The rebellion did not begin with swords.
It began with silence.
The kind that crawled across the Academy like a creeping rot. Professors spoke more softly. Certain halls were locked without explanation. Patrols doubled. Divine envoys stationed near the tribunal chambers did not leave. And the stars—those who still listened—began to flicker.
Aren felt it everywhere. In the glances. In the rumors. In the way the air itself recoiled from his breath.
He was no longer a student.
He was a spark on dry wood.
And the fire was inevitable.
Three nights had passed since the Vault.
Aren stood atop the Ashwake Tower—a crumbling spire at the edge of the academy's oldest district, long abandoned after the Stellar Schism War. From here, he could see the entire academy—the marble domes, the gilded towers, the bridges carved from astral stone, lit by a hundred different constellations.
It had once seemed beautiful.
Now it looked like a mausoleum.
Below, torchlight flickered in patterns that didn't belong. Patrols. Not students. Guards—armed not with training gear but with celestial weapons.
They were preparing for war.
Not with another academy. Not with rebels or cultists.
With him.
Kaelith emerged behind him, cloaked in dark training leathers. Her face was lined with exhaustion.
"They're moving faster than we thought," she said.
"They're afraid," Aren replied.
"They should be."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, she spoke again. "You haven't slept."
"I see her when I do," he admitted.
Kaelith didn't ask who.
She already knew.
"The girl in the void," she said. "The First Host."
Aren nodded.
"She said we were building the cage stronger with every god we killed."
"And you still want to kill them?"
He turned, eyes burning. "Yes."
Kaelith looked away, jaw tight. "Then we need to act before they do."
They weren't alone anymore.
Thirty-four students had now sworn themselves to Aren's side. Some were rejects from divine lineages. Others were outcasts, half-bloods, or survivors of divine collateral damage—those whose parents or homes had been incinerated in battles between gods who never looked down.
They called themselves the Ashwake.
A name chosen by Lira, the half-starborn seer who had lost her voice after a failed summoning and now spoke through glass runes etched with memories.
The first meeting was held in the ruins beneath the arena, where forgotten wings of the Academy had collapsed after the First Trial Massacre a decade earlier. No professors came here. No records even acknowledged it still existed.
Aren stood before the gathered students, Kaelith at his right, Malric seated behind in the shadows.
"You all know why you're here," Aren began. "You've seen what the gods have made of this world. What they've done to those who don't fit into their design."
He looked over them—scarred faces, tired eyes, some too young to have seen real war, others already carrying trauma deeper than most adults.
"I won't give you lies. I'm not here to 'liberate' anything. I'm here because they already buried me once. And I clawed my way back."
He stepped forward.
"I want to tear their thrones down. And if you follow me, it won't end in glory. It'll end in fire."
No one spoke.
Then, slowly, one by one, they drew blades or marked skin with their own blood.
The Ashwake did not swear with words.
They swore with wounds.
But power demanded cost.
And Aren's body was paying it.
The more he used the parasite, the more it hollowed parts of him. Memories sometimes slipped. Names blurred. He woke in the night speaking in languages no longer spoken, whispering names of constellations that had been erased from history.
Kaelith found him one night shivering beside the training circle, eyes blank, hands trembling.
"I saw a god die," he said, voice distant.
"Which one?"
"I don't know. I think… I think it was me."
She knelt beside him, took his hand.
"It's not just you anymore," she said. "We all carry the weight."
He looked at her.
And for the first time since his rebirth, he let the tears fall.
The Tribunal did not send assassins.
They sent one of their saints.
His name was Sylven Ordane.
A paladin of the Sunforged House, bound to the Constellation Halvarion—the Spear of Purity. He had killed seventy-seven heretics in three years, silenced five bloodline rebellions, and was said to carry a blade forged from the heart of a collapsing sun.
He arrived at the Academy not in secrecy—but in procession.
Clad in white and gold, blindfolded, barefoot. Behind him walked two score tribunal initiates, each bearing chained relics of execution.
The message was clear:
Repentance, or ruin.
They gave Aren until sundown.
The hour approached. Wind howled across the arena's battlegrounds, where the final confrontation would take place.
Aren stood in the center, wearing no armor—only a black sleeveless tunic and bandages across his arms. His hair was wind-tossed, his eyes sharp.
Kaelith stood at the edge, her arm still healing from a previous duel. She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Malric had tried to intervene—tried to plead sanctuary again.
But this time, even his voice couldn't stop what was coming.
The tribunal needed blood.
And Aren needed to make them choke on it.
Sylven Ordane walked into the arena like death wrapped in scripture.
His blindfold shimmered with light, and yet he moved unerringly.
"I do not hate you," he said calmly.
"Good," Aren said. "I'd hate to disappoint."
"You carry something foul. And whatever your pain, I must purify it."
"You're welcome to try."
The crowd—professors, nobles, emissaries, even students—watched in silence. No cheers. No roars.
Just dread.
The duel began.
And it wasn't a duel.
It was annihilation.
Sylven moved like a storm without wind. Every step was prayer. Every swing a hymn of light. His blade clashed against Aren's aura, sending shockwaves across the arena.
Aren bled within seconds.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He roared—and the parasite erupted.
Parasite Form: Midnight Core – STABILIZEDLimiter Removal Protocol Active.Trigger Condition: Godblood Threat.
Aren's skin darkened again, celestial scars lighting his arms, shadow-wings rising.
He struck back—and Sylven staggered.
Their clash broke sigils, shattered enchantments embedded in the stone.
But Sylven began to glow—his constellation flaring so bright it eclipsed the stars above.
"No more," Aren whispered.
He reached into himself. Deeper than he'd gone before.
Where the void met memory.
Where the parasite met him.
And then—
New Form Unlocked: Aspect of the Forgotten Flame.
Aren vanished from view.
And reappeared behind Sylven.
The paladin spun—but too late.
Aren's hand punched through the glowing barrier and struck his chest.
Not a killing blow.
But a soul-mark.
He left a sigil—a dark, burning wound of memory.
Sylven gasped. Fell to one knee.
"I remember," the paladin whispered. "I remember… burning."
Aren leaned in.
"Good. Now take that memory back to them."
He turned and walked away, blood trailing from his side.
Sylven did not pursue.
He knelt.
And wept.
That night, the Ashwake lit their first signal fire.
A ring of spectral flame, visible only to those who had tasted divine betrayal.
It burned above the Ashwake Tower like a phantom star.
The rebellion had begun.
And Aren Valen was no longer just a student.
He was the heretic prince of a war yet to come.