He pressed his hand to the seal. The door hissed open, allowing Kael to step across the threshold and into the sterile silence of his new quarters.
The dormitory was larger than he'd expected—a narrow hall branching into two sleeping alcoves, a shared study table, and a single, barred window overlooking the academy's northern towers. Everything smelled faintly of soap, parchment, and mana residue.
Kael walked directly to the bed nearest the window—his assigned place. He slumped down onto the thin mattress, and his breath came harshly, violently. He did not know what was happening to him. Fury burned under his skin, sharp and metallic. Beneath it, fear pooled like cold mercury—slow, suffocating. He hated the weakness. Hated that he still needed to breathe carefully when thinking of that man.
The memory of Lyon's hand was a spike of pure, crystalline rage. The pain of the slap was gone, but the fury that kindled his heart when remembering that contemptuous gesture was still a blazing inferno.
The memory must be logged, the cool logic of the Compendium insisted. Kael could easily categorize the exact angle of the blow, the depth of Lyon's power, and the resultant volatile energy spike in his own core. But he did not. He wanted to remember the feeling. He had already sacrificed so much to the Compendium for short-term gains; he could still feel the losses, but they had been necessary. This, however, he would keep.
I tried to be so smart, he thought, the fury sharpening into self-loathing. I controlled my emotions so that Lyon could not see my rebellious nature, and still, I was almost soul-bounded against all my precautions.
Lyon's fingers had lingered longer than necessary. Not in threat, but in promise. The boy that once was Kael would have cried, but the predator was furious, and they kept the balance in his racing heart. Kael's body remembered that touch. His soul did too.
Fury simmered beneath his ribs, sharp and acidic. The kind that begged for violence, the kind that made the Devourer stir and whisper, one day, when I am done with Lyon, he will remember that the debt has been paid.
But beneath the heat lay something colder. The truth he could not quantify: Fear. Fear that the current Kael was so utterly, hopelessly weak. He hated that. Hated being afraid. Hated that he still needed to breathe carefully when thinking of that man.
"One day," he whispered to the air, his voice low and laced with iron, "you'll look at me, and you'll flinch."
The Devourer purred its approval. The Compendium recorded the whispered threat and began calculating the resources needed to realize it.
He sat there, letting the Academy's low, steady mana hum ground him. The furious impulse subsided, replaced by the Compendium's familiar, clinical clarity. The weakness was recorded. The plan could begin.
His immediate attention fell upon the thin training manual and the slip of parchment resting on his pillow. He unfolded the note.
He read it once. Then again, slower.
Classes commence tomorrow at the sixth bell. You are enrolled in the Standard Curricula for Year One initiates. Elective selection is due by end of week.
Attend orientation at the central amphitheater.
Failure to attend will result in academic penalization.
The handwriting was precise, as if whoever wrote it feared their own mistakes. The words blurred before his eyes. Orders, structure, expectation—all tools to cage him again. He crumpled it once, then smoothed it again—anger bleeding into cold resignation. So it begins, he thought. Back to being a student. Back to pretending to be human.
The door to the shared study area creaked open.
A young man sat hunched over one of the slim desks, his back to Kael. He was slight and neat, his uniform meticulously pressed, and his sandy hair was slicked back from an anxious face. The boy could be described as handsome if he did not slouch as if he didn't belong. Kael could immediately see the boy was shy and insecure, feeling the profound need to be invisible, to be ignored. Kael, however, noticed the minute, steady rhythm of his mana signature—a faint, perfectly controlled hum that spoke of disciplined talent.
"Who are you? And what are you doing here?" Kael said, still battling with his emotions. His voice came out as a sharp, unmodulated retort, not moving from his bed.
The boy flinched, then stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He finally turned, his eyes wide and uncertain.
"I... I am Dean Harcott. I—I apologize. They assigned me here. I didn't mean to intrude," he stuttered, offering a nervous, wavering smile. "Who are you?"
Kael controlled his emotions, forcing his face into a mask of minimal attention. "Kael. I guess we are to share the room. Please come in."
Just as Dean began to offer another strained pleasantry, the front door hissed open a second time.
A third student strode in, all broad shoulders and forced confidence, his uniform a flashier cut than the standard issue. The boy reeked of a fake bravado that Kael could sense from far away. He threw his satchel onto the remaining bed, and as he did, Kael felt the air around the boy shimmer with unrefined heat, a sign of the Law Fragment of Combustion bleeding past his control. He immediately locked onto Dean, ignoring Kael completely.
"A Harcott is my roommate," he mumbled, though not lightly enough so Kael could clearly hear him. "Hello, I am James Mansfield, and if I'm not mistaken, you are a Harcott."
Dean flinched. He asked in a low tone, "How do you know?"
James laughed, a loud, artificial burst that bounced off the white walls. "I could see the features of your family the moment I walked in. I am from House Mansfield, a small house near your family estate. I'm so excited for the classes to start! I have manifested the Law Fragment of Combustion and I would love to join the martial electives to increase my potential. What about you?"
Dean hesitated. He said in a low voice, almost a confession, "I'm not a Harcott. Just a bastard of the family." Dean had expertly deflected the question about his Aspect, substituting social shame for information.
The expression on James's face changed instantly. The loud, artificial confidence fractured. The boy was a social climber, and Kael saw the immediate disappointment—a bastard wouldn't open doors—but also a flicker of fear. A Harcott bastard was still tethered to the main family, a dangerous variable. James recovered quickly, forcing a strained chuckle. "Ah, well, still blood, right? That's what matters here. Lineage is lineage."
Kael watched Dean and could see the shame wash over his face, re-assessing the boy. The sheep is not so meek, Kael noted. Dean had consciously redirected James's intrusive curiosity, a surprisingly subtle move for a boy so terrified. Dean was not just a tool; he was a tool that knew how to conceal its edges, making him both more difficult and potentially more valuable.
James then deigned to look at him, assessing Kael's plain uniform and lack of personal effects. He asked in a fake friendly tone, "Hello, friend, what house do you belong to?"
Kael looked up from his course catalogue and answered flatly. "I do not belong to any house. I am an orphan."
Kael could feel the disappointment deepen on James's face, mirrored by a profound curiosity on Dean's.
"What are you doing in our room?" James demanded, his forced geniality gone. "Why does the Academy think they can put us together?"
Kael shrugged his shoulders and returned to the course catalogue. "I don't know. You'll have to ask them." He then completely ignored James.
The contempt James displayed was a balm to Kael's fury, replacing one simple enemy (Lyon) with two easily catalogued variables.
Dean Harcott: The Sheep. Scared, ashamed of his lineage, yet still a conduit to it. His desperation to be ignored made him a perfect shadow, a pair of discreet eyes and ears Kael could manipulate with a small display of calculated kindness or superior knowledge.
James Mansfield: The Sheepdog. Ambition wrapped in a thin coat of low-rank confidence. Predictable. James would never willingly associate with an orphan, yet the Academy's authority had forced Kael into his orbit. Kael had just established himself as the room's untouchable problem, a fact James was now forced to acknowledge. The social drama was a distraction, but it was a useful distraction.
The Compendium whirred, processing the fear, the ambition, and the exact content of James's boasts about Combustion.
They are irrelevant now, Kael confirmed. But they are tools. Every soul, every secret, every relationship in this Academy is a resource waiting to be consumed.
His attention snapped back to the parchment in his hand. The true prize was here, printed in precise, fearful script. The location of his next acquisition of power was not in his roommates, but in the Elective Catalogue.
Kael settled back onto his thin mattress, the open catalogue resting on his knees. Dean was still frozen near the shared study area, silently watching Kael, while James—now completely ignoring both his roommates—had thrown himself onto his own bed, muttering about the "Academy's flawed social structuring."
Kael tuned them out. The tension in his chest was gone, replaced by the clean, sharp focus of the Arcane Compendium. Fury was a temporary motivator; logic was eternal.
He had three paths laid out before him: the required Standard Curricula, the "Suggested" Electives designed to contain him, and the hidden choices—the advanced knowledge reserved for the privileged.
The compulsory classes were predictable: Infusion Principles I, Aspect Shaping Fundamentals, Core Expansion Theory, Applied Battle Weaving I. These were the foundational steps, and one thing Kael was sure of: he needed a solid base. The Compendium stirred, hungry for the systematic knowledge that defined the limits of this world's power.
The tactical constraint was clear: he must act as though he had a potent Aspect but not master everything instantly, a lesson Kellen—the memory of a previous life's mentor—had paid for with blood. My goal is to score enough that I can stay on the upper tier of my class while appearing to work very hard as I have to prove something, Kael noted. Outwardly, I am the driven orphan; internally, I am the ancient optimizer.
He scanned the "Suggested" Electives. They were exactly as expected—soft, supportive, or academic:
Healing Arts: Focuses on the fundamentals of healing and first aid.Advanced History of the Wraithlands: Pure academic knowledge, zero practical combat application.Ethics of Mana Usage: Ethics are what you believe them to be, Kael scoffed.Soulforging Foundations: Basics of Crafting & Soul Forging: A basic class for first years interested in developing the crafting arts.Sigil Architecture and Binding Patterns: Basics of how arrays function; the whole academy was covered in different arrays and formations.Basic Alchemy: Basics of processing herbs to make alchemical potions.Weapon Mastery: Basic proficiency training.Esoteric Arts: Color Theory of Mana: A course obsessed with the aesthetic application of power, useless for a true predator.
He wanted the Healing Basics to compare Lilian's unique, optimized knowledge against the Academy's baseline, but wasting a slot on mere curiosity felt inefficient. Kellen proclaimed Lilian one of the best healers in the kingdom; what she taught Kael, the Academy likely couldn't offer.
I will not take the overtly academic or ethical courses, Kael decided, but I will find the source texts for all of them and consume them privately. The Devourer needs their knowledge, but Lyon must see my compliance. The external threat demanded he remain a shadow.
He had to choose three electives.
He flipped to the full, unsorted list. Most were dull, specialized crafts meant for scholars or artisans—Arcane Flora Cultivation, Tier-One Water-Rune Inscription, Mana Thread Stabilization. The kind of electives that built quiet lives, not legends.
He flipped further down the catalogue, past the bland academic entries—and there they were, the courses that pulsed like forbidden scripture even at the novice level.
Mana Resonance Fundamentals — learning to align internal and external mana frequencies for explosive discharge efficiency. Weapon Flow Integration I — merging weapon motion and mana pulse into unified strikes. Kinetic Pattern Theory — channelling momentum through spell matrices for speed and impact enhancement. Elemental Channelling: Core Reactions — the foundation for elemental fusion and burst casting. Aether Step Training — controlled short-range displacement through pressure-fold manipulation. Combat Focus and Instinct Conditioning — neural imprinting for predictive combat reflexes. Soul forge Meditation Primer — stabilization of spiritual flow for future weapon binding. Barrier Compression Techniques — defensive compression to weaponize shield auras. Applied Energy Amplification I — regulating internal output thresholds for controlled overloads.
Each of these was designed to taste like power—the first steps toward the impossible. Even the labels sounded like a promise.
These were the paths that made prodigies; those who enrolled in them didn't just study—they ascended.
The Devourer stirred. Take them. Consume their strength. Burn brighter than the rest.
Kael's hands trembled slightly. He could almost imagine himself mastering all of them, watching mana obey his will like breath—
and then he stopped. He understood the trap.
Immediate brilliance was a flare—bright, visible, and short-lived.
He forced himself to breathe.
He knew what came with such brilliance: scrutiny, exposure, dissection. Those who rose too fast became case studies in their own undoing.
He exhaled, slow and measured, pressing the Devourer's hunger back into stillness.
True survival demanded silence, not spectacle. The paths he needed now were colder, quieter—courses that didn't promise victory, but control. The kind of mastery that wouldn't shine until it was far too late for anyone to stop it.
The true priorities were obvious, useful and boring in the beholders eye. He needed core integrity and foundational mastery above all else. His selections were designed to maximize power while maintaining a façade of compliance:
Basic Crafting & Soul Forging: This was non-negotiable survival. It offered the theory to stabilize his volatile essence, transforming him from a ticking bomb into a pressurized core. Basic Formations & Arrays: Essential for mastering the language of magic and rapidly advancing his foundational mana manipulation.
These two selections required risk regarding Aspect prerequisites, which he would deal with later, once he had consulted the tactical advice from his past.
I have to navigate through the politics, and choosing the electives seemed like a minor battle, the Compendium calculated. Lyon will be watching my selection. I need a path that is both obscure enough to ignore but potent enough to give me access to the resources I need.
He scanned the list one last time for the perfect camouflage—a third choice that appeared utterly safe and passive. He found it buried at the list's tail end:
Minor Siphon Runology: Study of Siphon Runes and their effects.
It was a boring, low-level engineering class focused on setting up tiny, passive energy drains for lighting dorms and heating water. Utterly mundane.
Perfect. With this course, Kael could legally develop the parasitic technique he needed to siphon ambient energy from the Academy's great mana well, a small-scale prototype for his long-term plan. It was his Conduit disguised as homework.
He chose three courses that offered the versatility to both advance his core function and protect himself from the necessary dangers, while showing that he was not a threat, but a meek, diligent student—hence avoiding any martial electives.
Kael picked up his provided stylus and wrote his three selections on the vellum slip:
Elective 1: Basic Crafting & Soul ForgingElective 2: Basic Formations & ArraysElective 3: Minor Runology: Theory of Passive Mana Siphoning
He had to be quick. Dean was still watching him, and the deadline was near.
The decision was made. Survival would be achieved through audacity cloaked in utter mediocrity. The Compendium pulsed once in silent agreement, its circuits of thought spinning faster than his own. Plan accepted. He was ready for the next move.
Kael's hand, resting on the vellum, twitched. Not from fear, but from the low, inescapable tremor originating deep within his soul.
The Compendium, ever calculating, overlaid a clinical countdown above his vision, obscuring the dormitory ceiling with cold, red digits.
[Compendium Alert: Estimated time until soul overload 6 Days, 23 Hours, 45 Minutes.]
He wasn't just planning a semester. He was racing against an existential clock. The choices he had just made were not for academic credit; they were a desperate gamble to bleed off the volatile energy before the seven days were up and his own soul tore him apart.