The days at Obsidian Academy had begun to blur into a rhythm—not comfort, never that, but a pattern. Wake up before sunrise, train in silence, endure the weight of stares that dared not speak, and retreat when the night blanketed the mountains in frost. Yet, for all the repetition, there was something new stirring beneath the surface. A shift. A slow, crawling change that came not in fire, but in whispers.
I felt it first in the way the staff looked at me.
Not with fear.
With calculation.
And I hated that more.
Because fear was honest. But calculation? That was the beginning of schemes.
It started after the duel with Lysander.
Word spread, not about how I refused to strike him down, but about how I could have.
The distinction mattered.
Suddenly, I wasn't just the anomaly. I was the anomaly who chose restraint. And in this world, restraint was either weakness… or manipulation.
They didn't know which. So they watched.
Even Seravin, my mentor, had begun speaking more cryptically. Our lessons were no longer just about control or theory. He'd started introducing ancient texts, ones written before the Founding, before the gods fractured and bled into myths.
He gave me a page from something called the Vesper Codex.
It wasn't in any known tongue.
But I could read it.
I didn't understand why.
When I asked him, he only said, "Some languages live in the soul, not the mind."
And then he dismissed me, vanishing into the cold mist that always lingered around his quarters.
—
I spent the next few nights translating.
One stanza echoed loudest.
"And from the breath of the hollow one, the wings shall rise not to fly, but to fall.
For the world does not need saving. It needs forgetting."
It didn't feel like prophecy.
It felt like warning.
I didn't tell Seravin I understood it.
Some truths are safer when kept alone.
—
Meanwhile, the Academy grew restless.
The Tournament of Black Sigils loomed closer.
Every ten years, Obsidian Academy held a bloodless war.
At least, that's what they claimed.
It was meant to test mastery over sigils, strategy, and casting under pressure. But anyone who had attended one before knew the truth: it was a political masquerade, dressed in ritual and violence.
And it was mandatory.
Ravianne sent word the night before my name was submitted.
"If they dare pit you against nobles, break their names before their bones. You owe no one kindness in a rigged game."
She included a feather in the envelope. Raven-black. Warm to the touch.
Not enchanted.
Just hers.
A reminder that she was watching.
—
My only friend in this place—if you could even call him that—was Caidros.
We'd barely spoken, but our silences often held more understanding than a dozen conversations. He watched me train from across the hall, always calm, always calculating. He didn't judge. He observed.
One evening, he approached.
"Your magic doesn't hum," he said bluntly.
I looked up from the rune etched into the stone.
"What?"
He crossed his arms. "Everyone's magic hums. It sings when drawn, roars when cast. Yours doesn't. It devours sound instead."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
So I asked, "Why do you care?"
Caidros shrugged. "Because I don't like surprises. And you're the loudest silence I've ever met."
Then he walked away.
Strange guy.
But he didn't feel like an enemy.
Not yet.
—
The Academy's grand hall transformed as the tournament approached.
Banners hung from every spire, each representing a noble house or guild faction. The courtyard was enchanted with seasonal illusions—falling leaves of silver, drifting snowflakes that never melted.
And students began forming alliances.
Some sought power.
Others, survival.
A few approached me.
I turned them all away.
Not out of arrogance.
Out of strategy.
If I stood alone, no one could claim my victory.
Or blame their loss on me.
But it made me a target.
Two days before the first round, I found my chamber door open.
It was always locked.
The moment I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong.
The air was too still.
Too perfect.
I stepped lightly, each movement calculated. I reached the edge of my bed and froze.
A rune had been carved into my pillow.
Very small.
Almost invisible.
Binding magic.
Crude. Not meant to kill.
Meant to paralyze.
A warning.
Not from the Academy.
From one of the students.
I didn't sleep that night.
Instead, I stood at my window, watching the stars shift overhead.
And I whispered.
Not magic.
Not poetry.
Just a truth.
"I won't die in this world pretending to be smaller than I am."
The shadows at my feet curled like they agreed.
—
When the tournament began, I didn't wear armor.
I wore black cloth, simple and unassuming. No crest. No sigil. Just the Everdusk insignia tucked beneath my collar, hidden from view.
Caidros stood across the field.
He didn't smile.
He nodded.
I returned it.
Our fight wasn't today.
But it would come.
We both knew it.
For now, I was paired against a girl named Isenelle Valcroft. A noble with talent in firecraft and illusions. Confident. Lethal. Arrogant.
She greeted me with a smirk.
"I hear you're the favorite," she said sweetly. "Let's fix that."
I didn't answer.
The instructor signaled.
She struck first.
A wall of flame burst toward me.
But fire doesn't impress me.
Not anymore.
I stepped through it.
No barrier. No chant. Just instinct.
And for the first time since coming to this world…
I smiled.
Because I wasn't a hero here.
And for once, that meant I could finally enjoy the fight.