The morning light in Astra was not ordinary light.
It drifted like mist, fragile and pale — yet heavy,
as though every particle carried a question waiting to be answered.
Elior walked through the marble corridor,
his palm still remembering the cold of last night.
Lucen was silent, inhaling once in a while
as if to remind himself he was still alive.
Alice strode ahead — steady steps,
yet frost around her fell slower than it should,
a telltale shimmer of a mind pulled tight as wire.
No one spoke about last night.
Not because they were brave —
but because in Astra, when truth draws too near,
silence is the last armor one can wear.
The great doors of the Third Circle classroom swung open.
A vast chamber rose before them —
cathedral-high like a sanctuary built for war,
golden light spilling across stone pillars,
runes running along the ceiling like veins inside some ancient, living titan.
The heart of Astra —
and if this place ever fell,
the whole city would fall silent with it.
But today, the air held not only reverence —
it prowled.
Varzek stood by the windows,
Kerr and Morr flanking him,
their shadows stretched long like spears of darkness.
"Well, the weaklings have arrived,"
Varzek sneered, voice scraping like claws over glass.
Elior did not respond.
Alice stopped — a shard of frost slid off the tip of her staff,
shattering on the floor with a sound that felt very much like a warning.
"Say that again," she whispered.
Soft voice.
Cold enough to frost the breath in the air.
Dark sparks crawled across Varzek's blade.
Kerr and Morr bared pointed teeth.
Then — thunk.
Metal bit stone.
Roen Valkar stepped forward.
His amber eyes burned like caged wildfire,
and the twin flame-spears on his back hummed, restless.
"In Astra," he said quietly,
"the truly strong do not shout. They simply fight."
The three demons did not retreat,
but they held breath — just for a heartbeat.
Not because Roen was stronger.
But because his gaze belonged to someone
who had walked the razor edge between control and ruin
and survived.
No one enjoys fighting a boy willing to burn with you.
The doors burst open.
Pale white fire swept across the room.
Professor Elara Vynn entered —
silent, yet every demon, angel, and spirit straightened like a drawn bowstring.
"Today's lesson," she said, voice smooth but sharp at the edges like a silver blade,
"is Telekinesis."
Half the class groaned.
A few lifted their quills to float smugly.
Others smirked.
Elara raised a hand.
No wind.
No thunder.
Only a small orb of white flame appearing in her palm —
still as glass, yet the entire room shuddered.
All quills clattered and fell.
"If you believe you already know this spell,"
her gaze flickered through them like fire testing steel,
"then why are you merely shoving matter with thought
instead of commanding Ether itself?"
Silence.
Not fear — reverence, sharpened by dread.
"Loosen thought.
See, without hunger.
Call, without pulling."
Lucen bit his lip.
Alice closed her eyes.
Elior placed his hand on the desk —
only slightly shaking.
He inhaled the way Remiel once taught him:
In — light.
Out — silence.
"Begin," Elara commanded.
"Telekinesis."
Alice's book rose, frost shimmering like breath on winter glass.
Lucen lifted his quill, trembling like a leaf in cold wind.
Elior… nothing.
No movement.
No whisper of air.
Laughter — brief, then spreading.
Elior clenched his jaw — not angry,
but pierced by a quiet, aching shame.
He tried again, pushing energy through instinct.
The quill exploded into silver dust.
Gasps.
Snickers.
Elara did not laugh.
Her eyes narrowed —
as though she had seen this before,
in someone who once bent Ether until it cracked.
And then — a soft knock.
Solomon stood in the doorway,
as if he had always been there, unseen.
"Class dismissed."
No one questioned him.
He led Elior through a dim corridor,
sound swallowed like secrets under stone.
They reached the Mid-Chamber —
floating slabs of rock,
Ether thunder pulsing like titan hearts beating in the deep.
Solomon touched the wall.
Stone obeyed, opening a door without hinges or sound.
A room.
Empty.
Still — as if Ether itself had yet to be named.
"From today," he said,
voice bearing the weight of an unwelcome truth,
"you will train here until your Telekinesis obeys not instinct… but will."
His hand rested on Elior's shoulder — gentle,
yet it felt like someone touching a locked door inside his soul.
"Breathe.
Do not resist.
Do not fear."
Elior inhaled.
Closed his eyes.
The quill rose — trembling, yet obedient.
Solomon exhaled, barely relieved —
as though some celestial tally had been narrowly spared.
"Tell no one," he murmured,
"and if asked, you are the weakest telekinetic in class.
Remember Remiel's words."
His gaze deepened —
beyond time, into winter.
"The world is not ready for your kind of light."
He turned to leave, whispering a final warning, quiet as snow falling over graves:
"And Elior…
if one day light listens to you instead of obeying you —
come to me at once.
Do not let it lead."
The door sealed.
Darkness returned —
except for a single mote of light,
hovering like a watchful eye.
Elior breathed,
hands trembling.
For the first time, he did not know
whether he was learning magic —
or holding himself together
to keep from becoming something else entirely.
Outside, Ether thunder cracked.
Astra did not sleep.
And light, too,
began to fear breathing.