The Void Studies classroom was nothing like the others Kyle had attended so far.It wasn't large—only six seats were arranged in a half-circle, all facing a single obsidian lectern carved with shifting runes that seemed to shimmer just outside the edge of sight.
Only three students had shown up.
One of them was Kyle.
The other two were upperclassmen—one girl with silver hair braided to the side and another boy with a deep scar running down his neck. Neither looked particularly friendly, nor surprised to see only three of them gathered.
Professor Iskra entered without a word, her cloak trailing behind her like a piece of shadow given form. She wore black—not in the sense of dyed fabric, but as if the light around her had simply decided not to reflect.
Her eyes were sharp, lavender with grey flecks, and they landed on Kyle like a hawk appraising something not yet worth eating.
"You must be the first-year," she said, voice low but clear. "Kyle, correct?"
"Yes, Professor."
Iskra stared a moment longer than necessary.
"Curious. Very curious."
She turned to the other students. "Void Studies is not about magic as you know it. It is not fire or wind or flashy displays of force. It is absence. Silence. And secrets."
The lecture began—if it could be called that. She spoke less like a teacher and more like someone sharing unsettling truths that were too dangerous to be written down.
"The Void is not an element," she said, circling the room slowly. "It is a reaction. A consequence. A hunger. Where most magic manipulates mana through will, Void magic—or rather, phenomena—manipulate what is left behind. The echoes. The gaps."
Kyle tried to listen, but his thoughts were still frayed. Every now and then, Iskra's gaze would flick to him—and linger.
Then, ten minutes into the lesson, she stopped abruptly.
She stepped closer to Kyle. "You're not listening."
Kyle blinked. "I—sorry. I didn't sleep well."
"Is that an excuse?"
His jaw clenched. "...Yes."
"Mmm. Common among those with trauma, I suppose," she said, as if reciting the weather. "On that matter. Do you know what rage does to mana, Kyle?"
He didn't answer.
"Rage hollows out the core," she said, stepping away. "Creates a cavity. A gap. And gaps can be filled by many things—desired and undesired."
Silence followed.
Iskra gave the room a long look, then clapped her hands. "We'll cut today's session short. You two"—she gestured to the upper-years—"review your glyph control exercises. You're dismissed."
The students exchanged glances and left without a word.
Kyle stayed seated.
"You, however," she said, now facing him directly again, "will report to the counselor's office during this time slot from now on. Consider it… supplementary education."
"I don't need counseling," Kyle said, the words leaving him sharper than he intended.
Iskra tilted her head. "Perhaps not. But consider this: when a blade is being forged, it must be tempered—shaped before it cools. Otherwise, you end up with a weapon too brittle to wield, or worse… one that cuts the wrong direction."
Kyle said nothing.
"Speaking plainly," she continued, "I do not care if you hate nobles. I do not care what that Malloran has done. But I care that your presence in my class is not a liability."
"I'm not unstable," Kyle said quietly.
"Not yet," she replied. "But you're certainly malleable."
She walked to the lectern and tapped it. A thick black ledger appeared from nowhere, its pages fluttering open to a sheet with Kyle's name already written in thin, graceful ink.
"Assessment begins today," she said. "Speak with Counselor Idris. Honestly."
Kyle rose, reluctant, then paused. "Why are there only three students in this class?"
"Because most don't survive it. A simple lack of willpower," she said, turning away. "Dismissed."
Elsewhere, beneath Sanctum Magna, in the depths where the stone grew colder and light grew thin—
Professor Tepes paced across a narrow chamber lit only by glowing glyphs etched into the walls. The lines shimmered in crimson and indigo, flickering slightly—disturbed.
"Someone was in the east wing," he growled. "During the ritual."
Across from him stood a student in a senior uniform. He was tall, sharp. Cloaked. A ring glinted on his finger—a sigil not taught in any sanctioned syllabus.
"I'm already looking into it," the student said, voice calm.
"Not good enough. Whoever it was might have seen something. Or heard something. The wards were disturbed."
"It was likely a curious underclassman," the student offered. "We'll root them out."
Tepes slammed his palm against the wall, glyphs flaring. "There are things beneath this school—buried things. And if they're unearthed now, it'll undo everything."
"Then I'll make sure they're not."
"Make sure?" Tepes snarled. "No. You will find them. You will erase them. Quietly. No more warnings. No more mistakes. Every loose thread—tied."
The student bowed slightly, but his eyes gleamed. "Of course, Professor. No threads left hanging."
Back in the upper halls, Kyle sat outside the counselor's office.
He stared at the plain wooden door, the nameplate on it reading: Counselor Idris, M.A., Soul Healer – Certified by the Central Circle of Mentalism and Restoration.
It looked unimposing.
Inside, he found a neat room filled with soft blue light and shelves of plants. Idris himself was a man in his thirties with short-cropped hair and kind, tired eyes. He wore robes that were half-cleric, half-scholar, and looked up from his notes with a practiced smile.
"Kyle. Come in."
Kyle sat in the chair across from him, arms crossed.
"I'm not broken," he said.
"No one said you were," Idris replied. "Though it's interesting you started there."
Kyle frowned.
"I was told to expect you," Idris continued. "Professor Iskra mentioned you might benefit from guided discussion."
"Is that what we're calling this?"
"Yes. I could call it a forced timeout, if you prefer."
He smirked, despite himself.
They talked. At first, it was strained, awkward. Kyle kept his answers short, arms crossed, gaze wandering. But Idris was patient. He didn't push too hard. He didn't interrupt.
Eventually, Kyle said it.
"My family was killed by the Mallorans. More accurately, the duke ordered a 'cleanse,' and their hunting dogs went hunting."
Idris's expression didn't change.
"They said it was collateral. That my village got caught up with the wrong people, the wrong time. But we all know that's a lie."
"You lost everything," Idris said.
"I don't want to cry about it. I want to make sure no one forgets."
Silence stretched. Then Idris said, "That's not an unhealthy goal. But vengeance is a slow poison—even if it's dressed like justice."
"I don't want justice. I want to be strong enough that I never have to hear 'wrong place, wrong time' again."
Idris wrote something down, slowly. "You're angry. And scared."
"I'm not scared. Not anymore."
"You're brave, Kyle. But brave and unafraid aren't the same."
He didn't respond.
At the end of the session, Idris offered a final note. "You're not broken, Kyle. But you are bent—under pressure. And pressure makes more than diamonds. Sometimes it makes blades. But sometimes… it makes monsters."
Kyle stood. "Then I'll take care to mind my actions."
Idris nodded. "That's all I ask. You have Professor Iskra four times this week. Pop in here until she clears you back into class. I expect you to comply."