Elior's room felt small, as though the stone walls had shrunk with the anxieties of every first-year who had ever slept there. The fireplace had died long ago, leaving behind the scent of cold ash and a trembling ember-glow on the low arched ceiling.
Varian's book lay on the old wooden table — not like an object, but like a guest waiting to be acknowledged.
Ash-grey leather, scratched as though something inside had once tried to claw its way out. The silver title Fundamentals of Ether Practice faded under the candlelight, as if ashamed… of being ordinary.
Elior sat.
The air changed — so silent he could hear the pulse in his wrist.
He placed his hand on the cover.
Cold.
Not the cold of an object — but the sensation of someone touching back.
A whisper, or perhaps only wind slipping through the window frame:
At last…
The book opened by itself.
The page was blank. Then ink began to seep through like blood through white cloth.
No full sentences — only one word:
Abyssal
Elior frowned. Abyss… depth? Not from any beginner's curriculum.
A second word surfaced slowly, as though savoring suspense:
Ether
Then the ink pressed downward, like being forced by sharp nails:
You have touched light.
Now, look at the dark.
Elior recoiled. "Who—?"
His voice echoed back only to himself.
The next page turned. Not text.
A scorched handprint.
Beneath it, a trembling line:
The one before you would not listen.
Did not speak.
Did not explain.
All that remained was a feeling: danger had once happened here — and could happen again.
Elior's throat tightened.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The ink breathed across the page:
A memory.
A whisper.
An old door needs someone to open it.
Not an answer. Not a riddle.
An invitation.
Elior touched the cover again — this time, deliberately. Ether slid from his palm onto the paper like a drop of light.
The book shivered, then… smiled in letters:
It seems you know how to knock.
A pattern appeared — black fractures, like earth splitting to reveal a bottomless void.
Beneath:
Not everyone is chosen to see what is forbidden.
Elior murmured,
"I don't want to become something… wrong."
Silence.
Then the ink returned, slow — almost tender:
Wrong?
No.
Only different.
Light needs shadow to see itself.
Elior's chest tightened — and, most dangerously, he felt understood.
The page rippled like a heartbeat beneath skin. One last line emerged:
They will not teach you true power.
I will.
When you are ready.
The candle flared, throwing Elior's shadow across the wall —
longer than a human shape, stretching downward into the stone as though toward some unseen depth.
He blinked. The page was blank again.
The book lay still, innocent as if nothing had ever been written.
No burn. No ink.
Only a sensation in Elior's chest — as though he had just stood at the edge of a chasm, and the wind had whispered if he wanted to step.
He exhaled, setting the book down.
Outside the window, Astra's sky turned a cold violet — dawn approaching.
Elior started. When had the night vanished?
In the corner, a faint shimmer at the cracked door — as if someone had watched, then slipped away.
No one knew what shadow kept him company through the night.
No one saw the final tremor of the closing page — like a quiet, satisfied breath.
Astra brightened.