They say the Academy was built on sacred land.
But the truth is, it was built on bones.
Not metaphorical ones.
Real ones.
Skulls carved into pillars. Ribs ground into mortar. A throne hidden beneath the catacombs, made from the spine of a fallen king.
I saw it in a dream.
Or maybe it was a memory.
The lines between them blur more every day.
⸻
After the incident with the veil, nothing returned to normal.
Because there was no "normal" left to return to.
Word spread like wildfire. First whispered through dorms, then scrawled across desks, then spoken out loud in the dining hall:
Ael Valefort burned through a summoning circle.
And worse—
He survived it.
By the time the instructors tried to cover it up, the damage was done. Even the headmaster couldn't erase what had already sunk into the students' bones.
Me.
What I was becoming.
What I might already be.
Some called me a godling.
Others, a heretic.
But the one title that stuck?
Ashborn.
⸻
I didn't bother correcting them.
Why would I?
I'd already begun to feel the fire inside shift.
Not wild.
Not chaotic.
But coiled.
Coiled like a serpent around my spine, tightening every time I drew magic.
It whispered in a voice too old to have a name.
Burn them.
Burn them all.
⸻
Ravianne stayed close after that night.
Too close.
She stopped smiling. Stopped throwing casual insults. Even stopped sharpening her blade at the breakfast table.
She just watched me.
Silent. Still.
Like she was waiting for something to snap.
It didn't help that I started dreaming in tongues.
Languages that didn't exist in this realm.
Languages that echoed.
The worst part?
Sometimes I'd wake up speaking them.
Sometimes—
I wouldn't wake up alone.
⸻
The Academy tried to act as though nothing had changed.
They doubled my supervision in Elemental Theory.
Moved me to solo training sessions.
Assigned me a "partner" for ethical observation.
Guess who?
Liora.
Of course.
She accepted without blinking. Didn't even flinch when they handed her the written command: Observe Ael Valefort for signs of corruption. Record without bias.
Bias?
She already had it.
She just didn't know what side she was on yet.
⸻
We met every morning in the sparring courtyard.
She would stretch silently, sword at her side, hair tied in that perfect, too-tight braid.
And me?
I'd just stand there, barefoot in the frost, feeling the hum of the earth tremble beneath my toes.
Waiting for her to attack.
She always did.
And every time, she got closer.
Closer to drawing blood.
Closer to drawing truth.
Closer to pulling out the name I'd buried.
But I never let her see the real me.
Not all of it.
Just enough to keep her interested.
Just enough to keep her guessing.
Because people like Liora?
They don't fall for power.
They fall for purpose.
And I had plenty of that to spare.
⸻
It was during one of those morning duels that it happened.
The sky blackened.
No clouds. No storm.
Just an absence.
A silence that wasn't silence, but a waiting.
And then—
A scream.
Not from a student.
Not from the sky.
From the very stone beneath our feet.
The runes on the training floor glowed crimson.
The edges of the arena cracked open.
And from beneath?
A hand.
Gray-skinned. Charred. Etched with symbols I recognized from my dreams.
A herald.
Not a demon.
Not a mage.
A messenger.
For me.
The others didn't understand.
They saw it and panicked.
Instructors sounded alarms. Students scrambled for cover.
Liora stood frozen.
Ravianne drew her blade.
And I?
I walked toward it.
Not because I was brave.
But because I knew.
This wasn't an attack.
It was a summons.
⸻
The hand pulled itself upward, revealing a head.
Then a torso.
Its face was eyeless.
Its mouth stitched.
Its chest carved with a thousand shifting runes.
And in its hands—
A crown.
Black.
Burnt.
Dripping ash.
It extended it toward me.
And though it never spoke, I heard the words clear as thunder:
"Claim what you left behind."
⸻
I stepped forward.
One pace.
Then another.
The weight of a thousand eyes settled on my back.
But none of that mattered.
Because the closer I got, the clearer I heard his voice.
The other me.
Vyrein.
Not speaking through the herald.
But standing beside it.
Tall. Radiant. Wicked.
A crown already on his head.
"You're not ready," he said.
I stared at him, heart pounding.
"You left this behind," he continued, gesturing to the black crown. "You ran."
"No," I said, teeth clenched.
"You died," he corrected. "Like a coward."
"I gave everything."
He laughed.
"And you think they deserve it?" He glanced at the others—at Ravianne, at Liora, at the broken world that still called itself good. "You think they'll thank you for saving them? For becoming what you hate?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
But I still reached out.
Not for the crown.
For the herald.
I gripped its burned fingers.
And whispered a single word:
"Not yet."
Then I burned it.
⸻
The entire arena lit up with holy fire.
Not mine.
Not divine.
Something in-between.
The creature screamed without sound.
The cracks sealed.
The crown vanished.
And Vyrein?
He smiled.
Faded.
And left me with a final thought:
"You can delay destiny,
but you cannot destroy it."
⸻
The instructors tried to expel me.
They called it heresy. Tampering with the veil. Interference with death.
But the Headmaster intervened.
Not because he believed me.
But because he was scared of what I might become.
He wanted to watch.
To measure.
And if I ever lost control?
He wanted front-row seats.
I didn't argue.
Because I had no time for politics.
I had a throne to find.
Not to sit on.
To destroy.
⸻
That night, I walked to the top of the bell tower.
Alone.
Watched the stars flicker like dying candles.
And asked myself the question I'd been avoiding.
What if Vyrein was right?
What if I was meant to rule?
Not as a hero.
Not as a villain.
But as something worse.
Something necessary.
Something final.
Liora found me there.
Didn't speak.
Just stood beside me.
I didn't look at her.
I just said—
"If I burn, will you still follow?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Yes."