The painting corridor felt different that night. The wall lamps burned steadily, their light warm but unable to dispel the chill rising from the stone floor. Rows of large frames lined either side, their wood carvings old and intricate, their shadows falling long and almost touching Mikhail's feet as he walked slowly down them. His footsteps echoed softly, too distinct for the usually unremarkable hallway.
He stopped in front of the painting.
The painting's surface once rippled gently like still water.
Now it was flat. Calm. As if it had never been alive.
Mikhail stared at it for a long time, unconsciously holding his breath. He waited for the small ripples to reappear, the subtle shifts in color, or the strange depth that had once drawn his gaze in. Nothing. Only the surface of the paint, the subtle cracks of age, the detailed brushstrokes so vivid they seemed to mock his own memory.
His hand rose slowly, then stopped a few centimeters from the surface. It hadn't felt like touching anything before. Now only the coldness lingered in the empty air between his fingers and the painting. He lowered his hand.
"Billy…" his voice was low, almost absorbed by the hallway.
There was no answer. Just the faint hum of the lights and a silence that wasn't quite empty—more like a silence that observed.
The reflection of his face was faint in the painting's shade. Pale. His eyes looked deeper than usual. For a moment, he waited for it to move a little late, different from him. It didn't.
Why the silence now?
His mind was heavy, not panicked. More like a slow descent into consciousness.
It all started after I asked.
He stepped closer, examining details he hadn't noticed before: the texture of the paint, the fine lines at the corners of the frame, the light dust on the edges of the wood. So real. So ordinary. And that was precisely what made his chest feel tight.
Yesterday this place felt like a door. Tonight it was just a wall.
Or the door was still there… just not for him anymore.
He stood there longer than he realized. Time seemed to thicken, like the air before rain. Nothing moved, nothing appeared, no sign of anything.
Just silence. And that silence felt like an answer.
After a while, he walked away towards his room.
The corridor leading to Mikhail's room was brighter than the portrait hallway, but somehow it felt narrower. The lamplight reflected palely on the stone floor, and in the distance could be heard the sounds of other students—doors closing, short laughter, hurried footsteps. The world went on as usual. Only he felt like he was walking slightly behind himself.
He opened his bedroom door slowly.
The small room welcomed him with a familiar silence. A wooden desk by the window. A narrow bed. The Scriptura Caelestis still lay on the desk, closed, its corners catching the lamplight, giving it a faint glow.
Mikhail stood for a moment, motionless.
Just a few hours ago, everything had felt simple. Practice. Laughter. Grass. The afternoon sun. Now it felt like the day belonged to someone else. But the sensation was still there.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his head down, his elbows resting on his knees. His head felt heavy, not dizzy, more like he was filled with too many colliding thoughts. The small room was silent, too ordinary for such an unusual night. His breath came out slowly through his nose, uneven, as if his body hadn't yet fully comprehended what had almost happened outside—the falling dust, the cracking sound, Ivan moving before anyone else.
Ivan didn't look like a hero… he looked like a victim who'd already survived.
He lifted his head slowly. His gaze fell to the table. The Scriptura Caelestis lay there, silent, closed, looking like the most ordinary object in the world. That was precisely what made it so hard to believe.
Mikhail stood and approached, but his hand didn't touch the book. He pulled out a thin notebook wedged beneath it. It should have contained small details—schedules, lesson quotes, trivial matters. Tonight, it felt like the traces of something forming a pattern.
He sat in the chair, opening the already filled page.
The first text was at the top, the ink already slightly faded.
Day 1 after Lumina.
Time: around noon.
Position: third row, near the window.
The words appeared in the corner of the Scriptura page.
It did not appear clearly. It did not shine like the main text. It appeared slowly. It disappeared quickly.
His eyes lingered on the line longer than necessary, as if the letters might change if stared at long enough. Nothing moved.
Below the first line of text:
The first night after Lumina. I woke up from something that wasn't an ordinary dream. There were no clear images, but there was space, threads of light, and something like a living river. I had no body, but I still felt pain. The feeling was real, not like a dream. There was another presence. Large. No clear shape. I didn't see its face. But it saw me.
There was a sentence that I heard, not with my ears, but inside my head: 'He is the beginning.' I don't know who 'He' is. I don't know if this is just a nightmare or something else. But it doesn't feel like imagination. It feels like... a call. Or a warning.
He is the beginning.
He had written it with confusion before. Now he read it with a different feeling—like reading the beginning of an unfinished story.
His hand reached for the pen. The tip hung in the air for a moment, hesitating, before finally touching the paper.
Day 2 after Lumina.
Time: around noon.
Position: hallway near the kitchen
I saw a painting of Prince Novron and the Witch in the hallway near the kitchen. It was normal at first. Then it felt strange. It felt like everyone in the painting was looking at me. My head hurt. Not a normal headache. Like something was pressing down from within. The walls around the painting were cracking. Not just any cracks. The stones were moving on their own and opening. There were stone steps leading down. I didn't see anyone else. No one called me. But I went in. I don't know why.
He stared at it for a moment, then wrote again underneath.
Downstairs. There was a huge room. Blue. Cold.
Lots of chairs. Six statues. Three large chairs. One very large statue behind it. It was holding a book. The symbol on its neck was a circle with a line through the center. There was a voice. There was no one there. The voice came from the statue. His name was Billy. He said he hadn't seen a human in a long time. I was so scared.
He said I could ask three questions. Each question had a price. Lucky, unlucky, or random. I couldn't choose. I didn't want to ask. But he said the exit door would open if I took one chance. I asked: Why are strange things starting to happen in my life?
The book flew out of his hand by itself. I was told to touch the paper. A blue mist emerged. Writing appeared on its own. I remember the text:
Someone controls your destiny.
"He" changes your destiny.
Two authorities collide.
Changes in destiny will occur frequently until two things come:
someone with the same destiny,
and when "He" calls your name.
I didn't understand. Who was "He"? What was authority? I didn't ask any more. I just wanted to get out. Billy said the door was open.
I returned to the corridor. Normal paintings. Normal walls. No cracks. If this was a dream, it felt too real. If this was real, I didn't know who to tell. I wasn't sure which was scarier.
His hand felt heavy as he wrote, as if the pen wasn't light wood, but iron pulled from deep water. His fingertips trembled slightly. He paused, his breathing uneven, then reread the lines he'd just written.
The words seemed foreign. As if they weren't his own.
As if it were someone else's story. But each sentence made his chest tighten again. The sound of the stone hitting the floor seemed to replay quietly in his head.
CLAK
His eyes remained silent for a moment longer.
"Ivan pushed me," he muttered.
His hand unconsciously touched his own shoulder—the place where the push had occurred. It wasn't the pain he remembered, but the split second between life and death. He swallowed hard. Then he looked down again. He wrote his next note.
Day 2 after Lumina
Late afternoon
Near the outer wall of the Atrium
Today I almost died. I wasn't afraid when it happened. It was all too fast. My body fell before my mind could catch up. But afterward… after everything calmed down… my body understood. The rock had fallen right where I was standing. If Ivan had been even a second slower, my head would have been there.
I kept thinking about one thing. Ivan didn't look surprised. He looked like someone who already knew. Not like seeing the rock fall.
More like seeing something about to fall. When our eyes met, it didn't feel like someone saving a friend. It felt like he saw something behind me… something I didn't see.
He was afraid. Not of the rock. When I met him in his room, he didn't seem like someone keeping a secret. He looked like someone who was afraid the secret was still nearby. Since then, one thought had been recurring: All of this started happening after I asked. Was this a consequence of my first question to Billy?
Then his pen stopped. A small ink dot formed on the paper from his prolonged inactivity. For the first time since he'd lived in the Atrium, he didn't feel like a student. He felt like someone who'd accidentally stood in the path of something passing by. And he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get out of the way in time.