Chapter 8: Fangs Beneath Velvet

The dining hall of the Academy Arcanum was a grand amphitheater carved of living obsidian, shaped like an inverted dome with layered tiers of tables descending toward a central platform. Flickering spellfire chandeliers floated above, casting a warm golden sheen over polished glassware and plates filled with conjured delicacies. Aromas of honeyed meat, roasted roots, and salted fruits filled the air—tempting, decadent, and utterly artificial.

Kaelen Vire sat silently near the outer edge, where the lower-ranked students were assigned. It was a visible reminder of his current station: Rank E, Powerless in the eyes of the Academy, though everyone whispered he was royalty.

To his left sat Sethis Vale, Rank B, Arcane Magic(Mana Manipulation). Once a street urchin from the slums of Droswen, Sethis had clawed his way into the Academy through the Aptitude Trials. Few knew his backstory, and fewer asked. But Kaelen had seen it—the scars, the way Sethis moved like a cornered animal, ready to bite. He had lived his life hunted.

Across the room, nobles adorned in the crimson-and-gold brocade of House Dorean and the silver-gilt robes of House Levas laughed too loudly. Their attention centered on Cyran Levas, Rank C, Celestial (Light) Magic, and Seren Dorean, Rank C+, Elemental (Pyra) Magic. The sons of powerful houses. Born with magic. Trained since the cradle. Their laughter was like daggers wrapped in silk.

"They're going to come for you," Sethis muttered without looking up. He was halfway through a bowl of steaming lentil stew. "Now that they've seen the familiar mark. Word's already spreading."

Kaelen didn't reply. He stabbed a slice of grilled peach and stared down into his plate. He could still feel the sigil burned into his palm, concealed beneath the black silk glove.

The Scourge Mark. A symbol of forbidden magic. He hadn't summoned it. It had answered.

"How do they know?" he asked eventually.

Sethis tapped his ear. "Servants talk. Shadows listen."

"You mean you listened."

Sethis grinned. "Same thing."

Kaelen sighed. "What do they know?"

"Only that something strange happened in the dungeon trials. A disintegration. A shadowburst. And a summoned creature that shouldn't exist." Sethis sipped from his cup. "They don't know it was plague magic. Yet."

Kaelen's gut twisted. The first rule of the Academy was etched above its gate: All known magic is permitted. All unknown magic is condemned.

Plague Magic was very much unknown.

The familiar—Zahareen—slumbered now, her corrupted form coiled inside his blood. She hadn't spoken since the trial, but her presence pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath his skin.

A loud clang interrupted his thoughts. A silver goblet had been knocked to the floor.

"Vire!"

Kaelen looked up. Cyran Levas stood several tiers above, surrounded by his entourage. His pale golden hair gleamed like a crown beneath the chandeliers, and his white robes glowed faintly from residual light mana.

Cyran raised a goblet in mock toast. "A seat among the insects suits you, prince."

Laughter erupted. Even some neutral students chuckled.

Kaelen stood slowly. He didn't respond. Didn't bow. Didn't sneer. Just met Cyran's gaze with ice.

Cyran's smile thinned. "Ah. Still proud. Tell me, how does it feel to be stripped of your title, tossed into the gutter, and still dress like you rule the world?"

Kaelen descended two tiers toward him, one step at a time.

A hush fell.

Sethis muttered, "Godsdammit…"

Kaelen stopped a few feet away from Cyran and looked him over. "Your robe's threadbare," he said.

Cyran blinked. "What?"

Kaelen gestured lazily. "Gold trim's uneven. Poor stitching. You must've changed tailors. Can't imagine House Levas is hurting for coin—unless your father's funding more love children."

Gasps rippled.

Cyran's face turned scarlet.

A flicker of golden light flared in his hand, but before a spell could form, a firm voice echoed through the chamber.

"That's enough."

The crowd parted. A tall woman in slate-gray robes descended from above—Magister Ryvelle, Rank A, Nature(Gravity)Magic, one of the Academy's elite instructors. Her silver hair was pulled tight into a bun, and a stone badge on her chest denoted her status as a MASTER

"Dueling is prohibited outside sanctioned arenas. You know this, Levas."

Cyran bowed stiffly. "Yes, Magister."

Ryvelle turned to Kaelen. Her eyes narrowed. "And you, Vire. You poke lions with a twig and wonder why they roar."

Kaelen inclined his head. "Only when the lion wears a wig and preens like a peacock."

Sethis groaned.

Ryvelle's expression didn't change, but her eye twitched—just once. "All the same. Report to the Hall of Temperance at dawn. You're on disciplinary rotation."

Kaelen nodded without complaint.

As she turned to leave, she paused.

"And Vire—there are worse things in this Academy than spoiled nobles. Learn your place before something teaches it to you."

Later That Night

The dormitories were quiet. Most students were asleep or practicing runes in silence. Kaelen sat on the edge of his bunk, his glove removed. The Scourge Mark pulsed faintly in the dark.

"You held back," said a voice.

Zahareen.

He looked down. Her form flickered in the shadow by his feet—part woman, part serpent, her body veiled in dark petals.

"I didn't want attention," Kaelen whispered.

"Too late," she said. "They already smell blood."

He clenched his fist. "They can come. I'm not the same as before."

"No," Zahareen agreed. "You are far more dangerous."

Meanwhile…

In a distant tower shrouded in illusion, a masked figure stood before a scrying orb. Images flickered within—Kaelen, the Scourge Mark, the black mist.

"So the Plague Blood stirs again," the figure said softly.

Behind him knelt two individuals—identical twins in gray uniforms.

"Shall we kill him, Master?" one asked.

"No," the masked man replied. "We watch. The rot must bloom before it devours."

He turned away, the sigil of a skeletal tree etched into the back of his cloak.

The Order of Withering Eyes had taken notice.