Chapter 12 – The Newborn Shadow
Dawn sliced through the lake's mist like a sharp blade. The water at the island's center hid beneath its usual milky veil, but today even the fog felt hesitant. Footsteps on the paths were hushed, birdsong cut off mid-note. The academy was awakening — but most didn't yet know that something else was awakening with it.
When Seryn emerged from the northern forest, the first thing he noticed was his own breath. Inhaling felt like his chest was pushing the air back, and with each exhale, the cold mist around him seemed to retreat. His clothes were stiff with dried mud and blood. His hands were steady, his steps light. As he passed beneath a branch, a golden glimmer reflected in the bark — his eyes burned softly like embers in the fog and faded.
"Tracks…" he thought. The rain from the night before had erased most of them. Even so, he measured his steps carefully on the way back: root lines, stone edges, dry leaves. The voice of his old instructor echoed in his mind: Measure—balance—line. He was no longer merely remembering — it was as if those lessons were carved into his bones now.
At the wooden bridge along the lakeshore, the sun brushed the water only through a break in the clouds. The academy's white stone buildings and dark-tiled roofs rose like silhouettes through the mist. A bell rang in the distance; the first class was about to begin. Seryn tightened the strap on his sword, lifted his collar, and continued forward.
The moment he stepped through the gate, the hum of the crowd shifted slightly. The first to notice him was a trainee attendant: his gaze stuck to Seryn's face for a second, then unwillingly climbed to his eyes. The boy's shoulders instinctively pulled back, and a line appeared at the corner of his mouth — somewhere between fear and surprise.
Seryn said nothing. He nodded slightly, not avoiding eye contact but not pressing either, and walked on. Within a few steps, whispers began to ripple around him:
"Gold…"
"His eyes…"
"He was in the forest last night, I swear."
"If that ritual thing really changes you—"
The words didn't weigh on Seryn; they simply gave him direction. As he moved through the crowd, he realized he could separate people's vibrations — hesitant breaths, nervous steps — with uncanny clarity. This wasn't magic; it was instinct, sharpened to a blade.
As he crossed the northern courtyard, a figure waited beneath a towering sycamore. Silver hair caught the morning light, and amber eyes measured him carefully. Alaric stepped forward.
"You're late," he said. His tone held reproach, but beneath it was concern. His eyes lingered on Seryn's face before inevitably drifting to the golden glow in his gaze. "And… you've changed."
Seryn didn't shrug or search for excuses. "Yes."
Alaric stepped closer and lowered his voice. "What did you do?"
The answer was short. "Enough to stay alive."
Silence hung between them. Dew dripped from the leaves above and splashed against the stone. Alaric's expression hardened, but the crack beneath was visible. "I warned you," he said. "The ritual path leaves you alone."
"If solitude costs less than death," Seryn replied, "then you pay the price."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "Don't think you're alone," he said as he stepped back. "Be careful. Those eyes…" He tilted his head slightly, voice dropping. "Everyone will notice."
"Let them."
Alaric's gaze flickered between pride and sorrow. "That's the curse of being a Daskal."
Seryn walked away. Behind him, his cousin clenched a fist and then released it. He watched Seryn disappear into the crowd, a silent prayer forming on his lips.
As he continued walking, Seryn could feel countless eyes on him. Some looked with fear, some with curiosity, others with envy. To those who had known him before, he almost seemed like a different person. His walk was straighter now, his gaze sharper, and the timid aura that once clung to him had transformed into a heavy, suffocating pressure.
Passing by the library, he noticed a clerk stand up involuntarily. A younger student clutched a notebook to their chest and took a step back. Seryn's eyes briefly met the student's, and when they couldn't look away, they dropped their gaze to the floor.
At the northern training grounds, students were practicing sword strikes against wooden dummies while Lucien watched silently from a distance. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes tracked Seryn's every movement. A teammate broke the silence.
"He's changed so much… his eyes—"
"Not the eyes," Lucien interrupted. "Danger doesn't come in a color. It comes in a choice."
He turned to his team. "We're moving up the schedule. Forget the academy tasks. First, we evaluate. Is Seryn Daskal an enemy or not?"
"Enemy?" one of them echoed, startled.
Lucien shrugged. "Sometimes the greatest threat looks like a friend. And sometimes, the least expected person becomes an ally. I just want to know."
Later that day, a pair of eyes watched Seryn from the library window. Professor Arelis stood with her hands clasped behind her back, silently observing the movement below. Golden eyes — they appeared in old records only twice: once when a transformation was irreversible, and once when the chains themselves began to creak.
By evening, Seryn was alone in a small training room behind the dormitory. As he undressed, he heard the sound of his bones shifting — the ritual had hardened his muscles, but the ache of his fractures remained. Staring at his reflection, he saw how the golden glow in his eyes doubled his presence. He no longer looked ordinary.
It's like I'm becoming a monster, he thought. The idea tightened his brow. This is the dark side of the path, isn't it?
A knock came at the door. "Daskal?"
He opened it to find Professor Arelis stepping inside. Her gaze swept over his face, his hands, his posture — calm, clinical. "You're walking," she said. "Good."
"For now," Seryn replied.
Arelis moved to the window. "There are rumors. Your eyes have stirred fear, curiosity, and envy. All three are dangerous."
"I know."
"And one more thing…" she added. "Someone from the Temple has started asking questions. They pretend it's academic curiosity about the meaning of a golden iris… but their interest runs too deep."
"The Temple…" Seryn's voice hardened. "A power that rivals even the imperial family."
"Be clever," Arelis said. "And unseen."
"I can't be unseen."
Arelis nodded slightly. "Don't push your mind too hard during the first week after a ritual. Most who lose themselves do it during their first surge of power." She paused, then added quietly, "And Daskal… remember yourself."
The silver ring on his finger grew warm, as if responding to her words.
Night slowly descended as mist curled beneath the stone arches. Somewhere far off, the wind moaned like the groaning of chains. Seryn sat on the windowsill, staring into the darkness. His golden eyes glowed like two faint stars reflected in the glass.
"Two days…" he whispered. The attack was near. The plan was tight, the steps clear. But this time, he felt that he would not be walking alone — his shadow was heavier than ever.
He counted his breath: four short, two short.
"Mine," he whispered. "I will remain mine."
The emptiness folded his words and carried them away into the night.
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💭 Is the golden eye the mark of the chain — or the gleam of the blade that will break it?