The infirmary was eerily quiet, the usual hum of whispered voices absent. Only the faint rustling of linens and the distant bubbling of a restorative potion filled the air. Seikan Blackthorn stood at the entrance, his sharp green eyes fixed on a bed near the far end of the ward.

Sage Blackthorn lay there, pale against the white sheets, his usual air of quiet menace replaced with something… fragile.

Seikan had seen his son in many states—calculated, cruel, smug, indifferent. But never like this. Never small. Never tired.

For the first time in a long while, Sage looked like what he was. A child.

Seikan approached with slow, measured steps, his robes barely making a sound as he crossed the room. When he reached the bedside, he did not speak immediately, instead studying Sage’s face. There were no visible wounds, but magic had a way of wounding beyond the physical.

Sage’s dark eyes cracked open, sharp but unfocused. For a moment, he simply blinked up at the ceiling, as though uncertain whether he was still dreaming. Then his gaze slid toward Seikan, and recognition flickered through his exhaustion.

A long silence stretched between them.

Seikan finally broke it. “You are alive.”

Sage let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Disappointed?” His voice was hoarse, lacking its usual edge.

Seikan did not answer immediately. Instead, he pulled a chair closer, lowering himself into it with the same unshakable precision he carried in all things. He folded his hands in his lap, observing Sage with that same cool, unreadable expression he always wore.

“No,” he said finally. “I am not disappointed.”

Sage turned his head slightly, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. He looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his expression slipping into something uncharacteristically open.

He looked unguarded.

“…I thought I was dead,” Sage admitted quietly.

Seikan inclined his head. “That was the intended outcome, was it not?”

Sage let out a small, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Guess Sevrin will be disappointed.”

A pause. Then, in a rare, near-imperceptible shift, Seikan’s fingers tightened slightly in his lap.

“Salsiar ordered your death.” It was not a question.

Sage’s lips pressed together. He turned his head away, staring at the far wall.

“Yes.”

Seikan exhaled slowly, something in his shoulders shifting ever so slightly. “And Sevrin carried out the order.”

Another long pause.

“Not exactly,” Sage muttered. His voice was quieter now, almost reluctant. “I let him.”

Seikan’s gaze sharpened, but he said nothing. He simply waited.

Sage swallowed. “He was… going to lose. At first I was holding back. But then, I knew if I survived, he wouldn’t. And I—” He hesitated. His fingers curled into the sheets. “I didn’t want that.”

For a long moment, Seikan did not speak. Then, carefully, he reached out and adjusted the blanket covering Sage. It was such a simple motion, yet deliberate—ensuring that his son was warm, secure.

Sage blinked, thrown off by the small gesture.

Seikan leaned back, his sharp eyes unreadable once more. “That was not an easy decision.”

Sage snorted softly. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Seikan tilted his head slightly. “Do you regret it?”

Sage hesitated. Then, finally, he exhaled. “No.”

A pause.

Something unreadable flickered through Seikan’s gaze, but it was gone before Sage could name it.

“You are alive,” Seikan repeated, softer this time.

Sage looked at him then, properly looked. His father had always been impossible to read, an impenetrable wall of logic and control. But now, for the first time, Sage saw something else.

A quiet kind of relief.

Seikan shifted in his seat with the same controlled grace as always, adjusting his robes as he did so. “Rest,” he instructed simply. “There will be time for discussions later.”

Sage watched him for a long moment. Then, quietly, he murmured, “Okay.”

The door to the infirmary creaked open, and the distinct sound of leisurely footsteps echoed through the quiet room. Seikan did not immediately turn his head, but Sage’s tired gaze flickered toward the entrance, narrowing slightly at the unmistakable presence of Boromus Spellchecker.

The Headmaster strode inside with his usual casual air, hands comfortably tucked behind his back, his mismatched robes sweeping the floor in his wake. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room as if he were simply taking a morning stroll, rather than stepping into the aftermath of a near catastrophe.

He gave a small hum as he passed a few empty beds, before stopping near Marilla’s unconscious form, lying still beneath the covers of the farthest cot.

“Ah,” Boromus mused, glancing her over with mild curiosity. “Still unconscious, I see. Quite the ordeal for her, I imagine. Poor thing, having her body borrowed like an old coat.”

Seikan, still seated beside Sage’s bed, remained quiet, his posture as composed as ever. Sage, however, let out a quiet scoff from the pillows. “You sound so concerned.”

Boromus turned his head slightly, flashing the boy an easy smile. “Oh, tremendously. Truly. You can hear the anguish in my voice.”

Sage gave him a flat look.

Boromus then turned his attention to Seikan. “You’re staying here for a while, then?”

Seikan inclined his head slightly. “For the time being.”

Boromus nodded, tapping a finger against his chin. “Good, good. You may as well be here for this, then.”

Seikan finally lifted his gaze properly, his emerald eyes sharp with interest.

Boromus’ tone, while still light, carried a quiet weight to it as he stepped closer. “This situation has made something painfully clear, old friend. Our current security measures are woefully inadequate when it comes to matters like this.” He gestured vaguely toward Marilla. “A demon has been waltzing through my school halls, unseen, unchallenged. And that is not something I plan to let happen again.”

Seikan’s expression remained unreadable. “You wish to reinforce the wards.”

“I wish to do more than that,” Boromus corrected, clasping his hands together. “I want improved detection runes placed throughout Austramore, particularly in the lower levels. Something that will alert us immediately if another entity like Salsiar so much as breathes within our walls.”

Seikan exhaled quietly, considering the request. “Demon detection is not simple.”

“I know that,” Boromus said, waving a hand. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

A beat of silence.

Seikan’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of the chair. “It is possible,” he admitted. “But not without time.”

Boromus nodded. “You’ll have the time you need. You have until the start of next year.”

Another pause.

Then, as if it were an afterthought, Boromus added, “Oh, and I imagine you’ll find this fascinating—I’ve arranged for a demonology expert to join the staff next year.”

Seikan did not react.

Not outwardly.

But Boromus saw it.

A shift, almost imperceptible—the way Seikan’s shoulders tensed just slightly, the way his fingers stopped their slow movement against the chair.

For a man as composed as Seikan Blackthorn, that was the equivalent of a visible flinch.

Sage noticed it too, his tired eyes flickering with curiosity as he glanced between them.

Seikan said nothing.

Boromus let his smile linger for just a moment longer before turning away, humming to himself as if nothing had happened.

“Well,” he said lightly, stepping toward the door. “I’ll leave you to your son, Seikan. But do think about my request, won’t you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

With a lazy wave, he strode out of the infirmary, whistling an old tune under his breath.

The room fell into silence once more.

Sage, still watching his father carefully, finally muttered, “You know who it is, don’t you?”

Seikan’s expression remained unreadable.

“No.”

The night air hung heavy over Austramore, the usual hum of student chatter subdued in the wake of the day's events. Whispers of the fight, of the demon, of Salsiar still lingered in the corridors, but none of it reached the Thylacea common room.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Not yet.

Here, the flickering glow of enchanted lanterns bathed the space in soft golden light. The crackling fireplace cast long, shifting shadows across the room, its warmth a stark contrast to the unsettling cold Soya still felt in his bones.

He sat curled in his usual chair near the hearth, legs drawn up, arms loosely wrapped around himself. His sketchbook lay untouched in his lap, the pages blank despite the charcoal stick still clutched between his fingers.

He had been staring at it for the past ten minutes.

He wanted to draw.

Needed to.

But every time he lifted his hand, all he could see was Salsiar’s twisted form, the way the shadows had moved like something alive, the way the air had felt wrong. The memory clawed at the edges of his mind, wrapping around him like invisible tendrils.

His fingers tightened on the charcoal.

“Alright,” Davonte’s voice cut through the silence, breaking Soya’s trance. “We’re just gonna go ahead and talk about it, because I can’t sit here and pretend this isn’t weird anymore.”

Soya blinked, glancing up.

The others were all here. Draven, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his ever-present journal balanced against his knee. Tiana, poised on the edge of the sofa, watching quietly but intently. Kalsei, lounging with his head draped over the armrest, his white hair with pink and teal streaks, hanging lazily.

And Davonte, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, silver eyes locked onto Soya with that sharp, knowing look that made it impossible to hide anything.

Soya frowned slightly. “…What?”

Davonte rolled his eyes. “This.” He gestured vaguely at Soya, then narrowed his eyes. “You. Sitting there like some tragic, brooding protagonist, not saying a single word about the fact that you were almost kidnapped by a demon today.”

Soya stiffened.

Draven adjusted his glasses. “In fairness, the probability of Soya expressing his emotions openly is statistically nonexistent.”

“Yeah, well,” Davonte huffed, “he doesn’t need to say it. I know him.” His gaze flickered back to Soya. “And you’re not okay.”

Soya looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m fine.”

“You suck at lying.”

Tiana finally spoke, her voice calm but steady. “He’s right, Soya.”

Soya clenched his teeth. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Kalsei said, flipping onto his stomach on the couch, propping his chin on his hands. His usually playful tone was gentler than normal. “You don’t have to talk about it, but you don’t have to sit there and pretend, either.”

Soya swallowed.

His fingers twitched against his sketchbook.

He wanted to act normal. He wanted to sit here and banter with them like always, to make some dry remark and let the conversation shift away from him.

But…

His hands were still shaking.

And they knew.

Of course they did.

Davonte sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Look, I’m not saying you have to give us the whole tragic monologue or whatever. But you almost got taken today, mate. That’s… That’s not nothing.”

Soya exhaled slowly. Then, after a long pause—“…It was terrifying.” The words came out quieter than he expected.

Davonte nodded. “Yeah.”

Soya hesitated. He shifted, gripping the charcoal stick tighter, feeling its rough texture against his palm. “I thought—I felt—” He struggled to find the words. “It was like… He knew something I didn’t.”

Draven’s brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

Soya’s throat felt tight. “Like—he knew me. Or something about me. Like I was…” His voice dropped lower. “…important.”

Silence.

Then—

“Well,” Kalsei mused, “you are the only Muggle-born in centuries. That’s pretty cool.”

Soya shot him a flat look.

Kalsei grinned. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

Soya sighed, leaning his head back against the chair. “I don’t feel important.”

Tiana, who had been quiet for most of the discussion, finally spoke. “That’s not up to you.”

Soya glanced at her, frowning.

She met his gaze evenly. “It doesn’t matter if you feel important. You are. And that means people—things—are going to notice.”

Soya’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of his sketchbook.

Davonte leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his knees. “And that means we have to be ready.”

Soya hesitated. “We?”

Davonte raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, we. What, you think you’re dealing with this alone?”

Soya’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Because honestly…

He had thought that. He had always been alone, before coming here. Always figuring things out himself, always keeping things hidden because it was easier than explaining. But now—Now they were looking at him like it wasn’t even a question. Like of course they were in this with him.

Like of course they were going to stand by him. Soya swallowed past the tightness in his throat.

“…Right,” he murmured.

Davonte gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Because if you try to play the brooding loner thing for too long, I will start throwing things at you.”

Kalsei perked up. “Ooh, can I join?”

Draven sighed. “I refuse to be involved in whatever this is.”

Tiana simply shook her head with a small, amused exhale.

Soya let out a breath—one that felt like it had been trapped in his chest for hours.

The night air was crisp and cool, carrying the distant chatter of the Eucalyptic Grove’s insects just beyond Austramore’s boundary. The school loomed behind him, its warm glow a stark contrast to the quiet solitude Sevrin had sought.

He sat on a low stone wall, just on the edge of the grounds, where the wards of Austramore’s protective magic shimmered faintly in the distance. Here, beneath the open sky, away from the suffocating halls and their whispers, he could think.

His hands idly toyed with the remains of a biscuit, crumbling the edges and tossing small pieces onto the ground. The sound of tiny claws scuttling across the stone filled the silence as a flock of nightfinches cautiously approached, drawn by the food.

Sevrin watched them. His fingers loosened, letting another few crumbs drop. The birds hopped closer, eyes bright and beady, their sharp little beaks pecking at the ground. It was quiet. Peaceful. And yet—His mind was anything but.

Salsiar was gone. Not dead, but gone. He should have felt relief. He did feel relief. But he also felt lost.

His entire life had been spent planning, controlling, maneuvering himself into a position of power. He had chosen to follow Salsiar, to align himself with something greater than the petty games of children. He had believed in it.

But Salsiar had thrown him away the moment he proved himself useless. He had almost lost everything. Almost lost Sage. His hands clenched slightly. He had betrayed his best friend. For what?

A soft rustle of footsteps broke through his thoughts.

He didn’t flinch. He had already sensed her presence long before she made herself known.

“Sulking doesn’t suit you.” Lykaios’s voice was calm, cold, but… softer than usual.

Sevrin let out a quiet exhale, not bothering to look up as he tossed another crumb onto the ground. “I’m thinking.”

Lykaios stopped a few paces away, her silhouette outlined by the distant glow of Austramore’s lanterns. She tilted her head slightly, watching him. “You’re vulnerable right now,” she murmured. “It’s… unsettling.”

Sevrin scoffed. “How comforting.”

Lykaios stepped forward, finally settling onto the stone beside him, her posture as composed as ever.

She didn’t push. Didn’t demand. She simply waited.

The birds flitted closer, their tiny feet tapping against the stone as they pecked at the scattered crumbs.

Sevrin exhaled slowly. “…I don’t know what to do now.” It was quieter than he intended.

Lykaios didn’t react immediately. She reached into her robes, pulled out a small scrap of bread, and, without looking, crumbled it between her fingers, adding it to the pile of crumbs at their feet.

A nightfinch hesitated, then hopped forward, snatching up a piece.

“You don’t have to know,” she said finally.

Sevrin frowned. “I always know.”

Lykaios gave him a sharp, sidelong glance. “No. You pretend you always know.”

Sevrin clenched his jaw, staring at the birds as they swarmed closer, picking apart the scattered remains of their offering.

For so long, he had been in control. He had made choices with precision, manipulating situations to his advantage. But now, for the first time, he was standing at a crossroads with no clear path forward.

Salsiar was gone. Sage was alive. And he… He wasn’t sure what he was anymore.

Lykaios shifted slightly, her shoulder brushing his. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but the warmth of the gesture was there. “You’re allowed to be lost,” she murmured.

Sevrin swallowed. His throat felt tight. He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair, his usual composure slipping. “I—” His voice wavered, and he bit down on the words before they could escape.

Lykaios didn’t push. Didn’t pry. She just sat there, letting the silence stretch between them, watching the birds as they picked apart the last crumbs.

Sevrin let out a slow, shuddering breath. He had spent so long making sure no one could see his weakness. But with her—His sister—He didn’t have to hide.

The night stretched around them, vast and indifferent. The stars above glittered like cold pinpricks of light against the dark sky, distant and unfeeling. The quiet hum of the enchanted grove in the distance filled the air, steady and unchanging—something constant in a world that, for Sevrin, no longer felt stable.

The nightfinches had eaten their fill and fluttered away into the trees, leaving behind only the two of them, perched on the edge of the school boundary like they were separate from the world inside its walls.

For a long time, Sevrin just sat.

And Lykaios waited.

She had always been patient with him—never pushing, never forcing words he wasn’t ready to say. And now, as he stared at the empty ground where the birds had been, something inside him cracked just enough to let the words spill through.

“…I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

Lykaios didn’t move, didn’t respond immediately, just waited for him to continue.

Sevrin’s hands clenched in his lap. “I believed in it. In Salsiar. In his vision. The idea that we—pure-bloods—were stronger. That we had earned our place in magic. That the others… the weak ones… didn’t belong.” His voice was tight. “I thought I understood it. Thought I was strong.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose. “But when he told me to kill Sage, I didn’t even hesitate.”

Lykaios turned her head slightly, watching him.

Sevrin’s jaw tightened. “I just did it. Because I was told to. Because I thought it was what I was supposed to do.”

The words felt like poison on his tongue. He had prided himself on being in control, on being the one who manipulated, not the one who obeyed. But the truth was unbearable. He had been nothing more than a pawn. A weapon wielded by someone stronger. And the worst part? He hadn’t even realized it.

His hands trembled slightly before he clenched them into fists, forcing them still. “I hate myself for it.”

Lykaios exhaled through her nose. She shifted slightly, her posture still composed, still cold—but her voice, when she spoke, was quiet. “You are eleven, Sevrin.”

He looked at her sharply, expecting sarcasm, but her tone was steady.

“You were looking for a path. You tried to force one that didn’t fit.” She studied him with her piercing blue gaze, unreadable but firm. “You can fix that.”

Sevrin swallowed. “How?”

Lykaios turned back toward the horizon. “You find one that does.”

Silence settled between them again.

Sevrin stared at the ground, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts he didn’t know how to organize. Then, finally, he exhaled, tilting his head back toward the sky. “I don’t understand what Salsiar wanted with Vareen.”

Lykaios didn’t react outwardly, but the air around her seemed to shift slightly.

Sevrin continued, unaware of the change in her. “He’s a Muggle-born—he’s weak. He’s not even—”

He barely had time to register the sudden cold in Lykaios’s voice before she cut him off.

“Do not speak about him like that.”

Sevrin turned his head sharply.

Lykaios’s expression was the same as always—calm, unreadable. But her eyes—her eyes—

Something flickered in them. Something that sent a rare shiver down his spine.

Sevrin stiffened slightly. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Her voice wasn’t loud. But it was dangerous.

Sevrin, for once, was at a loss for words.

Lykaios looked away again, her posture relaxing just slightly, but her hands remained perfectly still in her lap.

“Salsiar is not a fool,” she murmured. “If he wanted Soya, there was a reason.”

Sevrin didn’t argue. Because she was right. Whatever had made Salsiar interested in that boy—whatever had driven him to try and take him—was something he still didn’t understand.