Journal

"Can I help you?" Elias asked, voice composed, but his posture just slightly taut—like a bow drawn without release.

The girl tilted her head.

Her violet eyes, deep as dusk, roamed his face as if searching for something buried beneath his skin.

Then she gave a small, amused smile.

"I was only admiring your recovery, Lord Whitman," she said smoothly. Her voice was like velvet draped over a blade—soft, but sharp. "It's a miracle. The whole court agrees."

Elias blinked. "Do I… know you?"

She smiled wider. "No."

Then, without waiting for a response, she offered a slight bow.

"Excuse me. I'm afraid I've taken enough of your time."

And with that, she vanished into the mingling crowd—graceful, precise, her presence fading like perfume in the air.

Elias stood frozen for a moment, lips parted in an unspoken follow-up.

"Someone's popular," Maria said from beside him, tone doused in mischief.

"She's not from the family side," Elias murmured, more to himself. "And she looked at me like—like she knew something."

"Mm. Spooky. Let's hope she's not another suitor sent by Aunt Renatha. You'd rather be poisoned again."

They began walking back through the thinning crowd.

Before they reached the grand exit, Elias glanced back.

The girl was standing by the window, half-lit by stained glass sunlight, her gaze locked on him once again.

She smiled—but this time, it wasn't polite.

It was knowing.

And then she turned away.

By evening, the great hall was silent.

The nobles had gone home, leaving behind empty wine glasses, faint perfumes, and whispers Elias couldn't shake.

A knock came on his door just as he'd begun peeling off the ceremonial coat.

A servant entered with a bow. "His Grace wishes to see you in his study."

Elias sighed.

Of course.

The hallway to Duke Aron Whitman's study felt colder than the rest of the estate. Less grand, more… stern.

The guards standing outside didn't glance at him as they opened the thick oak doors.

Inside, the Duke sat behind a desk carved from obsidian wood. Bookshelves lined the walls—military records, noble archives, and tomes bound in dragon-hide. The fireplace crackled quietly behind him, but the warmth didn't reach the corners of the room.

Elias stepped in, spine straight. "Father."

Aron Whitman looked up.

The Duke of House Whitman was a man carved from mountain stone. Grey eyes, sunken but intense. A short beard, immaculately trimmed. Not a man who raised his voice—he didn't need to.

"You've recovered well," Aron said. "The court believed your appearance today."

Elias gave a shallow nod. "I tried not to collapse."

A flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe not—passed in the Duke's eyes.

"You were poisoned," Aron said, voice quiet but weighty. "Don't make light of it."

"I'm aware," Elias replied, tone sharpening without his permission.

The Duke leaned back. "No one knows who did it. We've silenced the rumors. But someone wanted you dead, Patrick. Not disgraced. Dead. That narrows the list."

Elias said nothing.

He wanted to ask who. He wanted to ask why. But he couldn't. Because Patrick had been here for all of it—and he had not.

"You were born without magic," Aron continued. "And yet you stayed sharp. You read, researched, kept the name alive in ways no fire or frost could."

Elias glanced at the golden Whitman sigil on the Duke's ring. "The others think I'm weak."

"The others think you're a Whitman," the Duke snapped. "And that means you carry weight—whether you want to or not."

There was a beat of silence. Then Aron added, more softly:

"Not having magic is not a curse. It's an obstacle. One you've endured. I don't care what the others say. You are still my heir. And I expect you to act like it."

Elias swallowed, throat dry.

"Yes, Father."

Aron studied him a moment longer. Then dismissed him with a flick of his fingers.

As Elias turned to leave, the Duke added, "And Patrick?"

He stopped.

"Next time someone tries to poison you... kill them first."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Elias barely made it to the bed before collapsing face-first onto the mattress, burying himself in thick, silky blankets far more luxurious than anything he'd ever known.

Silence.

Real silence.

No clinking glasses. No heavy glances. No questions disguised as compliments. No Maria teasing him. No Duke warning him.

Just him.

And a borrowed heartbeat.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Ornate carvings spiraled above—serpents, swords, and stars. The insignia of the Whitman bloodline. Cold. Beautiful. Overbearing.

It was hard to believe only a day ago, he was... someone else.

An acting student. Just trying to nail his next audition, hoping the subway wouldn't be late. Obsessively rehearsing scripts under cheap lights.

And now?

He'd just played the most convincing performance of his life—inside the skin of a dead genius, surrounded by people who thought they knew him better than he knew himself.

It should've broken him.

But strangely, it didn't.

He had Patrick's memories. That was his advantage.

Names. Faces. Mannerisms. How Patrick used to brush his hair back when frustrated. The way he'd analyze people in layers, peeling them like onions with clinical detachment. The tea he liked. The spells he hated. The deep hatred for being called a failed heir.

Elias had inherited all of it.

And with his years of experience on stage, with the instincts of a performer who could slip in and out of roles like breath?

He could become Patrick Whitman.

He could fool the world. Hell, he already had.

But—

He frowned.

Something was missing.

He didn't know what exactly. Just that gnawing, empty sensation in his gut. Like he'd walked into a house that looked exactly like home… but couldn't remember where the light switches were.

The memories he had of Patrick—they were sharp in places, but blurry around the edges. Certain events were too clean. Moments of real pain? They felt... faded.

Something about that poisoning—about why Patrick had failed his Myriad Trial so many times, about why he'd kept pushing even when the world gave up on him—

It didn't feel complete.

Like someone—or something—had trimmed the truth before feeding it to him.

Elias closed his eyes.

And for the first time since waking in this world, he whispered the name not like a role, but like a question:

"Patrick…"

No answer came.

But deep inside his chest, beneath the noble voice, beneath the memories and the scripts—

There was a flicker.

A locked door in the mind.

And behind it?

A scream he hadn't heard yet.

The room faded.

Not all at once—but like ink spreading through water. One blink, and the soft candlelight flickered. Another blink, and the ceiling above melted into stars.

And then the stars fell.

Elias stood barefoot on nothing.

A vast, colorless void stretched in all directions. Silent. Endless. Cold.

And in front of him—

A wall.

Smooth. Grey. Towering higher than anything should.

No cracks. No texture. No handholds. It was massive. Indestructible.

And Patrick stood before it.

Not Elias—Patrick.

His posture was rigid, spine straight with obsession. Hair slightly unkempt, cloak tattered from repeated attempts.

He stared at the wall, unmoving.

Then—

He screamed.

It wasn't a cry of pain.

It was fury. Desperation. The kind that shatters bones from within.

He raised his hand—tried a spell. It fizzled.

He swung a sword. It bounced off like air.

He dropped to his knees and pounded the wall with both fists, again and again, until blood splattered and fingers snapped.

Still—the wall did not break.

"Let me through," Patrick whispered. "I earned it. I did everything."

The wall remained silent.

Patrick's face twisted—not just with rage now, but sorrow.

"You said if I proved myself—if I became more than my birthright—you'd let me pass. You lied."

Elias stepped closer, trying to speak. But his voice wouldn't come.

Patrick slowly turned to him.

And for the briefest moment, their eyes met.

Elias saw emptiness behind them.

Not madness.

But abandonment.

Elias jolted awake.

The sheets were soaked. His breathing, ragged. Sweat clung to him like oil.

It hadn't been just a dream. It was something more.

He could feel the echo of it in his bones—the image of the wall, the futility, the raw ache in Patrick's scream. He hadn't just seen the Trial. He'd lived it.

And as he sat there, shivering under the weight of something ancient and unspoken, a memory finally clicked into place.

The journal.

Patrick's personal record. Hidden. Guarded. Feared.

Elias rose without hesitation.

He searched through the drawers, knocking over books and pulling out the carved panels under the study desk—until his fingers brushed cold leather.

It was thicker than he expected. Bound in dark green hide. Gold-trimmed edges. Smelled like blood and ash.

There was no title on the cover.

Just an indentation of the Whitman crest—scratched out with a blade.

Elias sat down at the desk.

Opened the cover.

And began to read.

Entry #1

Date: 17th Frostwire, Year 842

Age 13 – First Failed Trial

"It didn't let me in. I followed every rule. I meditated. I bled for the potion. I memorized the theory to perfection. But, I couldn't answer a question. I tried reading every book, everything…! But, I couldn't find the answer to that question. I tried asking Father, but even he had no idea. What am I supposed to do? Maria cleared hers today. Everyone clapped. The professors said she was gifted. Father smiled at her like she lit the stars. He didn't look at me once. He always says it's okay to not be able to use magic, but all he ever wanted was a successor that could use magic. When the time comes, I'll be discarded."

Entry #12

Date: 2nd Blightmarch, Year 844

Sequence Theory is broken. It rewards obedience, not innovation. I'm smarter than all of them. I proved that when I cracked the formula for Aeris in three days. But the wall still stands. It mocks me with that question, mocking my knowledge! I've begun dreaming of it, speaking in riddles. Sometimes I think if I just tore out my tongue, I could pass. Why? Why did my trial have to have a question that was impossible to answer?"

Entry #19

Date: 19th Emberfall, Year 845

"Maria visited me again. She brought tea. I asked her to leave. She always looks at me with pity. As if I'm a fractured vase she's too scared to sweep up. But when she casts lightning, there's something else in her eyes. Something hungry. Does she feel it too? The pressure? The heat under the skin? I wonder what she'd become if she ever broke. Sometimes… I want to be the one to break her. Just to see if she could still smile."

Entry #31

Date: 4th Withersoul, Year 846

Patrick Age 17 – Near Psychological Collapse

"Today I passed my hand through fire to see if the gods would care.

They didn't. I've started to wonder if this is it. The Trial is a myth. A test to weed out the ones who ask questions. My research continues. They all mock me, call me a scholar with no spark. But knowledge is a kindling. I will burn my way through."

Entry #37

Date: 29th Withersoul, Year 846

"There is no divine plan. Just old magic and older lies. I found an ancient Constellation theory in the archives—one they erased from textbooks. It speaks of a seventh Sequence. A 'Myriad Singularity.' Forbidden magic. They feared what it could do. So they buried it. I've decided.

I will…

Entry #43

Date: 11th Hollowfall, Year 847

"Maria hugged me today. She was crying. I almost told her everything. Almost showed her the Beyond Society's framework. The hidden rites. The names. But she wouldn't understand. She still believes in this broken world. And I love her too much to ruin her. …Or maybe I'm scared she'd agree with me."

Elias's eyes blurred. The ink swam on the page.

His chest burned with a fever that hadn't existed seconds ago. The words had weight. Not metaphorical—real. Like every sentence carried Patrick's blood.

He closed the book.

But the thoughts didn't stop.

"If someone's reading this…"

He stood slowly.

Staggered back from the desk.

Heat flushed through him—palms sweating, chest constricting. The words echoed louder in his skull.

"I'm gonna poison myself."

His knees buckled. Vision swam.

The journal lay open across the floor, its pages breathing with every draft of wind that slid through the cracked window.

Elias stared at it for a long time.

He'd thrown it—yes. But the storm inside him had dulled now. Replaced by something worse.

Curiosity.

His hands still shook, but not from fear.

From a hunger he recognized too well—the same twitch behind the eye before a big monologue, the same pull in the stomach when a script had something just beyond the surface.

He stepped forward.

Picked up the book.

Sat down at his desk again.

This time, slower.

He flipped past the shattered parts. The entries that bled. The ones that whispered of Maria and flame and voices behind the wall.

He turned the page.

And again.

Until the journal changed.

The madness gave way to structure.

It started with sketches. Charts. Notes scrawled in unnaturally neat script—like Patrick wanted this part to live on.

Constellation Theory, as Patrick understood it:

Every person in this world is tethered to a cosmic force.

You don't awaken magic by luck—you have to survive the Myriad Trial, a personal hell that tests your will, your identity, and your truth.

Once passed, you gain your Constellation: the name of your elemental bond.

Each Constellation has 6 Sequences, unlocked through growth and alignment of your soul and element.

He had diagrammed over twenty potion formulas—notes beside each indicating how he'd personally reverse-engineered every known elemental recipe except one.

Ignis.

His most compatible element.

And the one that refused to yield its recipe.

Patrick had filled over twenty pages on Ignis compatibility theory, sequence resonance, and how the Constellation's strength seemed to mirror emotional unrest.

After the technicals, came… dreams.

Patrick's "Beyond Society" was not madness—it was meticulous.

A manifesto built on five pillars:

1. Merit over birth.

2. Truth above law.

3. The soul before the crown.

4. All deserve the Trial—even the cursed.

5. There must always be a question.

He'd designed recruitment protocols. Ranks. Even ritual outlines meant to simulate Myriad Trials artificially, to awaken power in those who would never be chosen by the system.

He believed he could recreate the divine spark through logic and structure.

Through science.

Elias flipped to the back.

A blank page.

Then… at the bottom.

One final entry. No date. No emotion. Just this:

"The Myriad Trial asked me one question.

The same question. Every. Single. Time."

I never answered it.

Because I didn't know what the question even meant.

"*********************"

Elias blinked.

There was no question. Just ink splattered all over the paper.

How could this be?

If the question was that impossible, he would've done extensive research on it at least, but there's no implication of that in the journal... he did know the question but he gave up way too soon. And, I can't remember it in his memory either.

What the fuck is going on?

He shut the journal, suddenly cold.

Not from fear this time.

But from recognition.

Because for the first time since arriving…

He wasn't sure if the person he was pretending to be—Patrick Whitman—had ever truly existed either.