Blood in the Water

Raizel didn't sleep the night Elyssia came.

He sat by the window, staring into the mountain fog, mind turning like clockwork. Who was she? What did she mean by "wife"? And more importantly—who sent her?

She had moved like a shadow and vanished like smoke, yet the wards hadn't stopped her. That alone chilled him more than the blade at his throat.

Anyone who could bypass his defenses… wasn't ordinary.

By morning, he had answers to none of it.

But he'd already decided: Elyssia wasn't a threat to eliminate.

She was a problem to understand.

Classes resumed as if nothing had changed. Blackspire moved with its usual rhythm—lectures in runic warfare, practicals in mental resistance, combat simulations held in chambers laced with illusion and death magic.

But the tension had shifted.

Raizel felt it in the halls. Eyes lingered longer. Some students avoided him entirely; others stared with a mix of awe and fear. Darius hadn't spoken since their duel, but rumors spread like plague.

"Valthorr's son is too calm."

"He doesn't cast spells—he breaks them."

"Even the instructors avoid punishing him."

Then the blood began.

The first death was written off as an accident.

A boy from House Emberline found drowned in his own blood. No wound. No attacker. Just collapsed in the training yard, mouth open in silent agony, eyes wide in disbelief.

The second death was messier.

A girl from House Thorne—a talented necromancer—was found strung up by her own animated intestines, which coiled from the ceiling like vines. Her bones were carved with runes none could translate.

The instructors said it was the pressure.

"Blackspire breaks the weak," they told the students.

But Raizel saw through it.

These were messages.

And he was the intended audience.

On the third night, someone tried to poison him.

He didn't drink the wine. Of course not. He never drank what others poured.

Instead, he had Silas the seer test the goblet.

The seer vomited blood for six minutes and passed out with his eyes burned black.

Raizel didn't panic.

He simply ordered Vanya and Korrin to collect the bottle—and deliver it to the Prefect of House Thorne with a note.

"Try again. I'll be ready next time."

That same night, the Prefect's dormitory caught fire.

No one escaped.

Raizel never claimed responsibility.

But after that, no one tried poison again.

It all built toward what the Academy called The Reaping Trials—a mandatory midterm where each house submitted five students for live combat evaluations. These duels weren't for scoring.

They were for survival.

And failure meant death.

Usually staged in the Spectral Pit beneath the academy's eastern wing, the Trials were both test and entertainment. The instructors watched. The Imperial Court was informed of results. And House prestige lived or died by the performance of its champions.

Raizel had no intention of simply surviving.

He intended to set a standard.

His name was called third.

He entered the pit dressed in black and silver. No armor. Just enchantments threaded into his coat—subtle and sharp, the way he liked it.

Across from him stood a brute of a boy: Kaelen Vire, from House Emberline. Muscles like stone. Fire magic so hot it burned the air as he moved. A family known for battlefield berserkers.

Kaelen smiled as the duel began.

Raizel didn't.

He moved first. Not forward—but sideways.

Reading. Waiting. Watching how Kaelen stood. How his shoulder twitched. The subtle twitch in his eye. Rage.

Predictable.

Kaelen screamed, launching a tide of flame from both palms.

Raizel vanished into it.

Gasps echoed through the pit—then silence.

Then—

Screaming.

Kaelen's. Not in pain. In fear.

The flames parted.

Raizel was behind him.

No scorch. No burn.

One hand on Kaelen's throat.

The other inside his chest.

He'd phased through the fire—through Kaelen—and reached in with a spell so ancient the blood didn't spurt, it hissed and turned to black smoke.

"Strength," Raizel whispered into Kaelen's ear, "is nothing without intent."

Then he pulled.

The heart came out whole.

Still beating.

He let it fall.

The arena was silent.

For ten full seconds, no one moved.

Then applause erupted—not polite, not routine.

Frenzied. Shocked. Awed.

Raizel bowed once and left the corpse where it lay.

The Trials ended in blood and broken dreams.

Only twelve of the twenty fighters lived. Five had to be restrained after going mad mid-combat. Two tried to kill their own teammates.

But Raizel?

He never bled.

He never flinched.

And when his name was announced as top of the ranks, no one objected.

Not even Darius.

Back in his quarters, Raizel removed his coat slowly.

There was no visible blood on him. Not even under his nails. The kill had been clean.

He liked clean.

He turned to pour a drink—when he felt it.

The air shifted.

No sound.

But she was there.

"You didn't hesitate," Elyssia said from the corner, arms folded, watching him like a ghost in warform.

"Hesitation is death."

"You enjoyed it."

Raizel didn't deny it.

"So did they."

She stepped forward into the light.

Her face was pale, but her eyes gleamed with something deeper than approval. Something almost like understanding.

"Do you know why I was sent here?"

"To test me."

"No," she said. "To make a choice."

Raizel narrowed his gaze.

"What choice?"

Elyssia stepped closer—too close. He smelled smoke and frost on her skin.

"When the time comes, you'll either kneel to the Empire… or burn it."

She leaned in. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"And I'm here to make sure you're ready to do either."

Just as she turned to leave, the mirror on the far wall cracked.

A hairline fracture split down its center.

And from within, something laughed.

Not aloud.

In Raizel's mind.

The same voice from three years ago.

"He bleeds shadows now," it whispered.

"The game has begun."