Sevrin moved through the dimly lit corridors of the lower levels of Austramore, his footfalls barely making a sound on the ancient stone floor. The torches lining the walls burned with an unnatural, flickering blue flame, casting long, restless shadows that stretched and writhed against the cold stone. The air here was thick, heavy with something unseen, something that made the skin crawl and the breath come just a little too shallow.

  He had been summoned.

  And one did not ignore a summons from Salsiar.

  The weight of expectation pressed against his ribs, but Sevrin straightened his shoulders and schooled his expression into one of cold indifference. He was not a child to be scolded. He was not some groveling pawn. He was Sevrin Verelle, heir to a legacy greater than most of these pitiful students could ever comprehend. And yet, he had failed. That much was undeniable. Evander, that insufferable, bumbling fool, had bested him. A disgrace.

  He reached the door at the end of the corridor. Dark wood, polished and smooth, with no handle. It opened on its own the moment he stopped before it.

  Inside, the chamber was colder. The air felt stagnant, unmoving, as though it had been sealed away from time itself. The walls were lined with bookshelves, tomes older than the school itself stacked neatly in ways that seemed almost deliberate, as if they served a purpose beyond knowledge.

  And at the center of the room stood Marilla.

  Or rather, what wore Marilla’s skin.

  The form was perfect—her composed stance, the sharp, calculating glint in her gaze. To any other student or professor, she was simply their enigmatic Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. But Sevrin knew better. He had seen the way her presence altered the air, the way the very walls seemed to bow beneath something greater, something far older than human flesh could contain. Salsiar was a being beyond mortal comprehension, a force of will that had chosen this vessel, and even now, as she stood with Marilla’s face, it was not her eyes that looked back at him.

  They were watching him.

  Sevrin lowered his head in a deferential nod, a gesture of acknowledgment, but not submission.

  “You called,” he said, his voice calm, measured.

  Marilla’s lips curled into something that could have been a smile if it held any warmth. It did not.

  “You disappoint me, Sevrin.” The words were soft, but the weight behind them was suffocating. “To lose to someone like Evander—how utterly pathetic.”

  Sevrin felt his jaw tighten. He had already replayed that moment a hundred times in his mind, analyzed every mistake, every misstep. To have it spoken aloud, to have it laid bare like a wound being pressed beneath cold iron, was unbearable.

  “I—” He stopped himself before he made the mistake of offering an excuse. Salsiar did not tolerate excuses.

  Marilla took a slow step forward, her presence shifting the very atmosphere of the room. “Tell me, Sevrin, do you believe I offer power freely? Do you think I waste my time on those who prove themselves… weak?” The last word was drawn out, deliberate, as though tasting its bitterness.

  Sevrin swallowed down the sharp retort that burned on his tongue. He had no illusions of his standing. He was valuable to Salsiar, yes, but only so long as he proved useful. And failure was never useful.

  “No,” he said instead, voice controlled, composed.

  “No,” Marilla repeated, a whisper of amusement threading through the syllable. “And yet, here you stand. Not as a victor. Not as one who crushed his opponent beneath his heel. You stand as one who lost.”

  Sevrin’s nails dug into his palms, but he did not waver. He would not. He was stronger than that.

  A shift in the air. Movement from the side.

  Sevrin turned his gaze slightly, just enough to see Sage standing near the far wall. The boy looked calm. Too calm. As if he already knew why he was here. As if he had accepted it.

  Sevrin’s stomach twisted with something unfamiliar.

  Marilla gestured lazily in Sage’s direction, almost as an afterthought. “Your little friend here… he has proven himself unworthy of my favor. He betrayed us.” She tilted her head slightly, as if contemplating the weight of the words before letting them slip from her tongue. “And so, he must be removed.”

  Silence.

  Then Marilla turned back to Sevrin, stepping close enough that he could see the subtle, unnatural sharpness beneath her borrowed form. The thing inside that body was looking at him now, not just through the eyes of a professor but through something else. Something ancient. Something waiting.

  “Kill him,” Marilla said.

  Sevrin stared at Sage.

  Sage, who had stood by his side since the beginning. Sage, who had once been his closest ally, the only one who truly understood him. Sage, who had laughed in the face of consequence, who had danced on the edge of ruin with him time and time again.

  Sage, who was now just another test.

  Sevrin let out a slow breath, his hand drifting toward his wand.

  The room was too quiet.

  The weight of Marilla’s words hung between them, oppressive and chilling, making every breath feel labored, every heartbeat too loud. Sevrin’s fingers tightened around his wand as he faced Sage. The familiar face, the same one he had spent years by, was now an enemy. An opponent.

  Sage stood still, his expression unreadable. There was no sign of hesitation in his movements, no trembling in his stance. He had already betrayed them. He had already made his choice.

  But Sevrin was different. His eyes narrowed, his mind racing. This wasn’t just about power—it was about survival. About proving himself once more. Salsiar would not tolerate failure, and he would not suffer weakness. He had seen it in Marilla’s eyes, felt the sharpness of her words like a dagger pressing against his skin.

  Sevrin would not fail again.

  He took a steadying breath and flicked his wand, his voice low but commanding. “Serpensortia!”

  A jet of green light shot forward, and the air shimmered with the sudden presence of a massive serpent, its fangs gleaming like daggers in the torchlight. It lunged at Sage, but the boy was already moving.

  With a fluid motion, Sage drew his wand, shouting, “Depulso!”

  A wave of force erupted from Sage’s wand, knocking the serpent back with an audible hiss, its massive body contorting mid-air before it vanished, dissolved by the spell.

  Sage wasn’t holding back either. The fight had begun in earnest.

  Sevrin’s heart hammered in his chest, but his focus was razor-sharp. He couldn’t afford any mistakes, not now, not when his very life was at stake. He was about to strike again when Sage spoke, his voice calm, almost too calm.

  “Is this really what you want, Sevrin?” Sage’s words cut through the air like a blade, but Sevrin only tightened his grip on his wand.

  “I don’t have a choice,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice cold and distant.

  Sage’s eyes glimmered with something—regret, perhaps. Or understanding. Sevrin couldn’t tell. But before he could react, Sage lunged forward, his wand already aimed.

  “Bombarda!”

  The blast rang out, a violent explosion of light and sound that filled the room. Sevrin was thrown back, his robes singeing at the edges, but his feet remained planted. With a snarl, he stood tall again, shaking off the blast’s residual force.

  Sage was already on the move, circling him like a predator. But Sevrin wasn’t about to let his former friend get the upper hand. He had been underestimated before, and he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  With a flick of his wrist, Sevrin cast his spell, his voice steady and firm. “Expulsum Infernalis!”

  The dark flame roared to life, streaking toward Sage like a living thing, its heat curling through the air, ready to consume. But Sage was fast. He rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the flames that scorched the stone behind him.

  The intensity of the battle was growing with every moment. The air crackled with magic, each spell colliding and sparking in violent bursts. Sevrin felt his heartbeat in his throat, his pulse racing as he engaged in a dangerous, deadly dance with Sage.

  Every attack they traded pushed them further, both physically and mentally, until neither could gain the upper hand. Sage moved with practiced ease, his every motion deliberate and controlled, as if he had become one with his magic. Sevrin responded with equal precision, a master of his craft, but there was something off in the way he moved—a hesitation in the back of his mind, a flicker of doubt.

  They were evenly matched.

  Sage’s next spell came at him faster than Sevrin anticipated.

  "Malus Obscurum!” he shouted, A shadowed projectile tore through the air, barreling toward Sevrin with lethal intent.

  Sevrin barely managed to dodge, the spell grazing his side and leaving a tear in his robes. His breath came fast, his body starting to feel the weight of the fight. But it wasn’t just his body that was weary—it was his mind, too. He had known Sage for years. Their bond had always been strong, even when the darkness had begun to twist their paths. This fight—this violence—felt unnatural, wrong.

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  But Sage didn’t falter. His next move was instinctive, precise. He turned his wand to Sevrin, and in that split second, the world seemed to still. The tension between them thickened, crackling with energy. It was clear that they both knew how this would end.

  And yet, Sage did not cast the fatal blow.

  Instead, he lowered his wand slightly, his eyes locking onto Sevrin’s, a silent understanding passing between them. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and in that instant, Sevrin realized what was happening. It wasn’t just a battle. It was a decision. A choice.

  Sage had already made his.

  “Tell my father I am sorry,” Sage said softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of magic that surrounded them.

  Sevrin froze.

  Sage didn’t wait for an answer. In one fluid motion, he turned his body, extending his arms wide as if offering himself. His eyes closed, and with a resigned sigh, he simply let the magic hit him.

  Sevrin’s heart stuttered in his chest. His wand flashed bright with the power of the spell, and in that instant, everything seemed to slow.

  A single, final burst of magic—Sevrin’s spell—struck Sage directly.

  There was no scream, no cry for mercy. Sage’s body simply crumpled, falling to the floor as if the life had been drained from him in one brutal moment.

  And Sevrin stood over him, his heart heavy with the weight of the choice that had been made—his and Sage’s both.

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Sevrin’s wand hand was still raised, his fingers stiff and cold around the polished wood. His breath came shallow, uneven, though he refused to let it show. His mind, however, was less disciplined. The image of Sage crumpling to the floor, his body utterly still, was burned into his vision. The words still echoed in his ears.

  "Tell my father I am sorry."

  He had never heard Sage sound so... resigned.

  The weight of it pressed against his ribs, a foreign and unwelcome sensation. But before it could settle into something dangerous—something that might make him weak—Marilla’s voice sliced through the thick, lingering silence.

  “Finally.”

  The word was spoken with casual satisfaction, as if Sage’s death was nothing more than a loose end tied up, an inconvenience removed from the board. Marilla stepped forward, her gaze flicking over Sage’s unmoving form with disinterest, her expression betraying no hint of sentimentality.

  “You have proven yourself, Sevrin,” she continued smoothly. “Even if the boy had to let you win.”

  Sevrin’s grip on his wand tightened, his jaw locking.

  It didn’t matter. Sage had chosen his fate. It had been a battle—a true battle—but in the end, he had made the choice to fall. That wasn’t Sevrin’s burden to carry.

  Marilla turned her back to the body without another glance, her focus shifting entirely. “We have matters to attend to. There is no need to linger.”

  Sevrin forced himself to move, though his legs felt heavier than they should. He stepped around Sage’s fallen form, keeping his face expressionless. He would not allow himself to falter. Not here. Not now.

  But Marilla’s next words pulled his attention sharply.

  “The Vareen boy,” she murmured. “It is time we begin addressing him.”

  Sevrin blinked, barely concealing his irritation. He turned toward Marilla, his frown deepening. “Soya?” The name tasted foreign in his mouth, like something beneath his notice. His thoughts on the Muggle-born had always been the same: nothing. An anomaly at best. A stain on the purity of Austramore at worst. But power? That was laughable.

  He straightened, composing himself. “Why waste time on him?” There was no hiding the disdain in his voice. “He’s a Muggle-born. He’s nothing.”

  For the first time since the fight ended, Marilla turned her full attention to him. And it was only then that Sevrin realized just how deep his mistake had been.

  The weight of her stare was suffocating, pressing into him like an unseen force, as if the very walls of the room had closed in around him. He had faced powerful wizards before. He had been scolded, reprimanded, even punished. But this was different.

  Marilla took a slow step toward him, the flickering blue torches casting eerie shadows across her face. And when she spoke, there was no anger, no sharp reprimand. Only cold, unshakable certainty.

  “You assume too much,” she said, her voice quiet but absolute.

  Sevrin stiffened.

  “You are not the most powerful student in Austramore, Sevrin Verelle.”

  His stomach twisted.

  “You are not the most valuable.”

  His fingers twitched.

  Marilla leaned in slightly, her expression unreadable, but her words were designed to cut. “That boy—that Muggle-born—is far more powerful than you.”

  Sevrin’s breath caught in his throat before he could stop it. His body tensed, his pride roaring in defiance. That—that—was impossible.

  His lips curled into a sneer before he could fully stop himself. “That’s absurd.”

  Marilla didn’t blink.

  “You believe blood defines power. That your lineage alone makes you superior.” A slow, predatory smile curved across her lips, something distinctly inhuman flickering beneath her borrowed expression. “You are a fool, Sevrin.”

  Sevrin’s pulse pounded in his ears, the sharp sting of humiliation creeping up his spine. He wasn’t foolish. He wasn’t weak. He had just proven himself. He had just won. And now, mere moments later, he was being told that some filthy Muggle-born—Vareen—was stronger?

  No. No, that couldn’t be true.

  Soya was nothing. Nothing.

  But Marilla had no reason to lie.

  And that was what made Sevrin’s blood turn cold.

  He swallowed back his instinctive denial, forcing himself to think. Why? What did Salsiar see in that boy? What was it about Vareen that made him important?

  He was just... ordinary. Unremarkable. A Muggle-born.

  And yet, Marilla was speaking as if he was something more.

  As if he was something greater.

  Sevrin’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.

  “I don’t believe that,” he finally said, his voice quieter than he intended.

  Marilla only smiled, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

  “That is not my concern.”

  And with that, she turned, gliding toward the door, leaving Sage’s body behind without another thought.

  “Come, Sevrin,” she said. “We have work to do.”

  Sevrin hesitated for only a fraction of a second before forcing his feet to move, his mind still reeling.

  He would prove her wrong.

  Soya Vareen was not stronger than him.

  He would not be stronger than him.

  Sevrin would make sure of it.

  The corridors of the lower levels stretched before them, their path illuminated only by the cold, flickering blue flames that lined the stone walls. The air was still, heavy with an unnatural silence that seemed to cling to every surface. Sevrin walked beside Marilla—Salsiar—though he kept a careful distance, his mind still racing with what had just transpired.

  Sage was dead.

  The thought settled in his chest like a weight, pressing deeper with each step. He had spent years at Sage’s side, their paths woven together by ambition, by shared purpose. And now, with one final choice, Sage had severed that thread.

  But it wasn’t just his death that disturbed Sevrin.

  It was what came after.

  That boy—that Muggle-born—is far more powerful than you.

  Marilla’s words still echoed in his head, sharp and relentless. He refused to accept them. He would not accept them. Soya was nothing. A nobody. He had no bloodline, no legacy. He had no place in their world, and yet… Salsiar was giving him one.

  Sevrin’s hands clenched into fists as they neared the staircase leading back to the upper levels.

  Marilla stopped.

  “This is where we part for now,” she said, turning toward him, her expression as calm and composed as ever. “You have done well, Sevrin. But this next step is not for you.”

  Sevrin forced himself to meet her gaze, careful not to let his unease show. “And what step is that?”

  The edges of Marilla’s lips curled, something dark lurking behind the simple motion.

  “I will lead the Vareen boy to an empty classroom,” she said smoothly, as if discussing nothing more than a lesson plan. “And then, I will take him.”

  Sevrin felt something cold press against the inside of his ribcage.

  This was it.

  The moment.

  Salsiar had taken his time watching, waiting, planning. But now, he was making his move.

  And Soya had no idea what was coming.

  Marilla gave him one final glance, something unreadable in her gaze, before turning and making her way up the steps.

  Sevrin did not move. Not immediately.

  He stood there, his breath steady, his expression calm. He played the part he had perfected. Cold. Unshaken.

  But the moment Marilla disappeared from sight, something in him snapped.

  Enough is enough.

  His body moved before he fully processed the decision, his feet carrying him through the corridors at a pace just short of running. His heart pounded, not with fear, but with something else—something heavier, something deeper.

  He had spent his life seeking power. Control. He had pledged himself to it. But this?

  This was something else.

  Salsiar was not a wizard. He was not a mere force to be reckoned with. He was something older. Something worse.

  And if no one stopped him now, there would be no stopping him at all.

  The halls blurred past him, the torches flickering as if responding to the urgency in his steps. He didn’t hesitate when he reached the door to Seikan Blackthorn’s office.

  He shoved it open.

  Seikan was at his desk, quill in hand, but his piercing green eyes lifted the moment Sevrin entered. The air in the room shifted—cold and sharp, like a blade being drawn.

  “Professor,” Sevrin said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him.

  Seikan didn’t move. He simply studied him, expression unreadable. “You have precisely ten seconds to explain why you’ve entered my office unannounced before I hex you out of it.”

  Sevrin exhaled slowly, his gaze locking onto the professor’s.

  “Salsiar,” he said, deliberately choosing the name, not the guise it wore. “It’s been possessing Marilla.”

  A long silence.

  The words settled like lead in the air, heavy and unmoving.

  Then, Seikan slowly placed his quill down. “Take it to the headmaster.”

  Sevrin’s hands twitched at his sides. He had expected that response. He had counted on it.

  “I would,” he said, his voice unwavering. “But your son is already dead.”

  The change was instant.

  The room’s atmosphere snapped like a whip, the air thickening with something unseen. Seikan’s gaze darkened, the weight of his presence shifting, pressing.

  Sevrin stood his ground.

  He didn’t know if Seikan truly cared for his son—if Sage had meant anything to him. But it didn’t matter. Because what mattered was the moment of hesitation, the flicker of instinctive reaction. That was what Sevrin needed.

  Seikan’s fingers curled against the edge of his desk. “Explain,” he said, his voice low, measured.

  Sevrin took a slow step forward.

  “Salsiar ordered me to kill him,” he said. “And now, he’s after Vareen.”

  A long, stretched silence followed.

  Sevrin could feel it—the way Seikan’s mind was already working, calculating, deciding.

  Then, at last, Seikan rose from his chair.

  “Where?”

  Sevrin turned toward the door, already moving. “Follow me.”

  And without another word, Seikan followed.