Cyrus stepped through the exit door of the final test, leaving behind the stifling tension and shadows of the previous chamber. As he entered the next room, the heavy darkness was instantly replaced by a warm, golden glow that seemed to banish the weight of the trials he had just endured. The air was different here—filled with the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and sweet pastries. It was a welcome, disorienting contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the test chamber.
He had stepped into the grand dining hall of Ebonspire Academy.
The hall was immense, a cathedral of stone and light. Vaulted ceilings stretched high above, their intricate carvings depicting ancient magical battles and legendary wizards from the academy's storied past. Banners in rich colors hung from the walls, each representing one of the academy's ancient houses. Tall arched windows let in streams of sunlight that bathed the polished marble floor in a warm glow, as though the very air here was steeped in magic.
Long, heavy wooden tables were set in orderly rows, each laden with silver platters brimming with food. Platters of roasted meats, freshly baked loaves, and delicately arranged fruits stood next to goblets that seemed to refill themselves. The tables were already filling with newly accepted students, their faces alight with awe and excitement. The atmosphere buzzed with the hum of conversation, laughter, and clinking silverware, a symphony of life that stood in stark contrast to the silence of the trials.
At the far end of the hall, elevated on a dais, was a grand table reserved for the professors. Their keen, watchful eyes surveyed the bustling scene before them with calm authority, assessing the fresh batch of students who had passed through the crucible of the academy's trials.
Cyrus paused for a moment, taking it all in. His mind, still racing from the trials, felt caught between the oppressive tension of his previous challenges and the almost disarming beauty of the dining hall. The golden light, the laughter, the overwhelming scent of food—it all felt like a scene from another world. And yet, Cyrus knew better than to be lulled by the charm of the academy's grand hall. He could sense the weight of scrutiny in the air. He was being watched closely—by the professors, by the students, and perhaps by something deeper, hidden within the academy itself.
As he stood in the entryway, a tall, broad-shouldered man strode toward him with purpose. The man wore the rich green and gold robes of House Verdantis, the crest of the great oak embroidered over his chest. His dark brown hair was neatly trimmed, and his piercing blue eyes held a look of quiet authority. He carried himself with the ease of someone used to command but wore it lightly, not needing to prove his station.
"Welcome, Cyrus Vale," the man said, his voice resonating deeply, carrying a tone of respect. "I am Harold Hawkguard, second-in-command of House Verdantis. I've been asked to guide you to your seat and help you settle in."
Cyrus inclined his head in a brief, polite bow. "Thank you," he replied, his voice calm but his mind still assessing everything around him. He followed Harold, his eyes flicking around the room, taking note of everything—the arrangement of tables, the house colors, the interactions between students. Every detail mattered.
As they walked deeper into the hall, Cyrus couldn't help but marvel at the sheer scale and beauty of it. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting colorful reflections across the polished floors. The banners of the four houses fluttered faintly in a soft, magical breeze. The students—hundreds of them—were mingling at the tables, introducing themselves, sharing stories of their trials, some already forming bonds.
Harold led him toward the center of the room where students from different houses were intermingling. As they neared a group of students, a flash of silver caught Cyrus's eye. He turned just in time to avoid a collision with a graceful figure—an elf girl whose presence seemed to shift the very air around her.
She was breathtaking. Her silvery hair flowed like liquid moonlight down her back, and her eyes—an ethereal shade of violet—gleamed with intelligence and something else, something more mischievous. She wore the robes of House Lunaris, the deep blue fabric embroidered with constellations that seemed to shimmer and shift with her movements, as though the night sky itself had been woven into the cloth.
"Careful," she said in a soft, melodious voice, her lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. "You might want to watch where you're going."
For a moment, Cyrus was caught off guard, his usual sharp wit muted by her sudden presence. Her eyes danced with amusement as if she found the entire situation quite entertaining. Before he could muster a response, a familiar voice rang out from across the hall.
"Cyrus! Over here!" Layla's bright, cheerful voice broke through the noise of the dining hall.
The elf girl's smirk widened slightly, her violet eyes glinting with unspoken thoughts. She gave Cyrus a brief nod, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer, before she turned and gracefully disappeared into the crowd, her movements fluid and effortless.
Cyrus blinked, still processing the encounter, before turning toward Layla, who was waving at him energetically from a nearby table.
Cyrus watched the elf girl disappear into the crowd, her enigmatic smile lingering in his thoughts like a whisper of moonlight on still water. He shook off the distraction and made his way to Layla, who was seated at one of the long wooden tables, her infectious grin lighting up her face. Her hand shot up as soon as she spotted him, waving energetically.
"I saved you a spot!" Layla said, beaming as he approached.
Cyrus slid into the seat beside her, offering a slight nod in acknowledgment. His mind still buzzed with the recent events of the trials, but the grandeur of the dining hall forced him to take stock of his surroundings. The room was alive with chatter and laughter, students from all corners of the world basking in the glow of their acceptance into Ebonspire.
The hall itself was a marvel—vaulted ceilings that seemed to stretch toward the heavens, banners of the academy's houses hanging from stone pillars, and windows that cast shafts of golden light onto the polished marble floors. There was a tangible sense of history in the air, as if the very walls held the stories of wizards and witches long gone.
The hum of conversation dulled as attention shifted to the raised platform at the far end of the hall. There, standing with an air of quiet authority, was the grandmaster of Ebonspire Academy. His presence was magnetic—tall, with a commanding posture, and silver hair that flowed over his shoulders like a waterfall of starlight. His robes were rich with purple and gold, etched with runes that faintly shimmered in the ambient light. His blue eyes scanned the hall, a knowing gaze that seemed to see beyond the present moment.
With a slow, deliberate gesture, the grandmaster raised his hands, and the hall fell silent. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed across the space.
"Welcome, students, to Ebonspire Academy," he began, his tone warm yet solemn. "Each of you has earned your place here through courage, strength, and perseverance. You have faced the trials, and now you stand at the threshold of a new journey—one that will test not only your magic but your very essence."
Cyrus felt the grandmaster's words settle over the room like a heavy mantle. There was a gravity to this place, a weight of expectation that hung in the air. His eyes briefly met the grandmaster's, and for a fleeting moment, Cyrus felt as though the man could see straight through him—into the shadows of his past, into the depths of his hidden mission. The grandmaster's gaze lingered just a heartbeat longer before moving on.
"Here at Ebonspire, we are divided into five houses," the grandmaster continued, gesturing to the professors seated at the podium table behind him. "Each house embodies a different path, a different way of understanding magic and the world. But remember, though you may be sorted into one house, it is your heart and your choices that will define you."
The grandmaster turned to the first professor, a regal woman with silver hair and sharp eyes. "House Ignis," he said, his voice carrying a note of pride. "The house of fire, of passion and indomitable will. Those in House Ignis are known for their courage, their strength in adversity, and their burning desire to achieve greatness."
Cyrus noticed the students around him shifting excitedly as the professor nodded in acknowledgment, her expression one of quiet confidence. The students of House Ignis sat a little straighter, their faces glowing with pride.
"Next, we have House Verdantis," the grandmaster continued, gesturing to Professor Zara Windrider, whose demeanor was calm and composed. "The house of earth, of growth, and unshakable resolve. House Verdantis values wisdom, patience, and loyalty, and its students are often the pillars of strength in difficult times."
Cyrus glanced at Harold Hawkguard, who stood at attention near the back of the hall, representing House Verdantis. Harold caught his eye and gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment, and Cyrus returned the gesture. He filed away the information, ever calculating, ever assessing.
"House Lunaris," the grandmaster said, turning toward Professor Selene Moondrake, her ethereal presence unmistakable. "The house of the mind, of dreams, and the mysteries beyond the ordinary. House Lunaris values intellect, creativity, and the ability to see what others cannot. Its members are dreamers and visionaries, often looking beyond what is in front of them to grasp the unseen."
Cyrus's thoughts drifted briefly to the elf girl he had encountered earlier. Her silvery hair and graceful movements had left an impression. He wondered if she belonged to House Lunaris—if her mysterious air was part of the house's enigmatic nature.
"House Tenebrae," the grandmaster continued, his tone shifting to something darker, more serious. He gestured to Professor Thaddeus Blackthorn, whose intense gaze swept the room. "The house of shadows, of stealth and subtlety. House Tenebrae values cunning, resourcefulness, and the ability to strike from the darkness. Its students are those who walk the fine line between light and shadow, wielding power with precision and secrecy."
Something stirred within Cyrus as the grandmaster spoke of House Tenebrae. He felt an inexplicable connection to the words, as if the shadows the grandmaster mentioned were the same shadows that had always followed him, always protected him. For a moment, it felt as though the grandmaster was speaking directly to him, recognizing the secret depths within his soul.
"Finally, we have House Sylva," the grandmaster said, turning to Professor Morgath Thornweaver, who sat with a foreboding presence, his eyes dark and intense. "The house of nature, of balance, and of the primal forces that govern life and death. House Sylva values the connection to the earth, the understanding of natural law, and the power that comes from the ancient forces of the world."
As the grandmaster finished introducing the houses, Cyrus felt the weight of the decision that lay ahead. Soon, his path at Ebonspire would be determined, and with it, his place among these factions of power and tradition. Yet, beneath the surface, he knew that whatever house he was placed in, his mission would remain the same—hidden in the shadows, waiting to unfold.
As the grandmaster finished introducing the houses, he lowered his hands, his gaze sweeping across the room one final time. The hall was silent now, every student hanging on his words, the weight of the moment settling over them.
Cyrus leaned closer to Layla, his voice barely a whisper. "Is that Magnus?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on the imposing figure at the head of the room.
Layla nodded, her face lighting up with reverence. "Yes, the great Magnus himself."
Cyrus studied the grandmaster for a moment longer, feeling a surge of curiosity. Magnus was a figure steeped in legend, the stories of his unmatched power and wisdom woven through the very fabric of the academy's history. He had heard so much about him—his role in shaping Ebonspire, his battles against the dark forces of the past—but seeing him in person, standing so calmly and confidently before the students, felt surreal.
But before Cyrus could dwell on it any longer, Layla's cheerful voice pulled him back into the present.
"How did your exams go?" she asked, her eyes wide with excitement. "I struggled with the golem, honestly. But there's a rumor going around that one of the new students broke The Oracle's Heart—some kind of prodigy."
Cyrus forced a casual shrug, keeping his face neutral. "The exams were tough. The golem was... challenging." He carefully avoided any mention of The Oracle's Heart, knowing full well that Layla was referring to him, but he wasn't ready to reveal anything yet. "But that rumor—it's probably just that. Students hyping things up."
Layla tilted her head, studying him with a hint of suspicion, but before she could probe further, something interrupted them.
A sudden jolt. Someone had deliberately bumped into Cyrus's chair, causing his cup to spill across the table. Water splashed over the polished wood, and Cyrus slowly turned, his expression darkening as he looked up at the culprit.
A tall boy with slicked-back blue hair stood behind him, his uniform immaculate and adorned with a crest indicating a prestigious family. His pale blue eyes gleamed with arrogance as he looked down at Cyrus, a sneer curling his lips.
"What's the matter? Can't even hold a cup?" the boy mocked, his voice dripping with condescension.
Cyrus locked eyes with him, feeling the familiar, simmering anger rise within him. But he remained silent, forcing himself to stay calm. It was his first day at Ebonspire, and getting into a confrontation wasn't part of the plan. He needed to remain in control.
The boy seemed to take Cyrus's silence as a challenge, his smirk widening. He took a step closer, his posture oozing superiority. "My, I've never seen anyone who looks like you. White hair and red eyes—was your mother a demon?" He laughed, a cruel sound, echoed by the two boys flanking him—one chubby with brown hair, the other a dark elf with sharp features and a wicked grin.
Layla shot to her feet, her face flushed with anger. "Leave him alone!" she shouted, her voice trembling with fury.
The blue-haired boy turned his sneer toward her. "Or what?" he taunted, his tone mocking.
"He doesn't want any trouble!" Layla said, her fists clenched by her sides, her eyes blazing.
The boy's sneer deepened. "Where's he from, anyway? Looks like a peasant. Maybe a farm boy? Or does he let you speak for him because he can't handle himself?"
At that, Cyrus felt something snap. He stood, his movements slow but deliberate, towering over the boy. His red eyes burned with a cold fury as he grabbed the boy by the collar and lifted him off the ground with ease. The blue-haired boy's smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of fear as he realized the mistake he had made.
But before Cyrus could do anything further, a shadow fell over them, and a powerful presence stilled the air. Morgath Thornweaver stepped forward, his stern gaze sweeping between the two boys, his voice low and commanding.
"Enough," Morgath growled, his tone like rolling thunder.
With a subtle wave of his hand, Morgath cast a spell that rendered both Cyrus and the boy immobile. The hall fell into a hushed silence, the tension thick in the air as everyone waited to see what would happen next. Morgath's presence was suffocating, his power palpable as he separated the two with a mere gesture.
He turned to the blue-haired boy first, his gaze sharp and unforgiving.
Cyrus watched Eltric and his friends retreat, their arrogance deflating in the face of Morgath's authority. The moment the professor turned his gaze to Cyrus, a cold chill passed between them. Morgath's eyes, dark and probing, seemed to pierce through him, searching for something beneath the surface.
"Eltric Ravendale, be on your way now," Morgath ordered, his voice sharp with finality. "Before I report this to your mother and father."
Eltric's cocky demeanor crumbled, his bravado replaced with a flicker of fear. Without another word, he stumbled backward, his companions trailing behind him, their earlier arrogance fading as they hurried away from the dining hall.
Morgath's attention shifted to Cyrus, his stare lingering with unsettling intensity. There was something in his gaze—something deeper than mere curiosity. "Cyrus Vale… hmm, you are an interesting one indeed," Morgath said, his voice low and full of warning. "Best not to attract unnecessary attention. You wouldn't want too many eyes on you, would you?"
Cyrus met Morgath's gaze, keeping his expression calm and unreadable as he nodded slowly. The unspoken threat hung in the air, and for a long moment, it felt like a silent battle of wills. But before Cyrus could respond, Layla broke the tension.
"But it was them that started—" Layla protested, but Morgath silenced her with a simple gesture, his hand raised to stop her mid-sentence.
The professor's gaze lingered on Cyrus for a moment longer, unreadable and full of caution, before he turned and swept out of the hall. His robes flowed behind him like shadows as he vanished into the corridor. As soon as Morgath left, the buzz of conversation slowly resumed, though many of the students continued to cast curious glances at Cyrus and Layla.
Cyrus sat back down, his fists still clenched under the table, the muscles in his jaw tight. The tension in his body refused to dissipate, anger simmering just beneath the surface. Layla, her face a mixture of worry and frustration, reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her voice soft but firm.
"Don't let them get to you," Layla said, her words meant to soothe. "Eltric and his friends are nothing but cowards. You did the right thing."
Cyrus gave a slow nod, but the seething fury inside him hadn't yet cooled. The urge to lash out, to silence Eltric's sneering voice permanently, still gnawed at him. He had been close—too close—to losing control. And losing control here, in front of everyone, wasn't an option.
The thought of ending Eltric's life, of silencing his cruel words forever, began to sink its roots deep into Cyrus's mind. He could do it—easily, efficiently, with the precision he had been trained to wield. The shadows had always been his allies, cloaking his darkest deeds and shielding them from the prying eyes of the world. For a moment, the image of Eltric lying lifeless, his sneer forever gone, seemed almost satisfying. But as the thought took shape, something inside Cyrus twisted, a cold, familiar sensation creeping into his chest like a sharp, unbidden reminder.
Just as the darkness in his mind threatened to overtake him, a faint whisper broke through, delicate yet piercing.
"Cyrus…"
The voice, soft and sorrowful, resonated deep within him. It was Ella's voice—a voice that had haunted him for so long, no matter how hard he tried to bury it in the past. Her presence lingered at the edges of his thoughts, a reminder of all the things he wished to forget, yet couldn't.
Her whispered plea pulled him back from the edge, away from the violent fantasy. Slowly, the image of Eltric's lifeless body faded from his mind, replaced by the cold, sobering reality of what he was—what he had been trained to do. His fists loosened, the tension draining from his knuckles as he forced a deep, steady breath. He couldn't afford to lose control. Not here. Not now.
The shadows might have shielded him before, but Ebonspire was not a place for recklessness. He had to play a longer, more patient game. Eltric would pay, but not today. Today, Cyrus needed to stay hidden beneath the mask he had so carefully constructed—remain unseen, unnoticed, blending into the crowd until it was time to strike.
Ella's whisper faded, leaving behind the familiar emptiness that Cyrus had come to know too well. He swallowed the lingering bitterness, pushing the memories back into the shadows, and met Layla's worried gaze.
"You're right," he said quietly, his voice steady, though a flicker of something darker danced in his eyes. "I did the right thing."
Even as the words left his mouth, Cyrus knew the truth—the darkness that lurked within him was not gone. It was patient, waiting for its moment, waiting to be unleashed when the time was right. Eltric and his cronies would get what they deserved, but it would be on Cyrus's terms, in a way that no one would see coming.
For now, he would bide his time, keep his secrets hidden, and wait for the shadows to deliver justice when the moment was ripe.