There are three kinds of people in this world.
The ones who bow to power.
The ones who chase it.
And the ones who become it.
I never planned to be the third. But after that cathedral meeting, the entire Academy began watching me like I already was.
Like a crown hovered just inches above my head, waiting to fall.
Even my shadow walked heavier after that.
And some days, I swear it walked ahead of me.
⸻
The first sign something had changed?
The faculty stopped calling on me in class.
Not out of disrespect.
Out of fear.
The second sign?
Students started whispering whenever I passed. Some stepped aside like I was royalty. Others crossed themselves like I was cursed.
I heard one of them call me The Black Heir.
I didn't hate it.
But Ravianne?
She was pissed.
"They're testing how far they can push you," she warned one morning, sharpening a blade that never left her thigh. "They're trying to bait a reaction. If you explode, they can lock you away."
"Then I won't explode," I said, sipping tea.
"Liar," she muttered.
But she smirked anyway.
Because she knew me too well.
⸻
It was Liora who kept me grounded.
Which is ridiculous, considering she still carried herself like a paladin two seconds from driving a sword through my chest.
We never made small talk. No jokes. No shared meals or long walks by candlelight.
But I noticed the way her footsteps slowed when I was near.
How she started sitting two rows closer in Ethics.
How her eyes softened every time I bled in Sparring and didn't flinch.
She wasn't warming to me.
She was understanding me.
And that was worse.
Because understanding can lead to empathy.
And empathy?
That's how people get hurt.
⸻
It was late one night, right after curfew, when I found the letter on my bed.
No seal. Just plain parchment folded in thirds.
Two words scrawled across the front:
"Help me."
That's it.
No name.
No signature.
But I knew who wrote it.
Because the ink was smudged with a single tear-shaped drop of blood.
And I recognized that blood.
It smelled like my own.
⸻
I found her in the abandoned wing.
They said no one lived there anymore. That it had been sealed off after the last war.
But the door was ajar when I arrived.
And the magic inside smelled like burnt wings and broken vows.
I stepped in, one foot forward, the other ready to pivot.
"Ravianne?" I called softly.
No answer.
Just silence thick enough to swallow thought.
Then—
"Close the door."
I obeyed.
And the world changed.
The temperature dropped. Shadows thickened. And the walls bent inward, as if ashamed of what they were about to witness.
She was kneeling in the center of the room.
Her back turned. Her hands bound in glowing chains.
And over her?
A symbol I hadn't seen since Earth.
A circle of eyes.
All blind.
All bleeding.
My breath caught.
Because that symbol didn't belong in this world.
It belonged to mine.
And the moment I saw it,
I remembered everything.
⸻
My name, in the old world, was Vyrein.
The Seventh Hero.
Poet of Catastrophe.
I wielded verses like spells, rhyme as blade, and metaphor as shield.
My enemies called me mad.
My allies called me myth.
But when I died?
No one called me enough.
Not even myself.
And yet,
some part of that world had followed me here.
Or maybe…
I'd brought it with me.
⸻
Ravianne turned, her eyes wild.
"They found me," she said. "They know what I did."
"What did you do?"
"I tore a hole in the veil," she whispered. "To save you. When you died, something answered. I thought it was a god. But it wasn't. It was you."
I stood frozen.
Heart pounding.
Because I didn't understand.
But I felt the truth of it in my bones.
"You brought me back," I said softly.
She nodded.
"And now they want to erase you."
"No," she said, voice shaking.
"They want to use you."
That's when the chains tightened around her wrists.
And the eyes blinked.
All at once.
All at me.
I felt their gaze crawl beneath my skin, peeling away the surface of who I pretended to be.
And beneath that?
They found him.
Vyrein.
Still burning.
Still broken.
Still angry.
⸻
"You want me?" I whispered to the circle.
No answer.
But the chains on Ravianne hissed, and the air grew thick with unspoken threats.
"I'm not yours," I said louder.
The circle pulsed.
"You don't own me."
The light flared.
"I'm not your hero."
And then I reached into myself.
Past the part that bled.
Past the part that remembered pain.
And into the core where something ancient slept.
Something not born of this world.
Not human.
Not angel.
Just hungry.
I spoke its name.
And everything cracked.
⸻
The chains shattered.
The eyes screamed.
And the veil split, just for a moment.
Behind it, I saw the truth.
Not a god.
Not a demon.
Just a reflection.
Of me.
If I had never died.
If I had given in.
That version of me smiled.
Then vanished.
And the room went still.
Ravianne collapsed into my arms.
And I held her.
For the first time,
I realized she wasn't just my protector.
She was my anchor.
And maybe…
Maybe I was hers too.
⸻
The next morning, I found Liora waiting by the gate.
Sword sheathed. Eyes unreadable.
"You felt it," she said.
It wasn't a question.
I nodded.
"Something crossed over," I replied.
She studied me.
Then said—
"Tell me what you are."
I stepped forward.
Not a trace of fear.
Because I knew, now.
"I'm not a hero," I said.
"I'm not a villain either."
She tilted her head.
"Then what?"
I smiled.
"I'm the question they can't answer."
And with that,
I walked past her.
Toward whatever was coming next.
Toward war.
Toward truth.
Toward myself.