Flashback: Morning three days ago

Towan had grimaced at his breakfast—a steaming bowl of spiced porridge. “Tastes like victory,” he’d joked, then frowned. “But… metallic? You sure the kitchen didn’t poison us?”

Elliot had shrugged it off. “You’re just sore from yesterday’s drills.”

Present Day

“The food,” Elliot breathed. “He said it tasted off. I thought he was being paranoid, but—”

“—but they laced it with channel suppressants,” Sylra finished. “Weakens the vessel’s walls. Then, when he surged his Essentia…”

“…the gaps tore open. Let the threads in.” Elliot’s fist clenched. How had he missed it? Towan’s complaints, the slight tremor in his hands post-meal—signs.

Sylra stood, her chair scraping like a knife on stone. “The kitchen keeps access logs. Every entry, exit, and ingredient request. If we cross-reference the timestamps with Towan’s symptoms…”

“We find the saboteur,” Elliot said, already moving.

“And the supplier,” Sylra added, her tone icy. “Those herbs aren’t grown in academy gardens.”

As they descended the spiral staircase, Elliot’s mind raced. Who had access? Staff? Students? The answer slithered in his gut—someone close. Someone unseen.

The library’s silence pressed in around them, broken only by the distant drip of water seeping through cracked stone. Moonlight bled through high windows, painting the archives in jagged silver stripes. Sylra’s finger tapped a restless rhythm against the grimoire’s cover, her gaze distant yet sharp—like a hawk circling prey.

The Library

The silence pressed in around them, thick as the dust that clung to forgotten tomes. Somewhere in the depths of the archives, water dripped—a slow, rhythmic echo against cracked stone. Moonlight cut through the high windows in jagged silver streaks, casting the library in fractured light and shadow.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Sylra’s finger tapped an absent rhythm against the grimoire’s worn cover. Her gaze was distant yet razor-sharp, like a hawk circling prey.

“The professors’ lounge,” she said at last. “Third floor, east wing. Every morning after combat drills, they gather in the courtyard for ‘strategic tea.’” A flicker of disdain tugged at her lips. “Fifteen minutes of arrogance and chamomile. That’s our window.”

Elliot exhaled through his nose. “And the logs?”

“Locked cabinet behind the headmaster’s portrait. Biometric seal—palmprint and Essentia signature.” Her voice was steady, but her fingers tightened against the book’s edge. “I’ve… bypassed it before.”

Moonlight caught the faint scar along her jawline—thin, precise, deliberate. Elliot studied her for a fraction too long. Who are you, really? But he swallowed the question.

Instead, he saw Towan’s bandaged leg, the raw memory of his brother’s choked scream sharper than any doubt.

“Tomorrow, then.”

----------------------------------------

Dawn

The academy still clung to the last vestiges of night, its corridors empty but watchful. Shadows pooled beneath the sconces, stretching long and thin against cold stone.

Sylra moved like smoke, her boots silent, her breath controlled. Elliot, despite his training, felt his pulse hammering loud enough to give them both away.

“Here.” Sylra pressed herself against a recessed door. The professors’ lounge loomed beyond—a cavern of leather-bound chairs and fading prestige, the air thick with incense and old secrets.

At the far end, the headmaster’s portrait glowered down at them—a stern-faced man clutching a staff crowned with a twin-phoenix crest. Sylra was already at the frame, prying it loose with practiced ease. Behind it, a steel cabinet hummed softly, its surface laced with glowing runes.

“Stay sharp,” she muttered, pressing her palm to the scanner.

Essentia flared. But not her usual wind.

Electric blue.

Shimmering. Unstable.

Elliot froze. Since when does she wield Lighting Essentia?

The lock clicked.

“Got it,” she breathed, yanking the drawer open. Inside, stacks of parchment lay neatly arranged, each stamped with crimson seals.

“Look for kitchen logs from yesterday,” Elliot whispered. “Cross-reference with ingredient requisitions, medical reports—”

A floorboard creaked overhead.

They went still.

High above, in the rafters, a crow shifted. One eye gleamed indigo. Watching.

Sylra didn’t hesitate. “We’re out of time.” She snatched a handful of documents, shoving them into her satchel. “Go.”

They slipped into the hallway just as footsteps echoed from the stairwell—steady, deliberate. A faint metallic click followed, the sound of a blade nudging against a belt.

Then came Rheon’s voice, cold and amused:

“Curfew’s a fragile thing, isn’t it?”

“Damn it! We took too long,” Sylra whispered, glancing down the hallway before pushing open the nearest door. “In here.”

They slipped inside just as footsteps echoed closer.