.
"I need a ride to the Old Rail," Ethan began, voice steady though his heart raced.
The mechanic paused, wiping his hands on a rag. "Old Rail, eh? Not exactly a place for the faint of heart. You got coin?" His eyes flicked to the knapsack.
"I—" Ethan hesitated, eyes on the man's grease-streaked face. He dug into his pocket and produced a small pouch of copper and silver coins—savings his mother had tucked away for emergencies. "This is all I have."
The mechanic weighed the pouch in one hand, letting the clink of metal fill the silence. "Fair enough," he said at last, tossing the pouch into a nearby tin. "Name's Joss Harbuckle. I run the garage. Tell you what: I'm heading that way anyway, dropping off supplies to a hermit hermeticist at Vesper's foot. You can hitch. But you'll sit in the back of the flatbed, and it's rough going."
Ethan nodded, relief washing through his veins. "Thank you. I—promise I'll pay you more when I can."
Joss grunted and turned, barking toward a row of waiting coaches. "Get in. The day's wasting away." He stepped onto the chassis, swinging open a small wooden hatch. Inside, Ethan found a stack of burlap sacks—grain, dried herbs, coils of rope. He arranged himself as best he could, wedging the satchel under one elbow and rearranging the sacks to sit more comfortably. Joss climbed into the driver's seat and kicked the engine to life. It sputtered, then roared, and with a judder that sent dust up in small tornadoes, they were off.
The highway rolled past in a blur of broken fence posts and pine groves. Ethan watched the distant slopes of Mount Vesper emerge through the thinning mist—dark, forbidding ridges crowned with jagged pines that looked like claws against the sky. As they climbed, the road narrowed, becoming a rutted track of dirt and stone. Harbuckle's flatbed rattled like a coffin on wheels, and every jolt tugged at Ethan's ribs. He gripped the wooden slats until his knuckles whitened.
"You heading to school?" Joss asked over the roar, voice hoarse from years of diesel and dust.
Ethan swallowed, breathing through his nose to block out the grease funk. "Yes. Nocturna Arcanum."
The name seemed to sit heavy in the air. Joss glanced back, eyebrows knit. "I heard stories. Folks say it's more fortress than academy—tight walls, darker secrets. You sure you want in?"
Ethan settled against a sack of barley, looking out at the sloping pines. He pictured the black-wax seal, Headmaster Thorne's spidery script, the infinite possibilities that pressed at the edges of his mind. "I have to find out why they chose me," he replied. "And what it means… for me."
Joss nodded, returning his gaze to the road. They rode in silence for a while, the only sounds the crunch of wheels on gravel and the rush of cold air through the pine needles. Far off, a lone hawk circled above a rocky crag, its cry sharp and fearless.
As the track leveled, Joss eased the carriage to a halt beside a cluster of ancient stone pillars half-hidden by vines and moss. A narrow path wound between them, descending steeply toward a hidden alcove where the rails glinted in the dawn. A single platform jutted from the cliff, its planks weathered but sturdy. A rusted sign overhead bore the same number in flaking black paint.
"This is it," Joss said, cutting the engine. The hush that followed was profound, as though the world itself held its breath. "Gates open at first light. Don't be late."
Ethan swung his legs over the side and landed on the hard-packed earth, turning to shake Joss's hand. "Thank you. I won't forget this."
Joss gave a curt nod and climbed back into the driver's seat. "Good luck, kid. And watch your back—if the rumors are true, Old Rail's more than just a ghost line."
As the carriage rattled away, Ethan stood alone on the cliff's edge. Before him lay the iron tracks gleaming in the pale sun, leading into a tunnel carved deep within Mount Vesper. A distant echo of steel on steel drifted from within, like a whispered promise or a warning. He adjusted his pack, squared his shoulders, and stepped onto the platform.
The door to Nocturna Arcanum waited beneath the mountain's shadow, and with each heartbeat, Ethan Cross moved closer to the magic—and the darkness—that would define his future.
Ethan's boots crunched against the loose gravel as he stepped beyond the broken arch of the tunnel's maw. A chill breathed from the darkness, carrying the faint tang of damp stone and ancient rot. He swallowed hard, heart hammering in his ears. One foot in front of the other, he followed the rails into the gloom, determined to prove—if only to himself—that he belonged here.
But the tunnel was not empty.
A low, rasping echo drifted through the air, like wings scraping against cave walls. Ethan froze, every instinct screaming. Then, from the blackness above him, something fell—no, lunged.
It was a hideous silhouette, bat-like and vast, its leathery wings folded around a hulking body carved from mottled grey stone. The creature's ears tapered into jagged horns, its eyes glowing with cruel mischief. Clawed fingers, each as thick as Ethan's arm, uncurled as it dropped the last few feet to the ground with a shuddering impact. Dust and pebbles tumbled around its feet like frightened insects.
"Wh—what are you?" Ethan gasped, stumbling backward.
The creature let out a guttural screech, echoing off unseen walls. It moved with terrifying speed, taloned hands seizing at Ethan's sleeve. His knapsack snagged on a rusted rail spike, pulling him off-balance. He pitched forward, arms flailing, and went down hard on the cold, unforgiving stone.
Pain exploded across his palms and knees, but he barely noticed as the bat-man's fist swung low, a boulder of a fist aimed at his temple. Ethan tried to curl into a ball, but the world spun too quickly. Darkness edged his vision.
Then a sudden flash of light—sharp, brilliant—cut through the murk like a starburst. A blade sang as it sliced the air, and the creature's arm froze mid-swing.
"Back, fiend!"
A voice, clipped and measured, rang out. Ethan's ears rang with the rapier's cut. The bat-man howled in rage and pain as the blade bit into its stone arm, sending cracks spidering through grey flesh. Sparks—unnatural firelight—burst where steel met stone. The monster recoiled, one wing unfurling to shield its shattered limb.
Ethan blinked against the glare and saw a man stepping out of the gloom, every inch the refined gentleman. He wore a dark suit cut sharp at the waist, a small cape draped over his shoulder, and a thin rapier that glimmered like liquid moonlight. His hair was parted precisely down the middle, and round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.
With a single, precise motion, the man drove his blade along the bat-man's wing joint. Stone splintered like old wood; the creature shrieked and tumbled back, wings useless, and collapsed into a heap of grey rubble.
Ethan lay on his side, chest heaving. His vision swam, and he tasted iron in his mouth. "Professor?" he croaked, though the word stuck in his throat like a stone.
The man sheathed his rapier with a fluid motion, the steel whispering as it slid home. He offered Ethan a hand—white gloved, steady. "Ethan Cross, I presume?" His voice was calm, almost polite, as if commenting on the weather.
Ethan took the outstretched hand with trembling fingers, and the professor helped him up. Warmth seeped through his cold limbs at the stranger's touch. "Y-yes," he stammered. "How—what was that thing?"
"Gargoyle-bat hybrid. A rogue specimen, probably drawn to the eldritch energies of this tunnel." The professor turned his lamp upward, illuminating the ceiling's cavernous expanse. "I'm Professor Marcellus Thorne, School of Rituals and Occult Beasts. I was en route to investigate reports of subterranean monsters disturbing the line." He paused, studying Ethan's ashen face. "You were not meant to encounter it."
Ethan's legs buckled, and he sank against the rail, tracing a wet line of blood where his palm had split. "I… I almost died."
The professor's spectacles reflected the lamp's halo. He knelt beside Ethan, lifting the boy's hand with gentle precision. "Yet you live. Consider that your first lesson: magic is not confined to glowing orbs and whispered incantations. It manifests in guardians—and in monsters. And it chooses the unexpected."
Ethan's breath trembled as the weight of what he'd witnessed pressed down on him. He forced his gaze to meet the professor's. The man's calm authority, the rapier at his side, the quiet confidence of someone used to dancing on the knife's edge between life and death—all of it made Ethan's own fear tighten like a noose.
"Come," Professor Thorne said, rising to his feet and offering Ethan an arm. "We have much to discuss. Right now, it's time you learned how treacherous your path truly is—before the darkness claims someone else."
With that, he steered Ethan deeper into the tunnel's shifting shadows, leaving the shattered remains of the bat-man behind. And as they walked, Ethan Cross felt the last vestiges of his old life slip away—and the grave responsibilities of the new one settle upon his shoulders like a mantle of stone.
They pressed onward, the tunnel narrowing until only the professor's lamp cast a wan, trembling glow upon the slick walls. Water dripped at irregular intervals, each drop plinking like a question in the dark.
Ethan swallowed, heart pounding. He glanced up at Professor Thorne's broad shoulders, illuminated in silhouette. "Professor," he began, voice small, "what exactly is Nocturna Arcanum? I mean… beyond the stories."
Thorne paused, blade held at ready, and regarded Ethan over the rim of his spectacles. "Nocturna Arcanum is many things," he said, voice even. "An academy, yes—but also a crucible. A place where the boundaries between knowledge and power are tested, and where the curious risk everything in pursuit of truths best left buried."
Ethan's pace slowed. "Why did they choose me? I'm—" He caught himself. "I'm not even a proper mage. I have no Nodes."
The professor's steps echoed. "Precisely. The Selection Committee saw potential in what you lack. A blank vessel has no old habits to break—and sometimes, power needs a mind unshaped by convention." He offered Ethan a sidelong glance. "Or so the theory goes."
"But… the Ten Schools," Ethan pressed. "Alchemy, Incantations, Charms, Rituals, Potions… and the others. Are all of them taught equally?" His breath formed small clouds in the damp air.
Thorne dipped his head, considering. "Each school has its own halls, its own masters, and its own perils. Some are more sought after—Incantations for raw force, Shadows for subtlety—but all demand sacrifice. You will find that what you learn in one may unravel what you believe in another."
Ethan's mind swirled with half-formed images: bubbling cauldrons, flickering glyphs, veiled instructors whispering in unknown tongues. "Is it true the professors themselves… changed? That they're not entirely human?"
Thorne's lamp flickered over the damp stones, and for a heartbeat, the professor's expression grew distant. "The faculty are… exceptional. They've survived trials that would break ordinary mortals. Some have extended their lives beyond natural span; others bind themselves to spirits or to lost arts. But whether they're human or not is less important than this: you will answer to them, and they will demand results."
They reached an outcropping where the tunnel walls curved into a natural alcove. Thorne knelt to inspect a set of claw marks gouged deep into the stone. "We are far from the surface's safety," he murmured. "Even here, dangers abound—both living and lingering in the stone itself."
Ethan's voice trembled. "I—I've heard rumors about the Black Library. That it's kept in secret below the West Wing, that reading from it can—"
"—is dangerous," Thorne finished. He placed a firm hand on Ethan's shoulder. "Some truths the Academy guards fiercely. You will learn of the Black Library in due time—if it's deemed necessary to your studies. For now, focus on survival and adaptation."
"How will I know whom to trust?" Ethan asked, each word weighted by the memory of the bat-man's attack.
Thorne's gaze softened ever so slightly. "Trust is earned, not given. Watch your peers carefully. Observe the professors' moods. And always remember that the greatest lesson of Nocturna Arcanum is this: knowledge without vigilance is a dagger pointed at your own heart."
A distant rumble rolled through the passage—a reminder of the mountain's weight above them. Ethan took a steadying breath. "Thank you, Professor. I… I just want to be ready."
Thorne rose, offering his arm. "Come. The tunnel's end is near. Your true journey begins with the first taste of moonlight at the Academy gates."
Together, they stepped into deeper darkness, where every question invited ten more—and where the promise of answers shimmered like ghosts in the gloom.