Clara's boots seemed to drag on the marble floors of the Main Hall as she trailed behind Ryland. Her pulse was deafening in her ears, and her breathing was shallow. The whispers of the crowd felt like daggers on her skin, but she couldn't afford to pay them any mind. Her thoughts were a whirlpool of fear, confusion, and a hint of fury.
As Ryland opened the door to his quarters, Clara hesitated at the threshold. She knew that crossing it would finalize her new status in this warped version of Wyrmspire Academy. And yet, she had no choice. Ryland turned his gaze back towards her, his eyes still unreadable, and she reluctantly stepped inside.
The room was comfortably furnished, a stark contrast to the austere dormitory. Shelves filled with tomes lined the walls. But what caught her eye was the chest where Ryland had some of his prized possessions, looking entirely out of place. Then Ryland spoke, shattering the silence.
"Sit," he commanded, pointing towards a chair.
Clara complied, still unable to meet his eyes. She felt the weight of her new status suffocating her.
Ryland walked over to a table, pouring a dark liquid from a crystal decanter into two goblets. "Would you like a drink?" he asked, his tone not really making it a question.
"No, thank you," Clara replied. She was here as a servant, after all, not a guest.
Ryland sat opposite her, taking a sip from his goblet. "Suit yourself," he said, putting his goblet down and leaning back in his chair. "You'll find life as my servant quite unlike what you're used to. For instance, you'll be expected to attend to me. Pour my drinks, fetch my books, and perhaps other duties as well."
The implication hung heavily in the air, fraught with tension. Clara felt her heart pounding, but she held Ryland's gaze, determined not to flinch.
Ryland leaned in closer, his eyes locking onto hers. "However, that will depend on how well you serve," he said softly, almost intimately. He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against her skin. Just when Clara thought he would pull her closer, he let go, pulling back.
Ryland's eyes were cold, the firelight casting unsettling shadows over his features. "You're not leaving," he repeated, enunciating each word with chilling precision. "You’ll be sleeping here, in my quarters."
Clara's breath hitched as she took in the full implication of his words. The air in the room seemed to grow heavy, the weight of her insignificance pressing against her.
"There’s only one bed," Ryland continued. He flicked his hand, and the room’s enchanted lighting dimmed, leaving only a single lamp flickering with eerie luminescence. Its glow made the elaborate patterns on his bedspread look almost like writhing serpents.
Clara could hardly meet his eyes, her gaze dropping to her feet. "I understand," she said, her voice tinged with a helpless resignation.
Ryland approached the bed and yanked back the covers, his movements swift and deliberate. "You take the right side."
She hesitated for a moment, aware that the very act of lying in his bed was a silent concession to the cruel hierarchy that had ensnared them all. Then, with a shaky breath, Clara lay down on the right side of the bed, her limbs stiff as if bound by invisible chains. The sheets were cool and uninviting, a subtle contrast to her mounting dread.
Ryland lay beside her on the left, and Clara felt a shiver run down her spine as he inadvertently brushed against her arm while settling in. It felt like a trespass, an unwelcome invasion into the little personal space she had left.
"Goodnight, Clara," Ryland said, the words sounding more like a sinister lullaby than a simple farewell.
Clara swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "Goodnight."
Ryland reached over and extinguished the lamp. Darkness descended, as if the room were swallowing them whole. Clara lay there, each second stretching into an eternity, a prisoner not just to the demons, but also to the horrifying reality that was her life now.
------------------------------------------------------------
In the middle of the night, Ryland lay in his bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Despite the darkness, the room was awash with fluctuating currents of magical energy, visible only to him thanks to his newly-acquired Magic Sight. The patterns danced and swirled like ethereal smoke, a side effect of the demonic gifts that had heightened his senses.
Then, a faint disruption in the flow of magic caught his attention. A minute ripple, almost inconspicuous, but to Ryland, it stood out like a sore thumb. A soft, barely audible creak sounded from the vicinity of the door.
Ryland rose, careful not to disturb Clara who lay beside him, her breathing measured but shallow. His heart rate accelerated but he kept his expression neutral. Quietly, he padded towards the door, his hand hovering over the handle...
Ryland was acutely aware of the magical pulse that now disturbed the atmosphere, like a discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody. When he opened the door, the visual distortion caused by Arcturus's invisibility spell was immediately obvious to him. With a flick of his wrist, Arcturus dispelled the magic that had kept him hidden.
The tension was electric as their eyes locked. The air between them felt as if it could ignite at any moment. Arcturus stepped into the room, his hand subtly drifting towards the hilt of a concealed weapon. His eyes flicked toward Clara’s sleeping form, taking in her undisturbed state.
"You should be pleased," Ryland said, his voice laced with a tinge of bitterness.
"I should kill you," Arcturus replied, his voice cold as ice. "You’re an affront to all we stand for, willingly accepting the demons' gifts."
"But you won’t," Ryland observed. "Because she’s safe."
Arcturus glared at him, the weight of his unspoken thoughts burdening the silence. "For now. But you're still a traitor in my eyes, a servant to our enemies."
"And yet here we are," Ryland shot back, his voice steady. "Both prisoners in our own ways. You, sanctimonious but impotent; me, empowered but ensnared."
Arcturus's hand moved away from his weapon. "Today, you earned a reprieve," he said, his voice laced with unspoken promises of vengeance and conflict yet to come.
"And you earned another day of futile rebellion," Ryland retorted.
Arcturus fixed him with one final, burning glare. Then, he turned and stepped out, once more invoking his invisibility spell, melting into the shadows like a ghost.
Ryland closed the door, leaning back against it for a moment as he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Lysandra paced the length of her chamber, the room illuminated only by a single flickering candle. She stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath to still her racing heart. The walls of the academy seemed to close in on her, suffocated by the malevolent energies that now pervaded it.
Arcturus had been gone too long.
She found herself repeatedly glancing at the elaborate timepiece the wall, each tick of the second hand amplifying her growing sense of dread. She had pushed Arcturus to confront Ryland, to ensure that Clara would be safe.
It wasn't just about Clara; it was about what they stood for. Arcturus and she could've easily succumbed to the demonic hierarchy, embraced the privileges, but they both understood the ramifications. Such an act would be the first step on a path of moral corruption from which there would be no return.
Her hands clenched into fists as she thought of Ryland—so talented, yet so willing to bend the knee to their demonic captors. Each time she met him in the academy’s corridors, his eyes betrayed no emotion, making her wonder what he was truly capable of.
A soft murmur of magic announced Arcturus's return before the door swung open. Lysandra rushed to him, a swarm of questions on her lips, but she stopped herself, choosing instead to scrutinize his face. His eyes, always so full of conviction, revealed nothing.
“Well?” she finally asked, unable to contain herself any longer.
“She’s safe,” Arcturus said, shedding his invisibility cloak.
Lysandra felt a wave of relief wash over her. “And Ryland?”
“A problem for another day,” he responded, his eyes narrowing.
She nodded, knowing that Arcturus was thinking the same thing she was. The game they were all forced to play was dangerous and high-stakes, but moral concessions were a line they wouldn’t cross... yet.
“You did well,” Lysandra finally said, “Thank you.”
Arcturus met her gaze. “We did well. Your insistence made me act.”
“In a world gone mad, we have to cling to what little decency we have left,” Lysandra said softly.
Arcturus sighed, his body visibly weighed down by the reality of their existence. "Even if it puts us at odds with those who were once our friends?"
"Even if it puts us at odds with those who were once our friends?" Arcturus asked.
"Especially then," Lysandra snapped, her voice sharp as a blade. "Because that’s when it’s hardest. That’s when it matters most."
Arcturus regarded her carefully, sensing the tension that wracked her body. "You're angry."
"Of course, I'm angry," Lysandra shot back, her eyes ablaze. "Look at what this place has become. Ryland's the embodiment of our failure to keep our people together, our failure to protect them from these abominations!"
Arcturus sighed. "I know. But remember, we don’t know his full motives yet—"
"Don’t tell me you’re defending him," Lysandra cut him off. "The Ryland we knew would never bow to these creatures. He would stand by us. Whatever his reasons, they're corrupted by the demonic filth that fills this cursed academy."
Arcturus looked as if he was about to argue but stopped himself. "So what do you propose we do?"
Lysandra clenched her fists, her knuckles whitening. "Tomorrow, I challenge him. Publicly. And maybe, just maybe, it'll stop another student from making the same mistake."
"Be careful, Lysandra," Arcturus warned. "You saw what happened when I tried to confront him. The Enforcer intervened."
She smirked, a hollow gesture devoid of humor. "Well, they can't protect him forever. And even if they do, let them. Let the student body see what cowards the traitors and their demon overlords are.
Arcturus regarded her with a mixture of concern and admiration. "You're walking on a razor’s edge."
Lysandra locked eyes with him. "We all are, Arcturus. I’d rather bleed than fall off."
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Matilda and Elvin sat close together on the edge of one of the beds that had been pushed against the wall. Their backs were straight, their gazes fixed on the void that was once filled by a door. Two demons stood guard at the threshold, their presence a constant reminder of their captivity.
"Clara is gone. Just like that," Matilda muttered, her eyes still locked onto the empty doorway. "Chosen by Ryland of all people. What do you think will happen to her?"
Elvin shook his head, his youthful face marred by the weight of the situation. "I don't know, Matilda. But it doesn't bode well for any of us. Today it's Clara; tomorrow, who knows?"
Matilda clenched her fists, a tightness forming in her chest. "I hate this, Elvin. I hate that we're reduced to this... this... subhuman status. We're like sheep being led to slaughter, and the worst part is, it's not just the demons we have to worry about anymore. Now even the so-called 'Elites' among us are a threat."
Elvin glanced at her, the spark of optimism that usually colored his expressions now utterly extinguished. "I never thought I'd see the day when we would turn on each other like this. Even Ryland. I never thought he'd bend so easily to their will."
Matilda scoffed. "You give people too much credit, Elvin. This place," she gestured around the dormitory, her hand finally landing on the pile of grey uniforms at its center, "this hell we're trapped in, it's exposing everyone's true colors. It's peeling back the veneer of civility and showing us for what we really are."
Elvin nodded, a sad recognition in his eyes. "Animals, Matilda. It’s showing us that we’re all just animals when you strip away the titles, the magic, and the pretenses."
"And what are we supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for our turn?" Matilda's voice started to rise, teetering on the edge of hysteria.
Elvin looked at her with solemn eyes. "We stay vigilant. We look for opportunities, however small. And we try not to forget who we were before all this."
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Matilda sighed, the weight of their circumstances settling over her like a shroud. "It's hard to remember a time before all this."
The two fell silent, their eyes meeting in a shared understanding. Neither had the words to articulate the full breadth of the horror they felt, nor the dread for what the next day would bring. But in that bleak moment, both understood that they were each other's lifeline in a world gone horribly awry. They would cling to that, even as the walls seemed to close in around them.
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Clara woke up with a start, her eyes snapping open as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The room was dimly lit by a few sconces on the walls, casting dark shadows that seemed to dance menacingly. The air was thick, heavy with a sense of foreboding. She was no longer in the dormitory, of that much she was certain.
She was lying on a strange bed...
Clara’s heart sank at the sight of him. He was seated at the desk, his attention on one of the tomes. He looked up, sensing her wakefulness, and his eyes met hers. It was a strange look—somewhere between calculation and caution, but it lacked the malicious glee she'd expected from someone who had willingly aligned himself with their demonic captors.
"You're awake," Ryland said, breaking the silence. His voice was emotionless, detached.
"Where am I?" Clara finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"My private chamber," Ryland replied, his gaze unwavering. "You're under my protection now."
"Protection?" Clara scoffed, pushing herself up to a sitting position. "Or ownership? You chose me like some object in the marketplace."
Ryland seemed unfazed by her accusation. "It’s better than the alternative."
"What, being herded like cattle with the others?" Clara shot back. "And what makes you think you’re any better?"
"I don't," Ryland replied, looking back down at the parchment on his desk. "But I do know that the safest place you can be right now is here."
"Safety," Clara murmured, the word tasting bitter in her mouth. "There's no such thing in this forsaken place."
Ryland looked up at her once more, his eyes searching hers. "No, there isn’t. But we play the hand we're dealt. Right now, this is the best I can offer you."
Clara felt a mixture of dread and resignation wash over her. She was trapped in a room with someone who had willingly embraced the demonic hierarchy, someone who had chosen power over morality. And yet, in the twisted nightmare their lives had become, he was possibly her safest bet against worse horrors.
So she nodded, a subtle, reluctant acquiescence to her new reality. "Fine. What now?"
"Before you leave this room, there are some rules you'll need to follow," he began, his tone turning colder. "Not just for my sake, but for yours as well."
Clara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. "Go on."
"When we're in public, you will walk a few feet behind me. You won't speak unless spoken to, and when you do speak, you'll address me respectfully. No terms of familiarity, no insolence. You’ll refer to me as 'Master Ryland'."
The word 'Master' hung in the air like a foul odor, and Clara felt her stomach churn. But she held his gaze, refusing to show the extent of her revulsion.
"Is that clear?" Ryland asked, his eyes locked onto hers.
"As crystal," Clara responded, her voice tinged with a bitterness she couldn't fully conceal.
Ryland seemed to catch the edge in her tone but chose not to comment on it. Instead, he rolled the scroll back up and returned it to the drawer.
"Good. Follow these rules and you'll be safer than most. Disobey them, and I can't guarantee what will happen to you," he warned.
"Because the Demons would get suspicious," Clara surmised, the realization settling in.
"Among other things," Ryland affirmed. "Their game is complex and fraught with dangers. Rules are in place for a reason."
Clara nodded, although every fiber of her being screamed in protest. "Understood, Master Ryland."
He looked up at her, his eyes narrowing as if gauging the sincerity of her compliance. After a long moment, he seemed satisfied.
"Good," he said finally. "Now let's get ready, we are having breakfast."
Clara felt her eyelids grow heavy, the emotional toll of the day finally catching up with her. As she lay back on the conjured bed, her mind raced with thoughts she couldn't fully process. Was this submission or survival? And could she even tell the difference anymore?
-----------------
Clara followed Ryland into the cafeteria, keeping the distance he had prescribed. Her eyes flickered across the room, taking in the grim tableau before her. 1-star students, including Matilda and Elvin, were busy clearing tables or serving food, their faces etched with a mixture of fatigue and resignation. They glanced up as Clara and Ryland entered, their eyes meeting Clara’s with a blend of curiosity, pity, and a subtle edge of resentment.
At a table near the back, Arcturus and Lysandra were seated, conspicuously separated from the other Elites. A lavish spread of food lay before them, but it was clear neither was savoring the meal. Their expressions were solemn, weighed down by the responsibility and the moral complexities their elevated status imposed on them.
Other 5-star students chatted animatedly amongst themselves, already growing comfortable in their new roles as the privileged elite. They eyed Ryland and Clara with interest, some even whispering among themselves, clearly intrigued by Ryland’s audacity to exercise his newfound authority so publicly.
Ryland led Clara to an empty table, not far from where Arcturus and Lysandra were sitting.
Lysandra could take it no longer. As she watched Ryland walk through the cafeteria, Clara trailing behind him like some obedient shadow, a flash of anger coursed through her. She stood up, her eyes burning with defiance.
"Ryland!" she called out, her voice resounding through the room. All eyes turned toward her. "You may have the demons on your side, but you do not rule here!"
The room fell into a tense silence. Even the normally stoic Arcturus looked up, his eyes locking with Lysandra's for a fleeting moment.
Ryland stopped and turned around slowly, his eyes meeting hers. "I think you misunderstand the situation, Lysandra. I’m just playing by the rules. Rules that you too should follow."
"Your rules?" she spat. "You mean the demons' rules! You are no leader; you're their puppet!"
Arcturus cleared his throat, interrupting. "Lysandra, I think we should—"
"No, Arcturus!" Lysandra cut him off. "Someone needs to show him his place."
She stepped forward, her eyes never leaving Ryland’s. "I challenge you, Ryland. Right here. Right now."
------------------
Ryland studied Lysandra for a moment, the tension in the room thickening with each passing second. He then turned his gaze to the shadowy corners of the room, knowing full well that demonic eyes were upon them.
"I accept your challenge," Ryland said, his voice carrying an icy confidence. "But let's make one thing clear: no one is coming to save you. The demons won't intervene in a duel among students. I hope you're prepared to face the consequences of your rashness."
A murmur spread through the cafeteria. Lysandra glanced at Arcturus, who returned her look with a mixture of concern and resignation. She took a deep breath and nodded.
"Then let's get on with it," she said, her voice tinged with a fierceness that brooked no argument.
Ryland smirked. "As you wish."
--------------------
As Ryland and Lysandra took their positions at opposite ends of the makeshift dueling circle, the room fell eerily silent. All eyes were on them, the tension palpable.
Without another word, Lysandra flicked her wand in a complex pattern. A gust of wind sprang from the tip, rushing toward Ryland like a battering ram. But before it could reach him, Ryland clenched his fists and whispered an incantation under his breath.
In an instant, he was a blur, crossing the distance between them in a fraction of a second. His fist met her wrist, and her wand clattered across the floor. The onlookers gasped.
Lysandra's eyes widened in disbelief. She lunged for her wand, but Ryland was already there. His fist struck her abdomen with the force of a sledgehammer, doubling her over. As she staggered back, clutching her stomach, Ryland drew back his fist for the final blow.
"Enough!" Arcturus bellowed, stepping into the circle. "She's beaten."
Lysandra, on her knees and gasping for air, looked up at Ryland, her eyes burning with a mix of humiliation and hatred. But she said nothing, too prideful to admit defeat.
Ryland unclenched his fists, staring down at Lysandra. "It's over," he declared, turning his gaze to the crowd. "Let this be a lesson. Defiance will not be tolerated."
-------------------
The room was still tense, the silence only broken by the collective breaths of the onlookers, when the shadows in one corner of the room began to coalesce. Emerging from the darkness, cloaked in a shroud of obsidian mist, was Lilith.
"Ah, Ryland, you put on quite a show," she purred, gliding effortlessly toward the center of the circle. "But a show isn't complete without its grand finale, don't you agree?"
Ryland met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "What would you have me do?"
She leaned in, her lips nearly touching his ear. "Punish her. Make an example."
He paused, searching Lilith's eyes for a moment, then nodded. He whispered something in her ear, too low for anyone else to hear.
Lilith smiled, revealing her fang-like teeth. "A fitting punishment indeed."
With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a dark, metallic collar imbued with swirling runes. "This is a Null Collar," she announced, her voice resonating throughout the room. "Designed to suppress the magical abilities of whoever wears it."
The room collectively gasped, and Lysandra's eyes widened in horror.
"Until you've learned to respect the hierarchy, you will be demoted to a one-star student," Ryland added, his voice cold. "You will not use magic."
Lilith approached Lysandra, who was still on her knees, and fastened the collar around her neck. It clicked into place, and for a moment, the runes glowed a violent red before settling into a dull ember color.
Lysandra gasped as she felt her connection to her magic sever. She looked up, her eyes meeting Ryland's. There was no triumph in his eyes, only a steeled resolve.
"The rules are clear," Ryland finally said, stepping back. "Defiance will not be tolerated. Let this serve as a lesson to all."
As Lilith dissolved back into the shadows, the room was filled with murmurs and whispers.
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"Enough," Arcturus boomed, his voice cutting through the crowd like a blade. He stepped forward, eyes locked onto Ryland in a piercing gaze filled with unspoken promises. "Lysandra is under my protection. Make no mistake, Ryland, you may have won this duel, but what you've gained in power, you've lost in respect."
Arcturus then scanned the crowd, eyes fierce. "Anyone else has a problem with that, challenge me. Right here, right now."
The air turned thick with tension; you could cut it with a knife. Nobody dared to meet his gaze; not even the bravest of the Elite students.
Turning his attention back to Lysandra, Arcturus offered his hand. As she took it and stood, their eyes met. Despite her humiliation and the Null Collar around her neck, she found in his eyes a glimmer of hope, a sliver of defiance.
His voice dropped lower, but the venom was unmistakable. "I hope everyone here understands one thing: We might be trapped in a demonic game, but we're not playing by their rules. Especially you, Ryland. Remember, not all debts are settled on the dueling field."
With that, he guided Lysandra away, each step resonating like a vow in a cathedral of broken oaths and uneasy alliances.
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Ryland's footsteps echoed down the corridor as he led the way back to his quarters, Clara trailing behind him. Every step sent a spasm of pain through his muscles, a stinging reminder of the magical energy he'd expended. He clenched his fists to hide the tremors that tingled up his arms.
"Clara," he commanded without turning his head, "Pick up food for both of us from the cafeteria. Bring it to my room."
"As you wish," Clara replied, her voice a blend of servitude and uncertainty. She diverted her path towards the cafeteria, sparing Ryland a lingering glance filled with a mix of awe and concern.
Ryland focused on keeping his gait steady, his posture erect. Students passed him in the hallway, their eyes widening at the sight of him, whispers spreading like wildfire. His victory over Lysandra had already turned him into something of a legend, a status he needed to maintain, now more than ever.
Finally, he reached his room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ryland's knees buckled, and he leaned against the wall for support.
Alone in his sanctuary, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, his eyes closing as he took in shuddering breaths. He'd pushed his magical abilities to the edge, and his body was paying the price.
It was a high-stakes gamble, challenging the existing hierarchies among the student body and allying himself with demonic forces. He needed to be cautious, judicious, and most of all, strong.
His eyes snapped open as he heard footsteps approaching. Clara would be back soon. Straightening up, Ryland steeled himself once more, ready to don the mask of invincibility.
---------------------------------
In the Hidden Chambers of Wyrmspire Academy...
Argoth: "The Scroll of Shadows has returned to us, bringing with it the gleanings from the previous loop. But our time is not infinite. That 'hole' the Eldritch Entity created is siphoning the energy from the loop. What's the update on Ryland?"
Lilith: "The soul mark he bears glows even darker. He's a willing participant in our schemes."
Scriber: "His magical resonance is up, just as the Scroll has documented. And speaking of the Scroll, I've had to be more selective in what I transcribe due to its size and weight limitations."
Zorgath: "The strong should only get stronger. He's becoming one of us, good."
Argoth: "We must expedite our plans. Our window of opportunity shrinks with each loop. The Scroll will be our guide to efficiency."
Lilith: "Agreed. Tailored gifts for the students—tiered and targeted, especially for those with soul marks. Also, I suggest we escalate the humiliation and deepen the rifts in their hierarchy. Introduce more demeaning uniforms for the lower tier, and the general use of null collars will make the one-stars sub-human."
Scriber: "That's a potent idea. The emotional impact will be as effective as any physical torment. I'll make sure that gets documented in the Scroll."
Zorgath: "Let them taste power, then rip it away. Make them crave it. Time's wasting."
Argoth: "See to it, Scriber. We may not have the luxury of endless loops, but each one should bring us closer to our ultimate goal."
Scriber: "Absolutely, Lord Argoth. Each word in the Scroll is a step closer to that goal."
Argoth: "Then we're in agreement. Go now and corrupt with haste, for time, like our victims' resolve, is slipping away."
---------------------------------
Ryland sat at his small dining table, a luxurious breakfast spread before him. Despite the rich food, his face was ashen, sweat beading at his temples. Each movement was measured, as if he were holding back a wince of pain. The toll for overextending his magic in dealing with Lysandra was manifesting in agonizing surges of pain throughout his body. Clara stood near the door, her eyes lingering on the food and then shifting back to Ryland, her own breakfast plate forgotten on a side table.
----------------------------------------
Clara: "Ryland, can we talk about Lysandra?"
Ryland: (glancing up, visibly annoyed but masking his physical discomfort) "Firstly, it's 'Master Ryland' to you. We have rules for a reason. Now, what do you want?"
----------------------------------------
Clara: "I just think—well, that perhaps the punishment was too severe. You didn't have to be so—"
Ryland: (clenching his fork tighter, struggles to keep his voice steady) "Too severe? You question my judgments? Insolence seems to be spreading."
----------------------------------------
Clara: "She's one of us, Master Ryland. One of the students. Shouldn't we be sticking together?"
Ryland: (pauses, looks at her intently, his hand trembling slightly before he steadies it) "Sticking together? You mean like how the professors stuck with us? Oh wait, they're all dead."
----------------------------------------
Clara: "I just think that, maybe, there could have been another way."
Ryland: (takes a shallow breath to quell the pain, shakes his head) "Lysandra knew the consequences. She chose her path, and I chose mine."
----------------------------------------
Clara: "But—"
Ryland: (interrupting, his voice taking on a darker tone, pain and irritation mingling) "But nothing. We're in a situation where sentimentality is a weakness, Clara. I've treated you well, haven't I? Yet here you are, questioning me and failing to adhere to the rules of address."
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Ryland goes back to eating, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist. Each bite, each sip, a muted form of torture due to his magical overexertion. Clara's face tightens, a battle of emotions playing out in her eyes. Finally, she turns and leaves, her own appetite for breakfast entirely gone.
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Ryland savors a sip of wine, wincing as he puts the goblet down. The soul mark on his arm tingles slightly, as if the demons approved of his commitment to power over sentimentality—even if it grated against his own limits.
---------------------------------
Clara entered the dimly lit room where Arcturus and Lysandra were pouring over maps and scrolls, their faces grim. The atmosphere was thick with tension, only the flickering candles providing scant illumination.
"I can't take it anymore," Clara began, her voice shaky. "Being Ryland's servant is... it's intolerable. He's becoming unbearable."
Arcturus looked up, his gaze piercing yet full of concern. "It's not a decision to be made lightly, Clara. Once we cross that line, there's no going back."
Lysandra's fingers touched the null collar around her neck, a harsh reminder of her lost powers and dignity. "Sometimes crossing the line is the only option left. He did this to me, Arcturus. He needs to be stopped."
Arcturus sighed, his eyes moving between Lysandra's vengeful glare and Clara's desperate look. "I never wanted to be an executioner. This was supposed to be an academy for growth and learning."
"But it's a battleground now," Lysandra interjected. "And sometimes, the enemy is within."
Clara bit her lip, guilt clouding her eyes. "He's weak right now, weaker than I've ever seen him. If you're going to do something, now is the time."
Arcturus finally nodded, the weight of his decision apparent on his face. "Very well. We'll end it. For all our sakes, Ryland's rule will be terminated."
As Clara exited the room, her conflicting emotions warred within her. She felt like a traitor but relished the thought of her impending freedom. As for her duty to call Ryland 'Master', she felt her stomach churn at the thought. Soon, she wouldn't have to.