The students were eating as usual in the great hall, chatter echoing through the vaulted space—until the silence struck.

  Above them, a boy hovered in midair, arms casually folded, a smirk dancing on his lips. He has sharp, expressive features—narrow, intelligent eyes often gleaming with mischief or arrogance, and a sly, knowing smirk that rarely leaves his lips. His light brown hair is neatly parted to the side, with smooth, slightly tousled layers that frame his pale face. The color gives him a softer, more grounded look, contrasting the usual dramatic flair in his personality. Below him, Professor Alastor stood stiffly, wand raised high, holding the levitation spell with visible effort.

  Gasps rippled across the room.

  “What in the world is going on, Professor Alastor ?” Headmaster Alaric Damaris demanded, his voice sharp with confusion as he strode into the hall, silencing the last few whispers.

  Professor Alastor jabbed a finger toward the boy. “My lord, this child was caught trying to steal the Ember Sigil. If he’d made it past the main gate, we’d have lost him!”

  Kael, still floating lazily in the air, crossed his legs with a theatrical sigh. “That was the main gate? Damn. I thought it was a glorified pothole.”

  Murmurs and snickers erupted before a woman in rich violet robe stood up from the staff table. Her silver jewelry glinted as she raised her voice.

  “That’s enough. Put him down, Alastor ,” said Seraphine Verya, the school’s fortune teller and seer.

  Alastor frowned. “But he—! I mean, the sigil, he—!” He grumbled incoherently, but with a final flick of his wand, Kael descended slowly to the floor.

  Kael landed gracefully, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers with dramatic flair before placing one hand on his hip. “Gods, Alastor . That was painfully stupid. And I don't say that lightly.”

  Seraphine approached him, studying his face. “You must be Kael Ichabod, am I right?” she said, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

  Kael arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t fortune-telling your whole thing? Why are you asking me?” He tried to slap her hand away, but her grip was surprisingly firm.

  Seraphine squinted, murmuring almost to herself. “Hmm… Complex aura. You’re not ordinary at all. You must be an Aetherion.”

  Kael stiffened. “Did you just tell me I’m an Aetherion? Don’t piss me off, woman.”

  “Enough!” Headmaster Damaris thundered, stepping between them. He pointed first at Kael, then at Seraphine. “Boy, you will show respect to Madam Verya. And as for you, Seraphine, you can’t just declare someone’s house like that. He doesn't belong here.”

  Seraphine’s eyes didn’t leave Kael. “With all due respect, Headmaster… I see what you do not. He belongs here more than anyone. He will change this school—mark my words.”

  The room was silent again, but this time it buzzed with tension.

  "Okay, I’d honestly rather go to jail than stay in this knockoff castle school," Kael smirked, hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced to the side, then winked at a random girl, who blinked in bewilderment.

  “Child, close your mouth before I stitch it shut with magic,” Miss Verya snapped, her voice calm but dangerous. Kael just rolled his eyes.

  Turning to the headmaster, she softened. “Trust me, my lord. Give him a chance.”

  Headmaster Alaric Damaris frowned, rubbing his chin in thought. After a long pause, he finally gave a curt nod. “Very well. One chance.”

  Kael stared at them both like they’d lost their minds. “Wait. This is ridiculous. I’m not even a wizard,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face in visible disappointment.

  Miss Verya didn’t reply. Instead, her assistant, Elian Merren, a tall young man with half-buttoned sleeves and tired eyes, stepped forward.

  “Follow me, Ichabod. I’ll take you to the changing room,” he said, grabbing Kael’s sleeve and tugging him away before the boy could protest.

  As they disappeared down the hall, the students burst into hushed whispers.

  “How the hell does he belong here? He literally tried to steal the Ember Sigil,” said one of the black-haired twins, Trix Vale, her nose wrinkled in disbelief.

  Roise Elwood, sitting beside her, just hummed and stabbed her salad with her fork. “Honestly? I think it’s kinda cool. I mean, he’s an Aetherion. That’s rare as hell.”

  She leaned her cheek against her hand, eyes drifting dreamily. “Way cooler than Crowe. Ugh.”

  From across the table, Crowe Bevere looked up from his soup, somehow sensing slander.

  ???

  “Dude, this uniform is white. White. And we’re supposed to go underground?” Kael muttered for the sixth time, while tugging at the stiff collar. “Who designed this? It’s giving ‘ceremonial burial robe.’’

  Elian, walking beside him with a patient smile, let out a quiet laugh. “You’re a walking nega mind, Ichabod.”

  “I’m a realist. This cloak looks like it lost a fight with mildew.”

  Still chuckling, Elian held the classroom door open. “Since you were late, you’ve been assigned to Professor Grimsbane’s class for second period. Just behave, alright?”

  Kael raised a hand in mock salute. “Yeah, sure. I’ll definitely do that.”

  Without waiting for Elian, Kael walked away, hands in his pockets, exuding the exact opposite of enthusiasm.

  He rushed to open the classroom door just in time for the bell to ring. Students were still settling in, but every head turned the moment he stepped inside. The air buzzed with the kind of silence reserved for something suspicious.

  Two black-haired students detached themselves from the crowd almost instantly and approached him.

  “Man, that was fast,” Tavi said brightly, already half-laughing as he leaned against the doorway with ease.“Tavi Vale. Aetherion House. Trix’s Twin brother, menace, whatever you need.”

  Trix followed at a slower pace, arms crossed and gaze cool. “Don’t get comfortable. We’re just curious, not welcoming.”

  Tavi bumped her shoulder playfully. “She means she’s thrilled to meet you.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Trix gave Kael a once-over and extended a hand out of politeness, not warmth. “Trix Vale. Vermillion. Try not to make the class explode.”

  Kael stared at her hand like it was coated in acid. “I want to die so bad right now,” he muttered under his breath, brushing past them to the nearest empty desk.

  Tavi whistled. “Wow. He's moody. I like him.”

  Trix didn’t blink. “Of course you do.”

  While the twins bickered, they failed to notice the sudden arrival of Professor Grimsbane, who now stood silently before them, arms crossed, brow raised.

  He was young for a professor—maybe twenty-five—with slicked-back black hair and a lean, almost too-perfect figure. There was something uncanny about him, like a drawing that came to life: pale skin, dark eyes, and a calm expression that rarely betrayed his thoughts.

  Both twins looked up in sync, their faces freezing in matching horror.

  Without a word, Professor Grimsbane flicked each of them on the forehead.

  "I suggest you return to your seats before I start deducting points for theatrical flair," he said coolly, using a flick of his wand to gently turn them around like disobedient chess pieces.

  He cast a glance toward Kael and offered a faint smile. “Mr. Ichabod—loyal as ever.”

  Kael blinked. “That was… unexpected. Not that I needed the rescue or anything, but sure,” he muttered under his breath as he turned to his left.

  Beside him sat Crowe Bevere, hunched over his notebook, scribbling something with mechanical focus. He had sharp cheekbones, pale skin, and dark eyes half-hidden beneath unruly bangs—like a brooding portrait of precision. He looked strikingly good with his hair down: handsome and intimidating.

  Crowe glanced up with a glare. “What do you want, Ichabod?”

  Kael extended a hand, undeterred. “Just a piece of paper. And a pen. One page, I swear. You should be grateful I’m not in the mood to steal something today.”

  Crowe narrowed his eyes, then—still suspicious—ripped a page from his notebook and handed it over. His expression remained one of thinly-veiled confusion.

  Kael gave him a nod. “Thanks. You’re a saint. A terrifying one, but still.”

  Professor Grimsbane strode to the front of the classroom, his deep green robes sweeping behind him like storm clouds. His wand tapped once against the chalkboard, and glowing letters formed in elegant script: "Spectromancy."

  "Now," he said, voice rich and commanding, "can anyone tell me what Spectromancy is?"

  Instantly, a flurry of hands shot into the air. Students practically lifted from their chairs, eager to be chosen. Every hand—except one.

  Kael Ichabod leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk, arms folded behind his head like he was sunbathing. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression unreadable.

  Professor Grimsbane’s eyes scanned the sea of raised hands... then narrowed with amusement.

  "Mr. Ichabod," he said, pointing his wand at Kael with theatrical flourish. A soft gold glow shimmered from the tip. "Enlighten us."

  Kael blinked. Slowly sat up. Both feet hit the floor with a lazy thud. He raised his hands as if in surrender. “Alright, alright…” he sighed, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. “Let’s see…”

  He paused, squinting up at the board. “Spectromancy. ‘Spectro’... like, ghost stuff, right? Specters. Spirits. Wailing things in basements. That sort of vibe?”

  A few students chuckled. Professor Grimsbane, to everyone's surprise, nodded.

  “Go on.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “You’re closer than half the class.”

  Kael shrugged. “Uh… So, Spectromancy’s probably magic that deals with ghosts, spirits, echoes of the dead, or whatever. Communicating with them, banishing them, making them scream for dramatic effect—I dunno.”

  Professor Grimsbane’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Imprecise, but accurate enough. Well done, Mr. Ichabod.”

  There was a collective blink from the rest of the class. Trix scowled faintly. Tavi gave a soft “whoa.” Even Rosie peeked over her book with a raised brow.

  Kael just leaned back again and muttered, “Great. I'm haunted and smart. Put that on my tombstone.”

  Grimsbane continued, stepping toward the board. “Spectromancy is indeed the study of spectral forces—spirits, echoes, and entities not fully alive, nor fully gone. It is ancient, complex, and—when mishandled—quite dangerous. But in the right hands... very useful.”

  Kael whispered under his breath, “Bet it’s also the leading cause of surprise hauntings.”

  Grimsbane smiled without turning around. “And yet somehow, Mr. Ichabod, I suspect you’ll do well in this class. Provided you stay alive.”

  Kael blinked. “That’s not ominous at all.”

  “I still can’t believe a stray could answer that,” Crowe muttered, slumping back into his chair as he reluctantly lowered his hand. His voice was laced with a touch of sarcasm and something else—curiosity, maybe resentment.

  Kael just smirked at him, cool as ever, crossing one leg over the other. The faintest flicker of amusement danced in his eyes as he twirled the pen he’d snatched from Crowe earlier between his fingers.

  “Can’t believe it either,” Kael said, shrugging. “Honestly, I was expecting to fail gloriously.”

  He elbowed Crowe in the side with casual familiarity. “Come to think of it, I never caught your name.”

  Crowe didn’t look up. He was doodling half-heartedly in the margins of his notebook—vague shapes that looked like birds or masks. “Everyone just calls me Crowe,” he replied, voice low and distracted. “But my real name’s Jericho Bevere. No idea where they got that nickname, and I’m not exactly fighting to keep it.”

  Kael snorted. “Jericho sounds like a war general. Or a tragic poet.”

  Crowe raised an eyebrow. “You saying I’m tragic?”

  Kael ignored the jab, chuckling under his breath. “I don’t like my dad’s name either. It’s stupid. And cursed, probably.”

  That got Crowe’s attention. He glanced at Kael sideways, a flicker of something like understanding in his expression. But before he could say anything, his eyes darted to the front of the class.

  “Crap,” he hissed. “Professor Grimsbane’s almost done with the entire lecture. I was supposed to take notes—damn it—”

  He flipped furiously through his textbook, scanning paragraphs, pages, and diagrams. Panic was quickly taking hold.

  Kael, meanwhile, looked completely unbothered. He sat there like a cat in the sun, chin resting in his palm, eyes half-closed. He reached into his cloak, casually pulled out a folded paper, and offered it wordlessly to Crowe.

  Crowe blinked. “What’s this?”

  “My notes,” Kael said simply. “You can have it. I’ll find more paper later, or just make one out of stolen homework. Night missions have their perks.”

  Crowe took the sheet cautiously, like it might bite. But when he opened it, his jaw actually dropped a little. The handwriting was quick but legible, filled with sharp notations, summaries, and even a diagram or two.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “How the hell did you write this while talking to me the whole time?” he whispered, eyes scanning the page. “You even got the part about spectral harmonics—dude, that was like five minutes ago.”

  Kael smirked from under his hood. “I’m a professional thief. Multitasking comes with the lifestyle. You learn to swipe, eavesdrop, and fake innocence all at once.”

  Crowe stared at the page, then at Kael. “That’s... actually impressive. Like, annoyingly impressive.”

  “I get that a lot,” Kael mumbled, already pulling his cloak over his face. “Now let me nap before I start levitating someone out of spite.”

  Crowe looked down at the notes again, then back at Kael—now slouched in his seat like he didn’t have a care in the world. He shook his head and muttered, “Freaking stray,” but this time, it sounded almost fond.

  ???

  “Ashtray, wake up,” Crowe muttered, shaking Kael’s shoulder just as the second period ended. The soft hum of students packing up filled the classroom—books slamming shut, chairs scraping against the floor, idle chatter echoing off stone walls.

  Kael didn’t move. His cloak was still draped over his face, and he was snoring faintly, one leg still propped lazily over the desk like he owned the place.

  Tavi leaned over, eyebrow raised. “Ashtray? Is that some kind of secret code name? Do you two have like—bonding rituals now?” He nudged Crowe playfully with his elbow. “Should I be worried? Jealous?”

  Crowe gave him a look that could curdle milk. “Don’t make me regret introducing you to him.”

  Tavi ignored him, turning to Kael, who still hadn’t stirred. “He looks so peaceful. Kinda like a sleeping cat that would stab you if you got too close—"

  “Let me go or die,” Kael mumbled, still not opening his eyes.

  Both Tavi and Crowe flinched back like they’d been electrocuted.

  “Dear gods,” Tavi gasped, clutching the desk dramatically. “That’s the third time today my soul has launched itself out of my body.”

  Kael groaned and slowly lifted the edge of his cloak, revealing tired, half-lidded eyes. He looked first at Tavi, then at Crowe with the deadpan stare of someone already regretting being awake.

  “Do I look like I care?” he muttered, voice dry as dust.

  Crowe rolled his eyes but smiled faintly. “Come on. Lunch. Let’s go.”

  “Where’s the nearest forest?” Kael asked, standing slowly and stretching like a big, annoyed cat. “I only studied the blueprints of this building, and I’ve gotta say—it’s pathetically designed. No escape tunnels, no good sightlines.”

  Tavi blinked. “Why do you need a forest?”

  Kael pointed at him without looking. “Shut up, Vale.”

  Crowe gave a small sigh. “Outside, past the East Wing gardens. You can go there after fourth period. Assuming you survive the cafeteria.”

  Kael gave him a lazy shrug and started for the door without another word.

  Crowe glanced at Tavi and motioned with his head for him to follow. “He’s gonna get himself arrested if we leave him alone.”

  The three of them exited the classroom, weaving through students who gave Kael odd, curious stares. Some whispered. A few even parted like he was some kind of wild animal recently let off a chain.

  “Trust me, Kael,” Tavi said, catching up and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “The food in the dining hall? Literal heaven. Magical mashed potatoes. Enchanted strawberry tarts. Soup that changes flavor if you stir it counterclockwise.”

  Kael leaned slightly away from the contact, side-eyeing Tavi’s arm. “Is it free?”

  “Yep,” Crowe answered from behind them. “Every meal, no coin needed. Welcome to the perks of near-indentured magical education.”

  Kael raised an eyebrow, slightly impressed. “Do they have beer?”

  “I wish,” Tavi groaned wistfully. “Just enchanted water that sometimes tastes like raspberries if you’re lucky.”

  “Lame,” Kael muttered.

  “Better than the sewer water you probably drank wherever you came from,” Crowe said, smirking.

  Kael shot him a sideways look, but his lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh. “Maybe. But at least sewer water doesn’t come with homework.”

  They rounded a corner, the faint scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafting toward them. Kael sniffed the air and—though he didn’t say it out loud—his stomach gave an incriminating growl.

  Tavi grinned. “Told you. Heaven.”

  Kael rolled his eyes but kept walking. “If this food sucks, I’m burning the place down.”

  “Sure, Ashtray,” Crowe muttered with a smile. “Whatever keeps you going.”

  The Aetherion House table was buzzing with life, laughter echoing from students down the long stretch of enchanted oak. Floating candles cast a soft glow overhead, and platters refilled themselves with every blink. Kael sat sandwiched between Tavi and Crowe, the former cheerfully teasing his sister across the table while Crowe quietly sipped from a silver goblet.

  Kael, however, wasn’t doing either of those things.

  He was staring at the feast in front of him like it was a miracle.

  Roasted chicken with golden, crackling skin. Spiced root vegetables that shimmered with heat. Salads that glowed faintly green from the enchantments woven into their leaves. And bread—fresh, warm, crusty bread with butter that melted on contact.

  Kael looked… different. His usual guarded scowl was replaced with something softer. Bright-eyed. Almost like an excited puppy—if that puppy also looked like it might knife someone under the table.

  Crowe noticed and raised a brow. “All this food making you nervous?”

  Kael looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder. “All of this is free?”

  “Uh… yeah?” Crowe replied slowly, like it should be obvious. “Why?”

  Kael didn’t answer. He just muttered a sound that might’ve been “holy sh—” and immediately launched into motion like he’d just been unchained. No utensils, no hesitation—he dove in, shoving roasted chicken into his mouth, scooping up mashed potatoes with his hands, and tearing a chunk of bread with his teeth like a half-starved bandit.

  Crowe blinked. Tavi paused mid-joke with his sister. Trix, across the table, nearly dropped her fork.

  Then all three of them burst out laughing.

  “What?” Kael looked up, cheeks puffed and lips greasy with chicken juice, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve like a true outlaw. “It’s not like I eat like this every day.”

  “You eat food like this?” Trix teased from across the table, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “I thought you just pocketed it for later.”

  Kael didn’t even blink. “I do.”

  “What do you do with the stuff you steal then?” she asked.

  He glanced up at her, deadpan. “Secret.”

  Then, still making eye contact, he dramatically shoved an entire fried chicken wing into his mouth.

  Trix snorted and went back to her salad, mumbling something about “feral alley boys.”

  Crowe leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only Kael could hear. “You’re weird.”

  Kael paused mid-bite, turned to him, and gave the most smug, greasy smile Crowe had ever seen. “Takes one to know one, Bevere.”

  Tavi grinned as he leaned over the table, tossing a grape at Kael that bounced off his cloak. “Hey, if you’re done eating like a sewer goblin, wanna help me convince the kitchen to enchant dessert with caffeine?”

  Kael just shrugged. “I’ll go if they give me more chicken.”

  “Deal,” Tavi nodded.

  As the laughter picked back up and the table filled with the clatter of plates and the smell of magic-laced spices, Kael leaned back just slightly in his seat. He still chewed like a man on a mission, but his shoulders were relaxed now. Less like a stray dog and more like someone who—maybe for the first time in a while—had been invited inside.

  ???

  The sun hung low over the East Wing Gardens, casting golden streaks over the worn stone path as the trio strolled along—Crowe with his hands in his coat pockets, Tavi bouncing beside them with unspent energy, and Kael dragging his feet like a disinterested cat.

  "I thought you said there was a forest," Kael grumbled, glancing at the rows of neatly trimmed hedges and delicate flowerbeds.

  "There is a forest," Crowe replied, sounding equally annoyed. "You just have to walk past this fancy garden first."

  "Great," Kael muttered. "A rich people’s maze."

  As they moved deeper into the garden, looking for the smallest and least glamorous tree they could find, Kael stopped short. His eyes locked on a gnarled, crooked sapling tucked behind an overgrown hedge. Its bark was pale and smooth, almost bone-white, with thin branches curled like old fingers.

  He reached toward one of the branches, about to test the strength of it—when snap!

  A sudden crack echoed through the air as the branch broke off and practically jumped into Kael’s hand, vibrating with a strange energy. He flinched, instinctively tightening his grip.

  “What the heck is this? A stick?” Kael muttered, holding it up. But as he flicked it lightly left and right, the "stick" glowed faintly gold, then pulsed with a sudden spark that zapped his fingers.

  “Damn—it stings.”

  “Give me that,” Crowe snapped, snatching it from Kael’s hand. He turned it slowly, his eyes narrowing in realization. The wand shimmered faintly under the light, and strange, archaic runes began to surface like ink bleeding through paper.

  “This isn’t just a stick,” Crowe said slowly. “This… this is the Virellian Wand. It went missing fifty years ago—thought to be lost during the Cleansing Trials. It’s supposed to have a sentient core. Old lore says it chooses the wielder.”

  Kael blinked, pointing to himself with dramatic disbelief. “You’re saying this wand—this ancient magical relic—chose me?”

  Crowe nodded, still staring at the glowing wand in awe. “Looks like it.”

  Kael groaned. “Ugh. What kind of cursed mood ring stick picks me?”

  But before anyone could say anything more, Kael suddenly gasped and spun around. “Oh look! A perfect tree!” he declared with a completely different tone, his mood flipping like a coin. He bolted toward a medium-sized tree with silver-green bark, yanking both Crowe and Tavi with him by the sleeves.

  “You’re just gonna ignore the flippin’ ancient wand!?” Tavi cried, trying to keep up. “Are you even listening right now!?”

  Kael crouched beside the tree like a surgeon preparing for a very important operation. “Texture’s perfect… solid grain, a bit of natural bend… color’s good too.” He ran his fingers gently over the bark, his eyes narrowed in deep concentration.

  “Cut it to the length of your notebook, Bevere,” he said without looking up.

  Crowe hesitated. “Wait, why—?”

  “Just do it,” Kael barked. “Trust me.”

  Sighing, Crowe raised the wand and muttered, “Sylvax Cleavera.”

  At once, the wand hummed with a low, resonant note and glowed softly. A thin line of light traced itself around the tree trunk exactly to the dimensions Kael had described. There was a rush of wind—and then, with a soft whoosh, the marked section of the tree was cleanly and precisely severed, floating gently down into Kael’s waiting hands.

  Tavi blinked. “Okay, that was insanely cool.”

  delicate taps. It was messy, imperfect work, but there was a spark of fascination in his eyes as he worked. Like he wasn’t just making paper—he was crafting something secret. Something personal.

  From time to time, he glanced at the wand lying nearby, still faintly glowing where he’d left it on the bed. He hadn’t touched it since earlier, but he felt its presence. Like it was watching. Waiting.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured to it without thinking. “I’m not ready to be your Chosen One or whatever.”

  The wand, of course, said nothing. Kael rolled his eyes and returned to his work, muttering, “I’m just trying to make a decent notebook, not save the world.”

  He pressed the mold under a pile of textbooks for weight, leaned back against the wall, and sighed. Rain tapped a lullaby on the window, and for the first time in hours, he let his eyes drift closed—just for a second.

  The night pressed on.

  And in the corner of the room, the ragged boy with wild hair and ruined clothes quietly created something new from something forgotten.

  ???

  Morning seeped slowly into the room, filtered through stained glass windows that cast swirls of sapphire, ruby, and emerald light across the stone walls. The scent of old parchment and something faintly burnt lingered in the air.

  Crowe stirred first, groaning as he shifted beneath the heavy patchwork quilt draped across his bunk nestled beneath the carved staircase. Above him, the low crackle of a brush on leather echoed softly. Tavi rolled over on the upper alcove, his tangled blanket half hanging off the side, and squinted downward.

  "What the hell are you doing?" he muttered, voice still thick with sleep.

  Kael didn’t look up. Perched at the low wooden table beneath the arched turret window, he worked with maddening focus, one hand steadying a stitched leather book cover, the other gliding a brush across it in practiced strokes.

  "Living life. You should try it," Kael replied dryly, not breaking rhythm. Swirls of ink-dark paint bled into the cover—strange symbols, curling vines, and what looked suspiciously like a coat of arms. "And it’s obvious that I’m painting, Vale."

  Crowe swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his eyes. “Where did you even get leather?” His voice was hoarse with sleep and wariness.

  Kael paused. Just for a breath. “You don’t want to know.”

  That was enough to shut Crowe up. He gave Tavi a sidelong glance that clearly said, We’re not asking. Ever.

  The room was quiet again for a beat. A soft breeze nudged the velvet curtains of the arched windows. Somewhere above them, a faint creak in the wooden rafters hinted that the tower was settling again for the day.

  Tavi stretched and sat up, scrubbing a hand through his wild dark curls. “Alright. Come on, weirdos. We've got a lot to do today and exactly zero time to waste watching Kael descend into whatever medieval hobby this is.”

  "Illuminated bookbinding," Kael corrected smugly, now adding silver paint in sharp, delicate angles. "And you're welcome to join me anytime. I even have extra brushes."

  “We’re not doing arts and crafts at dawn,” Tavi groaned, dragging a worn tunic over his head.

  Crowe yawned, grabbing his boots from under the carved drawer beneath his bed. “What even is this room? A dungeon? A wizard’s attic? A very confused library?”

  “It’s home,” Kael answered simply, still painting, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now move. You’re blocking my light.”

  ???

  Kael tried to add one last curl of silver ink to the leather binding—an ornate crescent pressed neatly into the corner—when Crowe snatched the stylus from his hand.

  “Enough,” Crowe said flatly. “It’s a journal, not a cursed artifact.”

  Kael scowled but rose, smoothing down the front of his uniform as if dignity could be restored with a single motion.

  They dressed in silence. The three of them—Kael, Crowe, and Tavi—each wore the signature white of Aetherion House. Stark against the gray stone of their dormitory, the fabric caught the light like snow under moonlight. The uniform was elegant by design: a long-sleeved white dress shirt, immaculately pressed, tucked neatly into tailored trousers. A solid black necktie lay flat down the chest, accented by a small silver Prada pin near the knot. Over it all, the ceremonial cloak: flowing and regal, crafted from a pristine white material that draped in graceful folds. A plush faux fur hood framed the collar, and a thin silver chain ran down the front, catching the light with every step.

  Kael adjusted his cloak with meticulous precision, letting the asymmetrical hem fall just right. Crowe threw his on with less care, and Tavi muttered something about losing his tie pin again as he fumbled with the chain.

  Then Kael opened the door.

  Smoke spilled past their boots almost instantly.

  It curled low over the floor in slow, deliberate waves—unnaturally thick and cold, whispering against the stone like something alive. The hallway beyond was darker than it should’ve been. The stained glass windows, tall and arched, filtered no sunlight. Only murky twilight, smeared and heavy.

  “Why is the hallway so dark? It's the middle of the day,” Kael muttered, frowning as he pulled up his hood. The white fur framed his sharp features like frost edging glass. He stepped forward, ignoring the quiet shuffle of students passing around him—other Aetherion cloaks gliding through the fog like phantoms.

  Crowe and Tavi hesitated at the threshold. Tavi squinted into the dimness.

  “Do you feel that?” he whispered. “Something’s… wrong.”

  Kael didn’t answer. He was already walking, his cloak trailing behind him like a wisp of starlight. The smoke parted around his steps as though reluctant to touch him.

  Crowe and Tavi exchanged a glance, then hurried after him.

  “Kael, seriously, wait—don’t be that guy,” Crowe hissed.

  Kael raised one hand lazily behind him, fingers flicking in a silent, dismissive wave.

  “If you’re scared of fog, you’re free to stay behind,” he said, not bothering to look back.

  ???

  The classroom was unusually still. Smoke from the hallway clung to the stone-framed windows, casting soft shadows. The hearths lining the back wall glowed faintly, embers crackling like distant whispers. Long wooden desks were arranged in concentric arcs around a raised platform where Madam Elira Merrow stood, her long sleeves fluttering slightly as she moved.

  Her presence commanded attention—not through volume, but through precision. Her silver-rimmed spectacles glinted with the same sharpness as her gaze.

  “Now,” she said, her voice carrying clearly through the room, “we will attempt something a touch more advanced than usual.”

  She raised a slender hand and, with a flick of her wrist, a piece of chalk floated from her desk and traced a glowing symbol in the air. The glyph shimmered in pale lavender light before dissolving with a soft crackle.

  “We are going to draw a symbol that comes alive.”

  A ripple of excitement stirred through the students—some leaning forward, others exchanging wide-eyed glances. Kael raised an eyebrow and tapped his quill thoughtfully against the edge of his desk. Tavi looked like he wanted to ask a dozen questions at once, while Crowe merely folded his arms and waited.

  Madam Merrow surveyed the room. “Can anyone tell me what that means?”

  A long silence followed. Then, slowly, a single hand rose from the second row.

  Roise Elwood.

  She was quiet by nature—always neatly dressed, always on time, and never the first to speak unless she was certain. Her ash-brown hair fell softly past her shoulders, tucked behind her ears, and her posture was as proper as it was nervous. Still, she held her hand up without wavering.

  “Yes, Miss Elwood?” Madam Merrow prompted, nodding encouragingly.

  Roise stood, her voice calm but gentle. “We’re learning to channel intent into the ink,” she said. “The symbols are more than drawings—they’re bindings. If done correctly, the glyph doesn’t just glow, it reacts. Breathes. Lives.”

  A small pause, then she added, almost shyly, “It listens to the caster.”

  A murmur ran through the students. Madam Merrow’s expression softened into something warmer than usual—pride, perhaps, or the satisfaction of being understood.

  “Precisely,” she said. “Beautifully put. Sit down, Roise.”

  Roise nodded and returned to her seat, eyes lowered but lips curling ever so slightly.

  Madam Merrow turned back to the board and conjured another chalk symbol midair. “What Miss Elwood described is the foundation of glyph animation. And today, you will each attempt to draw one of your own—using your personal intent as fuel.”

  Another wave of anticipation filled the room.

  “Be warned,” Madam Merrow continued. “These symbols are not toys. Even the gentlest mark can spark surprising results. Focus is everything.”

  With a graceful sweep of her arm, blank parchment scrolls floated from a nearby shelf, unrolling in front of each student as jars of ink rose to hover just above their desks.

  “Let’s begin.”

  The parchment unfurled in crisp silence, and the ink jars settled beside each student with a soft clink. Quills levitated for a moment—waiting, as if sensing their makers' intent—before dipping themselves into the ink and hovering expectantly.

  Kael leaned over his scroll, brow furrowed. “So… how do we tell the ink what we want?” he muttered.

  Crowe answered without looking up. “You think it, obviously. That’s the point of intent-based casting.”

  “Thinking isn’t exactly my specialty,” Kael grinned, rolling his wrist with a little flourish as he guided the quill to begin. “But I’ll give it my best.”

  Across the room, Roise Elwood held her quill gently between her fingers. Her strokes were fluid, elegant. Her glyph curved like a crescent moon woven into a vine, blooming with tiny runic petals. As she finished the last mark, her symbol shimmered faintly—and then, with a whisper of wind, it lifted off the page.

  It fluttered like a paper bird, delicate and glowing, before settling back onto her scroll like a sigh.

  Madam Merrow clapped once, quietly. “Very good, Miss Elwood. Controlled. Intentional. Alive—but obedient.”

  Other students began to follow, some more successful than others. Crowe’s glyph sparked and rotated like a slow-moving gear before dimming into harmless smoke. Tavi’s drew itself perfectly but refused to move, as if sulking.

  Then came Kael.

  “Alright, let’s try something fun,” he said to no one in particular. He scrawled something fast and slightly chaotic—sharper edges, impatient curves—and grinned as the ink glowed violently.

  The moment the last stroke hit the parchment, the glyph exploded upward with a burst of light and smoke, forming a creature that looked vaguely like a snake made of lightning and ink. It hissed with static, eyes crackling like coals.

  “Uh—” Kael blinked. “That’s not a bird.”

  The creature zipped through the air, curling around chandeliers, weaving through startled students who ducked and yelped as sparks showered down. One unfortunate quill was incinerated mid-flight.

  “Mr. Ichabod!” Madam Merrow barked, sweeping her hand upward. A net of glowing silver light snapped into place midair, catching the ink-creature and freezing it in a suspended pulse of magic. It twisted once… then dissolved into harmless mist.

  The classroom fell quiet.

  Kael rubbed the back of his neck. “So, uh, that’s a no on fun, then?”

  Several students snorted laughter, while others were still wide-eyed. Roise, now completely still, just blinked at him.

  Madam Merrow arched a brow. “Aetherion House values discipline, Mr. Ichabod. Not dramatics.”

  “Noted.”

  But as Madam Merrow turned back to the front, Roise risked a tiny glance sideways. Kael met her eyes for a second—half-defiant, half-sheepish.

  She didn’t smile, exactly. But there was the hint of one. Barely there. Like a shared secret, or a mutual acknowledgment that not everything alive must behave.

  After class, the scent of ink and ozone still lingered faintly in the air. Students filtered out of the room in small clusters, whispering about Kael’s glyph mishap. Some laughed. Others gave him a wide berth, unsure if he’d summon a fire demon next time.

  Kael Ichabod stayed behind, crouched beside his desk with his satchel half-zipped, idly poking the scorched corner of his parchment.

  “You’re lucky it didn’t explode harder,” Tavi muttered, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

  Crowe tilted his head at the mark still smoldering slightly on Kael’s scroll. “That glyph was… unstable. You weren’t just thinking of a bird, were you?”

  Kael scratched his head. “Not really. I just thought of something that could fly. And bite. And maybe shock a few people. I thought that was the point.”

  “No,” Crowe said flatly. “The point was control.”

  Kael snorted. “Well. I have control. Just not over my drawings, or hair, or mood, or life.”

  As they turned to leave, Roise Elwood lingered by the doorway. The sleeves of her uniform were neatly pressed, her parchment rolled with precision. She looked at Kael for a long moment, as if considering something.

  Then she stepped back into the room.

  “Ichabod,” she said quietly. Her voice was soft—barely more than a breeze—but it made Kael glance up.

  “Hmm?”

  “That glyph… wasn’t completely yours,” she said.

  Kael blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Roise walked over, crouched beside him, and pointed at a faint line in the ink he hadn’t noticed. “This curve here. It’s from an old dialect of root glyphwork—pre-Aetherion era. Most of us aren’t even taught that until year six.”

  Kael furrowed his brow. “I just… drew it.”

  “No,” Roise said. “It drew through you.”

  She stood and left without another word, her boots silent against the stone floor.

  Kael stared down at the parchment again, the faint outline of the ancient curve still faintly glowing. For a moment, he felt a strange hum beneath his skin, like something old had cracked open inside his chest. Not pain. Not fear. Something… calling.

  Crowe’s voice echoed down the hall. “Kael! You coming?”

  He shoved the scroll into his bag and followed—but part of him stayed behind, eyes still glowing in the ink, waiting for him to return.

  The next class was held in one of the narrower towers of the academy, high up where the ceiling arched like a cathedral and narrow windows filtered pale golden light through dusty glass. The room smelled faintly of lavender, old parchment, and something metallic—like needles left too long in rain.

  The sign outside the door read:

  THREADBINDING — Professor Elira Vexmoor

  The students filed in, some more excited than others. The desks here weren’t desks at all, but long wooden tables scattered with spools of glimmering thread, half-finished cloaks, enchanted needles hovering mid-air, and jars filled with strange shimmering dust.

  Kael Ichabod entered last, still fidgeting with the scrunched-up sleeve of his uniform. “Great. More sewing. Just what I need.”

  “You’re surprisingly good with fine motor skills,” Crowe muttered beside him.

  “I made one scarf and suddenly I’m a prodigy?” Kael grumbled, slipping onto the bench beside Tavi, who was already flipping open a notebook that looked way too neat for someone with his personality.

  Professor Vexmoor swept into the room like a shadow, her black velvet robes whispering across the stone floor. She was tall, willowy, with silver hair wound into a spiraling braid and a silver thimble perched like a crown on one finger.

  “Today,” she began, her voice smooth and oddly rhythmic, “you will learn to weave a thread of memory into an object. Something small. Personal. A piece of string can become a tether. A loop of yarn can hold a heartbeat. Fabric can carry a feeling.”

  She raised a long, gloved finger. “But only if your memory is strong enough.”

  Murmurs swept through the class.

  Each student was handed a strip of soft fabric—charcoal-gray, as blank as an untouched canvas. Needles floated to their hands. Spools of luminous thread blinked like stars in the low light.

  “Focus on a memory,” Vexmoor said. “Feed the thread with it. Stitch a single line into the cloth. No more.”

  Kael stared at the thread in front of him. It shimmered faintly between his fingers, hungry for something to bind to.

  He thought of home—but nothing came. He thought of the wand-tree, of the way it hummed under his hand. Still, the thread remained dull.

  Then, without meaning to, he thought of Roise’s voice: “It drew through you.”

  The thread ignited. A gold-pink shimmer flared along its length, and before he knew it, Kael had begun stitching a jagged symbol into the cloth—something like a rune, something like a question.

  When he blinked, the mark glowed faintly, then shimmered into nothing, but the cloth was no longer blank. It remembered something now. Something even Kael didn’t fully understand.

  From across the room, Professor Vexmoor’s eyes flicked to him.

  Just once.

  Then she smiled—sharp, knowing—and moved on.

  Night fell over the Academy with a whisper rather than a bang—fog curling along the ground like smoke, stars winking overhead through the arched tower windows. In their shared dormitory, the glow of the enchanted lanterns had dimmed to a soft bluish hue, just enough to read by.

  Crowe sat cross-legged on his bed, a book open in his lap and his expression one of cool detachment. Tavi was sprawled across the rug, chewing on the end of a sugar quill while absently flicking through an illustrated spellbook. Kael, in contrast, was upside-down on his mattress, legs dangling off the headboard, tossing a pillow into the air and catching it again.

  “So,” Tavi yawned, “that wand earlier today—what do you think it means? A fifty-year-old lost relic doesn’t just show up for no reason.”

  “Means trouble,” Crowe said flatly, turning a page. “And Kael touching it just proves the theory.”

  Kael didn’t answer. He was too busy side-eyeing the notebook he’d made—the one stitched from bark and spell-thread, now resting innocently on his bedside table.

  He didn’t like how it had been quiet all day. Not after how strange it had felt while crafting it. Not after how the tree almost guided his hands.

  “I don’t trust it,” Kael muttered suddenly, flipping upright. “I should burn it.”

  “You literally spent six hours making that thing,” Tavi said, unimpressed.

  Kael stood, picked it up between two fingers like it was cursed, and turned to the fireplace.

  Then it happened.

  The notebook pulsed—once—like a heartbeat. Then again. And before Kael could even yelp, ink scrawled itself across the page in fast, looping script, the letters carving into the page like whispers too loud to ignore.

  “You carved from memory.

  You stitched from instinct.

  Now I will write from truth.”

  Kael shrieked and threw the notebook across the room.