Soya sat at the edge of his bed, blinking blearily as the first traces of morning light filtered through the high windows of the Thylacea dormitory. The warmth of his blankets still clung to him, making the thought of leaving them almost unbearable. Almost.

  A soft weight pressed against his lap, and he glanced down to find Inkwell curled into a tight ball, purring softly. The small calico kitten barely stirred as Soya ran a hand down her back, her fur warm beneath his fingers. She was lucky—she could sleep in. He, however, had classes to attend.

  With a resigned sigh, Soya stretched, rolling his shoulders before standing. He moved through the quiet dormitory with practiced ease, gathering his robes and adjusting the straps of his ever-present bag. He had barely slung it over his shoulder when a familiar voice broke the morning silence.

  “You look like you spent the night trying to solve theoretical runic equations in your sleep.”

  Soya turned to find Draven leaning against the doorframe of their shared dorm, arms crossed, his ever-present leather journal tucked beneath one arm. His sharp gray eyes studied Soya with their usual calculating intensity, though the slight twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed mild amusement.

  Soya let out a dry breath, rubbing a hand through his still-messy hair. “No, but thanks for the concern,” he muttered. “Maybe I just hate mornings.”

  Draven gave a small, knowing nod. “A reasonable stance.”

  Before Soya could respond, another voice interrupted—louder, more animated. “Mornin’, gentlemen!”

  Davonte strode into the room, his usual effortless confidence on full display. His slightly unkempt brown hair was still damp from a hurried attempt at fixing it, but his grin was as bright as ever.

  “Ah, Soya, you’re finally up. You missed a solid five minutes of me debating whether or not to turn into a bear to avoid class today.” He clapped a hand on Soya’s shoulder as he passed, making it very clear that he hadn’t actually considered attending class in that form.

  Soya quirked a brow. “And?”

  “I decided against it.” Davonte sighed dramatically, as if deeply disappointed by his own responsible choice. “But only because the desks aren’t bear-sized, and I don’t want to deal with that level of judgment.”

  Draven tilted his head slightly. “You’re already judged for your abysmal academic performance. I doubt turning into a bear would shift public opinion in a direction that matters.”

  Davonte shot him a wounded look. “I don’t need this kind of negativity before breakfast.”

  Soya exhaled a small laugh. It was too early for whatever this conversation had become, but somehow, it was also exactly what he needed.

  The three of them made their way out of the dormitory, their footsteps echoing lightly against the polished wooden floors of the Thylacea common room. The space was still mostly empty, save for a few early risers scattered throughout, some poring over textbooks, others lazily stretching out on the long couches. The massive, enchanted mural of the Australian bush along the far wall flickered slightly, shifting with the soft hues of the rising sun.

  Soya adjusted the strap of his bag as they stepped out into the halls, the distant hum of morning activity growing louder with every turn.

  “I’m starving,” Davonte groaned, rubbing a hand over his stomach. “I swear, if they don’t have eggs today, I might stage a coup.”

  Draven gave him a sidelong glance. “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that I require sustenance to function at my full capacity.” Davonte gestured dramatically. “I’m a growing young man, Draven.”

  “You’ve already stopped growing,” Draven pointed out flatly.

  “Emotionally, sure. But physically? Who knows?” Davonte shrugged. “Maybe I have one final growth spurt left.”

  Soya shook his head, amused. “You’re not suddenly going to wake up a foot taller.”

  “You don’t know that,” Davonte countered. “It could happen.”

  Draven sighed, the closest he ever came to an eye roll. “The delusion is fascinating.”

  As they continued down the corridor, the scent of breakfast grew stronger, mingling with the familiar chatter of students making their way toward the Great Hall. The morning light spilling in from the high windows made the castle feel less imposing, the ancient stone walls taking on a softer, more welcoming glow.

  Soya found himself settling into the rhythm of the morning—his initial drowsiness fading, replaced by the quiet comfort of routine.

  He didn’t know that, soon enough, this morning would be anything but normal.

  The Great Hall was alive with the usual morning bustle—students chatting between mouthfuls of breakfast, the occasional flutter of owls delivering letters, and the ever-present hum of dishes clinking as food magically appeared across the long tables. The enchanted ceiling reflected the sky outside, a soft, pastel morning hue streaked with the last remnants of dawn.

  Soya slid onto a bench at the Thylacea table, setting his bag beside him before reaching for a piece of toast. Draven took a seat across from him, while Davonte plopped down beside Soya with all the grace of a man who had just completed an exhausting trek through the wilderness, rather than a short walk from the dormitories.

  “Oh, thank everything,” Davonte groaned as he piled food onto his plate. “Eggs. Crisis averted.”

  Soya smirked, buttering his toast. “I was worried about you for a second.”

  “Right?” Davonte said, through a mouthful of food. “This school would’ve been in chaos if I’d been forced to eat something subpar.” He washed it down with a swig of pumpkin juice before turning back to Draven. “Now, back to my very important argument. We’re only eleven, which means I definitely still have time to grow. You’re acting like I’m already at my final height.”

  Draven, who had been calmly cutting into a slice of fruit, glanced at him with mild disinterest. “Statistically, your largest growth spurts should occur between the ages of ten and fifteen. However, since you have inherited your father’s build, and he is not particularly tall, it is unlikely you will surpass your current trajectory by any significant margin.”

  Davonte blinked at him. “Was that a polite way of saying I’m doomed to be short forever?”

  “Yes.”

  Soya snorted, taking a sip of his juice. Davonte turned his attention to him with a pointed look. “Alright, well, you have no room to talk.”

  Soya raised a brow. “What?”

  “You’re the smallest person in this entire school,” Davonte said, motioning toward him as if he were presenting a case before a jury. “You and, maybe, maybe Salem and Sage. And that’s being generous.”

  Soya rolled his eyes. “I’m not that small.”

  Draven, unbothered, finished a bite of his food before countering, “You are.”

  Davonte nodded firmly. “Exactly! You’re like… a wizarding pocket edition.”

  Soya shot him a deadpan stare. “That’s not a thing.”

  “It should be,” Davonte muttered, shoving another bite of egg into his mouth. “A limited-release Soya, perfect for travel.”

  “I hate everything about this conversation,” Soya said, reaching for another slice of toast.

  Draven, ever the neutral observer, added, “Technically, height does not define one’s magical prowess. If it did, Grundle Strang would be the most powerful student in Austramore.”

  Davonte pointed at him. “Okay, first of all, Grundle could crush us all with his pinky if he really wanted to. That guy is built like a literal mountain.”

  “Half-giant,” Draven supplied.

  “Exactly! And second of all—Soya’s tiny.” Davonte gave Soya a playful nudge. “But it’s fine. You make up for it by being terrifyingly good at magic.”

  Soya shook his head, trying—and failing—to suppress a small smile. “I’m not terrifyingly good at anything.”

  “Sure, sure,” Davonte said, waving his fork. “Except, you know, completely outpacing the rest of us in spellwork and being the first Muggle-born to ever attend Austramore. But yeah, totally nothing special going on there.”

  Soya shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention but not wanting to dampen the conversation. “It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.”

  Davonte snorted. “That somehow makes it worse.”

  Draven nodded in agreement. “You are naturally talented, but unaware of the extent of it. That is, objectively, more frustrating than deliberate arrogance.”

  Soya sighed, defeated. “So what I’m hearing is, I can’t win.”

  “Exactly,” Davonte said cheerfully, piling more food onto his plate.

  Soya shook his head but let the conversation drift into other topics as they continued their breakfast. He hadn’t realized how much he needed the familiar banter, the simple routine of morning chatter before the day truly began. It was easy, comfortable.

  But something lingered at the back of his mind, a strange sensation he couldn’t quite place.

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  As if something in the day ahead wasn’t going to be so easy after all.

  The halls of Austramore bustled with students making their way to their first class of the day. The morning air was crisp, and the faint hum of casual conversation echoed through the grand stone corridors. Soya, Draven, and Davonte walked together, their conversation carrying over from breakfast, though Soya’s mind was already shifting toward their upcoming Charms lesson.

  “I’m telling you,” Davonte said as they passed a cluster of younger students, “if I could enchant my quill to do all my classwork for me, I’d finally be able to achieve my life’s dream—getting through an entire school year without lifting a finger.”

  “That is not a dream,” Draven said dryly. “That is academic fraud.”

  Davonte waved a dismissive hand. “Fraud, genius—who’s to say, really?”

  Soya shook his head, amused but focused on the path ahead. They were just a few halls away from the Charms classroom when a familiar voice called out from behind them.

  “Mr. Vareen.”

  The three of them turned in unison.

  Professor Marilla stood just a few paces away, her posture poised and composed as ever. Her dark robes draped elegantly over her frame, and her sharp eyes fixed directly on Soya. There was nothing outwardly alarming about her presence, but something about the way she addressed him sent a faint shiver down his spine.

  “I need to speak with you for a moment,” she continued, her voice smooth, practiced. “Mr. Evander, Mr. Corvidus —you may continue on to class.”

  Davonte hesitated, glancing at Soya. “Uh… okay. Guess we’ll save you a seat?”

  Soya nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Draven studied Marilla carefully, his expression unreadable, but after a brief pause, he simply nodded and turned, walking off with Davonte toward the Charms corridor.

  Soya shifted his bag slightly, suddenly feeling the weight of it more than before. He wasn’t sure why, but something about this felt… off.

  Marilla offered him a polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wanted to return something of yours,” she said, her voice carrying the same air of authority it always did. “Your missing sketchbook.”

  Soya blinked. “My—?” He barely stopped himself from finishing the sentence. His sketchbook? The one he’d lost weeks ago?

  He frowned slightly. That didn’t make sense. He had already replaced it. At least, he thought he had. There had been that day in class where he’d suddenly realized it was missing… but Marilla had given him a new one, hadn’t she? Had she… found the old one after all this time?

  “That’s… weird,” he said, shifting his stance slightly. “Where was it?”

  Marilla tilted her head slightly, as if considering the question. “It was misplaced in another classroom. I left it in one just down the hall.”

  Soya hesitated.

  Something was wrong.

  There was no logical reason she would only be returning it now. No reason why she wouldn’t have just handed it to him in the hall instead of making him go somewhere else for it.

  But before he could think of a way to decline, Marilla turned gracefully, gesturing for him to follow. “Come. It won’t take long.”

  His hesitation lasted only a second too long, and in that brief moment, his body moved on instinct.

  It’s just a sketchbook. If she had it all along, maybe she really did just find it.

  The logic was thin, but he followed anyway.

  Marilla led him down the corridor, further away from the bustling halls and toward a quieter wing of the school.

  It wasn’t far, but something about the atmosphere shifted with every step.

  The torches flickered differently here. The walls seemed taller. The air felt colder.

  They stopped at a classroom door, identical to countless others in the castle. Marilla opened it with a simple flick of her wand.

  “Inside,” she said smoothly.

  Soya hesitated again, but there was no clear reason to refuse. He stepped forward, glancing around. The room was empty, desks arranged neatly as if waiting for students who would never come.

  And then, the door clicked shut behind him.

  Soya turned sharply.

  Marilla stood ahead of him, but something had changed. The poised, composed professor was still there—but her posture was different. The subtle warmth she wore in public was gone. In its place was something else entirely.

  Something colder.

  Something watching.

  A sharp, instinctive warning rang through Soya’s mind.

  He took a step back, suddenly hyper-aware of just how alone they were.

  “Where’s my sketchbook?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

  Marilla smiled, but it was nothing like the polite expression she’d worn moments ago.

  “Oh, Soya,” she murmured.

  And then the lights in the room flickered.

  And the lock behind him clicked shut.

  The air inside the classroom shifted.

  Soya’s breath came slow and measured, his back stiff as he watched Marilla—no, Salsiar—stand between him and the locked door. There was something deeply unnatural about the way she moved now, something that made every instinct in him scream to run.

  Then, without warning, she exhaled a slow breath, and the air around her bent.

  Soya felt it—something—a deep, unseen pressure that pressed against his skin, against the very magic in the air itself. And then, just as suddenly as it came, it snapped.

  Marilla's body convulsed.

  A sharp gasp escaped her lips, her limbs jerking as if an invisible force was ripping her apart from the inside. Soya staggered back as a thick, unnatural blackness poured from her mouth, her eyes rolling back into her head.

  Then—she fell.

  Her body hit the stone floor with a lifeless thud, her once-composed form now limp, unmoving.

  But Soya barely had time to register it before the darkness rose.

  It twisted, coiled, slithering through the air like a living thing. A figure emerged from it—tall, towering, broad-shouldered, his body made of shifting, writhing shadows that pulsed with an eerie, unnatural glow.

  Salsiar.

  The real Salsiar.

  His piercing yellow eyes snapped onto Soya, and for the first time, Soya felt something that he had never quite experienced before.

  Not fear. Not confusion.

  Something deeper. Something wrong.

  Salsiar took a step forward. The air around him rippled, bending the very magic in the room as he reached out.

  “You have something I need.”

  Soya jerked backward, heart pounding as he moved on instinct. His hand flew to his wand, but before he could lift it, dark tendrils lashed out, wrapping around his wrist, his waist, yanking him forward like he weighed nothing at all.

  The force sent a sharp jolt through his spine as Salsiar gripped him, his clawed fingers pressing into his shoulder like iron. Soya struggled, twisting, his body reacting faster than his mind. But the demon’s grip was unyielding, his presence suffocating.

  “You have power, boy,” Salsiar murmured, his voice like gravel and oil, thick and suffocating. “Power unlike anything I’ve seen in centuries.”

  Soya clenched his teeth, every muscle in his body screaming to move, to fight, to do something. But the shadows around him only tightened, like invisible chains pulling him deeper into their grasp.

  And then—

  The door slammed open.

  A bolt of violet light shot through the room, striking Salsiar’s outstretched arm with a force that sent him staggering back.

  Soya hit the ground with a sharp inhale, the sudden lack of restraint sending him tumbling onto the cold stone floor.

  And standing in the doorway, wand raised, expression calm but lethal—

  Lykaios.

  Her icy blue eyes locked onto Salsiar with a gaze that burned cold, unreadable. The moment she stepped forward, shadows curled and recoiled around her, as if sensing something they didn’t like.

  She lifted her wand again.

  “Astrae Vincula.”

  Silver chains of pure magical energy erupted from her wand, wrapping around Salsiar’s form before he could fully recover. The runes within the bindings pulsed—unstable, strained—but holding.

  For now.

  Soya coughed, pushing himself up onto his elbows, his pulse still hammering against his ribs.

  Lykaios didn’t look at him.

  Her entire focus remained on Salsiar.

  “I hate demons,” she murmured, her voice eerily casual.

  Salsiar’s lip curled, his body writhing against the chains, his shadows twisting and snapping at the bindings like wild animals. But he didn’t panic.

  He just smiled.

  “You’re strong,” he said, his tone almost approving. “But not strong enough.”

  Lykaios’s expression remained impassive, but her grip on her wand tightened. Soya could see it—she was struggling.

  The runes flickered, just slightly.

  Then—

  Another presence filled the room.

  Not like Salsiar.

  Not like Lykaios.

  But something equally heavy. Equally commanding.

  Soya felt it before he even saw him.

  Seikan Blackthorn.

  The professor stepped inside, his emerald green eyes cold and unreadable as they locked onto the scene before him. He didn’t react to Marilla’s unconscious form. He didn’t react to the chains barely holding Salsiar in place.

  He simply took in the situation.

  And then, in a voice like cut stone—

  “Leave.”

  Soya exhaled sharply.

  Lykaios’s wand twitched, her hesitation almost imperceptible.

  Sevrin stood just outside the doorway, lingering in the shadows of the hall, his expression unreadable as he watched from a distance. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t speak.

  He had done what he needed to do.

  And now—

  This was no longer his battle.

  Seikan took a slow step forward, his presence alone shifting the very air in the room. The runes on Lykaios’s bindings flickered—almost reacting to him.

  Salsiar, for the first time, looked at him with something that was not amusement.

  But neither was it fear.

  Just... calculation.

  Seikan tilted his head slightly, his voice low. “I said leave.”

  Lykaios held her gaze for a moment longer, then—without another word—released the spell.

  The bindings unraveled, fading into nothing.

  She turned sharply, grabbed Soya by the wrist, and yanked him toward the door.

  Soya hesitated, glancing back at Seikan. The professor still hadn’t lifted his wand. Still hadn’t moved beyond that one step.

  But his presence alone was enough.

  Soya swallowed hard, letting himself be pulled from the room.

  And just as they stepped into the hallway—just as the door shut behind them—

  Sevrin, still standing there, his face shadowed, exhaled quietly.

  “…That thing,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “was never Marilla.”

  Lykaios didn’t react.

  Soya didn’t speak.

  But none of them had to.

  Because from inside the room, the first real clash of magic ignited, sending a shockwave of power rippling through the walls of Austramore.

  And Seikan’s battle had begun.