The cold air stung my face like an angry and unrelenting bee.
My breath misted in the air, rhythmic puffs as I ran, each step pounding against the frost-hardened dirt. The grass, once vibrant green, now crunched beneath my boots, dry and brittle as bones. The distant mountains loomed like sentinels, their peaks crowned with thick snow that glinted in the faint light of the rising sun. Autumn had passed too quickly here, I thought. The trees that skirted the academy grounds were skeletal now, their branches clawing upward as if pleading against the encroaching winter. The cold air was brutal, and I was exhausted from lack of sleep. My body ached, and bruised ribs, still not addressed medically, pinched at my sides.
But I ran.
At the head of the pack, neck, and neck with Mel and Waelid, I pushed forward despite the weighted vest pulling me down. Each step burned, each breath scraped, but I relished it. It had been too long since I’d felt this—this raw, human exhaustion. My legs screamed for a reprieve, my lungs begged for air, and I welcomed it all like an old friend. The time being a Twin-Soul made me too reliant on the unearned enhanced endurance.
Mel groaned beside me, her face red with effort, strands of damp hair sticking to her forehead. “How,” she panted, “are you—still running? When did—you get this good?”
I didn’t answer. I told myself I would get stronger, and that meant pushing myself to the brink every day now. My body wasn’t the same as it used to be, but I could still feel the echoes of what I once was—the long hours, the relentless drive. Back then, I’d worked myself into the ground for my brother, for survival. Here, did anything really change? But what choice was there? If there’s a hope of saving his soul, I have to try. Why did he come here? The questions and need to save him, and the others gnawed at me more than my own desires.
Waelid, just ahead of us, barely seemed to notice the strain. His movements were smooth, his breathing steady. If the weighted vest bothered him, it didn’t show. The others trailed behind their labored breaths and stomping footsteps, a distant hum. Silas once again came up in the rear, and Ruriel fell somewhere in the middle. When I looked back, he almost looked asleep while running.
I turned back to the front and watched Waelid out of the corner of my eye with more questions on my mind. How was he this strong? Is this composed? It had to be his blood infusion…right? What else could give him that edge? I’d have to figure it out eventually—if I could trust him long enough to learn his secrets.
My gaze drifted forward again.
The sky was pale, streaked with hints of gold and silver as the sun rose even more. Frost covered the dead grass all around us.
Aside from our heavy breathing, the world was silent.
—‘You’re going too hard. Don’t overwork my body to the point you destroy it,’ Fern’s voice firmly.
—You’ve been quiet all morning, I thought back. Is everything alright?
—‘Why ask now?’ he replied, his voice sharp with a bitterness I’d grown too familiar with. ‘You rarely care.’
My steps faltered, just for a moment, before I steadied myself again and ran back in step with Mel and Waelid.
I clenched my fists against the cold. He wasn’t wrong. I’d silenced him so many times before, shut him out when I couldn’t handle his protests, his pleas, and his thoughts during fights. But he was wrong each time. And he is wrong now. If only he knew that.
—I’m trying, okay? I thought, pushing the words toward him. I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know if it even mattered.
Fern didn’t respond. His silence settled in the pit of my stomach like a stone.
The run stretched on. When House Anu finally came into view, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the group. The recruits slowed, their exhaustion catching up to them, but I kept pace until the very end. My legs burned, my shoulders ached, but I wouldn’t stop. Not until it was over. Not until I was stronger.
When we finally came to a halt, the air was thick with the sound of ragged breathing and muttered complaints. Mel collapsed onto the frozen ground, clutching at her vest and sliding it off, cursing the whole time. Waelid barely seemed winded, his expression as unreadable as ever.
“Good run,” he said, his voice calm.
I glared at him but said nothing.
Waelid turned to me as the others drifted toward the dorms. “We’re meeting Hopsander later,” he said, his tone low and clipped.
“Fine,” I replied, tugging at the straps of my vest.
“And I pulled Fan in, too,” he added, his gaze steady.
“What?” My voice sharpened, drawing a glance from Silas, who walked away quickly. I lowered my voice, stepping closer. “Why would you do that? We don’t even know if we can trust—”
“It’s done,” Waelid said, cutting me off with a dismissive wave. “You’ll see the value soon enough.”
Before I could argue further, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the cold with my frustration simmering beneath the surface.
I clenched my fists, the leather of my gloves creaking under the strain.
—Great, I thought bitterly. Just great. Things were already falling out of my control. I had to fix that.
----------------------------------------
The warmth of the dorm mess hall was much needed from the biting cold outside. After we had changed into our uniforms, we filed into the room of the large circular tables. The scent of Ol’ Mumms’ spiced porridge and freshly baked bread drifted through the air, mingling with the hum of quiet chatter from other upperclassmen. Most of them were engulfed in studies. I slid into a chair, exhaustion tugging at my shoulders, and Silas and Ruriel came up and sat next to me.
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Silas had his mechanical arm detached, the joint resting on the table while he tinkered with a series of delicate cogs and wires inside it. His brow furrowed, his tongue poked out as he worked. Ruriel sat cross-legged on his chair and was still flipping through the slim red booklet labeled Blood Infusions at the Academy of Ash Year of Alexander 801. He glanced up as I approached, a grin spreading across his face.
“Well, look who’s still alive,” Ruriel drawled, tossing the booklet onto the table. “Thought that run would’ve killed you, Erik. Or at least humbled you a bit. Was praying for it too, ya showoff.”
I dropped into the chair across from them, letting out a sigh. “You know me, Ruriel. Too stubborn to die, too tired to care.”
Ruriel snorted, “I’d say you should count yourself lucky. Being given special powers and all that. I’d be showing off, too, if it were me.”
Ruriel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Let me guess. Did you stay up all night with those documents? How much did you actually read before you passed out?”
I shot him a glare. “More than you’d think. Less than I wanted.”
He smirked. “So, a grand total of… what, two names?”
“Five,” I countered, taking another bite. “Maybe six.”
Silas chuckled under his breath, sliding a tiny wrench into one of the arm’s compartments. “You don’t think the spies from the town of Ash, do you?”
“No,” I said immediately, shaking my head. “The attacks have been too precise, too frequent. Whoever it is has to be here, inside the academy. They’d need access to the grounds, the students, the archives…” I trailed off, the weight of the thought settling over me.
Ruriel’s grin faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. “So, what—one of the staff? A professor?”
“Most likely,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I started with the runic department because of Pestil. Something about him doesn’t sit right.”
Ruriel raised an eyebrow. “You mean the charming professor who performed a whole spiritual autopsy on you? What could be suspicious about him?”
I let out a chuckle. “He’s hiding something. I am confident about that. Whether he’s the spy and works for the Royal Mage Knights, though, that’s an entirely separate question,” I said.
“The problem is, he seems to be a cornerstone in the whole Cinder operation. Pestil has a massive team that is way bigger than any other department. Researchers, agents working abroad, people gathering information from every corner of the world related to any of the hundreds of projects he has been head of. He has been around too long to be a spy. So then, I wondered if it was anyone on his team, like-”
Silas glanced up from his work, his expression sharp. “Like Rennal?”
“Yup, but that just led me down to several dead ends. Something with him is off, too.” I said.
Silas’s mechanical arm clicked into place, and he flexed the metal fingers experimentally. “So, did any of the names lead you to anything useful?”
I shook my head and ran a hand through my hair. “Nope. Only names. Hometowns. Family histories. Most of it was surface-level—basic records. The only thing that stood out was how many staff members had ties to notable Mageblood families, even minor ones. Fathers who were mayors, mothers who were officers in the Conscription. There’s a pattern, but I haven’t figured it out yet.”
The two looked confused and shook their heads. Ruriel picked up the blood infusion book and leaned back in his chair. “Hopefully, that archive raid wasn’t all for nothing. I’ll help go through the books with you after we finish classes.”
“Yeah, same. I have to help Professor Twinges first then, I’ll be back.”
“Ah, about that,” I said, remembering Waelid’s comment. “We have our own spy meeting. And I’ll be bringing you both.”
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The first-period classroom buzzed with everyone talking about the assault in the restricted archive. Word had got around of our…misadventure last night. Thankfully, no one had any leads on who the culprits were. Silas, Ruriel, and I played the part of the ignorant fool. Chairs scraped against the floor, boots thudded as everyone shuffled to their seats, and someone tapped impatiently on their desk.
I sat between Silas and Ruriel, my hands folded, resting on the desk. Hopsander stood near the front, arms crossed. He hadn’t said a word since we arrived, and his silence only added to the unease settling over us.
The door creaked open, and the headteacher strode in.
—Oh, come on, Hopsander, you didn’t betray me, did you? I tightened my grip on my hands.
The room fell silent instantly.
The Headmaster’s black uniform was immaculate, the gold trim gleaming in the faint light. He stopped in the center of the room, his eyes sweeping over us like a hawk surveying prey.
“You’re all wondering why I’ve made a personal appearance, yes?” he began.
I looked around the room and saw my classmates look uncomfortable in their seats.
“Reports have reached me,” he continued, “that there has been an infiltration.”
“Someone, or something, has breached our defenses,” he said. “A threat that could very well have ties to the Royal Mages and one that could destroy this academy itself. We do not take threats like these lightly.”
My stomach twisted.
I glanced at Silas and Ruriel. Ruriel’s jaw tightened, and Silas’s mechanical arm twitched faintly as if echoing the tension in the room. Both of them turned their heads slightly toward me, their eyes asking the same silent question: Did you say anything?
I shook my head no.
Hopsander’s gaze flicked toward me, his expression unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. It was a small reassurance, but it did little to quell the storm brewing inside me.
“We cannot take chances and will protect you all, the Academy, and the cinders,” the Headmaster continued. “Every member of the staff will be thoroughly interviewed. Some classes may be disrupted, but I assure you, this is necessary for the safety of the academy.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “In the meantime, your curriculum will shift. Effective immediately, your training will focus on counter-mageblood tactics. You will be prepared to face enemies who use their power to dominate and destroy.”
The class erupted into a mix of muttered conversations and excited glances.
“Quiet!” the Headmaster barked, slamming his palm against a desk. The sharp crack echoed through the room, silencing us again.
He straightened, brushing invisible dust from his uniform. “Professor Gallon will begin your first session. She will provide a foundational understanding of what you’re up against. Pay attention.”
At that, the door burst open, and in swept Professor Gallon.
Her entrance was as chaotic as today. Her frizzy hair seemed to defy gravity. She wore a long shimmering blue cloak with hundreds of small silver stars stitched into the long train. The dress-like cloak trailed behind her like a banner. She carried an armful of books and scrolls, which she dumped unceremoniously onto the nearest desk before spinning to face us, her eyes wide with manic energy.
“Ah, my darling little recruits!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “So much to cover! So little time! And, oh, the tragedy of it all! So many tragedies! First, Mr. Hopsander over here refused to let me bring my crystal projection machine here.”
Hopsander groaned. “I hate the smell of the Crystal Pillardust residue. I don’t want it in here.”
Gallon glared at him before turning back towards us.
“Second, do you know what they have done?” Gallon demanded, jabbing a finger toward the ceiling as if accusing the gods themselves. “Those villains! They entered our sacred Restricted Archives! Tore apart from the place! Ripped pages from precious history books! My history books!”
I sank lower in my seat. I know I shouldn’t feel guilty…but a part of me did.
“And for what?” Gallon continued, throwing her arms wide. “To spread their insidious chaos, of course! To undermine the very foundation of knowledge! Barbaric, I tell you. Barbaric!”
Hopsander let out a quiet sigh, waddled over to a chair behind a second desk in the front corner, and sat down.
The Headmaster quickly left with what I could have sworn was a small smirk.
“Now!” Gallon declared, grabbing a piece of chalk and spinning toward the board. “Let us discuss the Seven Laws, the Seven Continents, and the Seven Magic! Why? Because context is key, my dear Voidbloods. Context!”
She scrawled the number 7 across the board in jagged strokes, circling it repeatedly until the chalk squealed.
“Each major continent on our planet, Mourne,” she began, “is bound by its own Law. It’s a magical principle if you will. And the people born on their land are attuned to that land’s magic. It shapes their very essence! But!” She whirled around, her eyes blazing. “When they leave their land, what happens?”
“They lose their magic,” Zenobia said. As a former page for one of the High Courts, she had learned much about the different histories and origins of magic.
“Correct!” Gallon shouted, pointing dramatically. “They become severely dampened! Crippled, even! And that, my friends, is why we—the Cinders—are essential. We have no innate Law Magic. We bypass the dampening entirely. And so, when Stylos sends its armies to…say…Biogabresh.”
She drew a crude map of the continents, marking Biogabresh with an X. It was a large continent, easily three or four times the size of Stylos. It sat below it with a small sea separating the two.
“They send us. The expendable. The adaptable. The Voidbloods who can fight where invading Magebloods cannot.”
“But what about the Stylos Magebloods themselves? The Royal Mage knights? What kind of magic do they use, indeed? What do our ‘Masters’ use to keep us in chains?” Gallon continued, switching to a new section of the board. “Let us first consider Stylos’s Law of Vibration Magic.” She began drawing wavy lines, her chalk darting back and forth with frantic energy.
“Who here knows what it looks like when a Mageblood casts?” she asked, spinning to face us.
“It’s like…” I hesitated, then spoke up. “It’s like they’re holding strings between their fingers. Almost like knitting.”
“Yes!” Gallon cried, pointing at me with a triumphant grin. “The strings! The vibrations! They manipulate the very fabric of reality, tampering with elements, creating motion, and defying gravity itself! They knit the world, my dears. Knit it!”
Sora raised her hand hesitantly. “I’ve… seen it before. When I was a servant, the strings would glow, and then they’d become… whips. Or threads of fire.”
“Precisely!” Gallon crowed. “And what do we do to someone who can knit the vibrations of the world around them?”
The room fell silent.
Gallon’s grin turned wicked. “We cut off their hands.”
For a moment, no one moved, no one spoke. The reality of what she was saying settled over us like a suffocating blanket.
“Make no mistake,” Gallon said, her tone turning cold. “This has always been a war. An arms race to see when our blood infusions, our runes, and our techniques would outpace the elemental binding and study they did at their magical academies. War is not kind. It is not fair. You will do what you must survive. And if a little mutilation evens the playing field, then I say, go for the hands.”