The counselor's office was tucked into a quiet corridor of the Sanctum's west wing, far from the lively dorms and lecture halls. It was meant to feel safe, and for the most part, it did. Light filtered in through latticed windows, and shifting illusions of forests, oceans, and skies rolled across the ceiling in silent, soothing loops. Still, Kyle sat rigidly on the cushioned bench, arms crossed, feet still muddy from the walk over.
Across from him sat Professor Idris, his violet eyes watching Kyle—not probing, not judging, just… present.
"Did you get some time to reflect on yesterday's session?" Idris began softly. "I'm just asking—it wasn't mandatory in any way."
Kyle looked away. "I didn't."
"Why?" Professor Idris inquired.
"It never crossed my mind. Like you said, it wasn't mandatory."
"Fair enough," the professor said in acceptance.
"I understand it's difficult—coming here, that is," Idris continued. "But avoidance doesn't ease the weight. It just buries it. So I want to try and help you today."
Kyle exhaled through his nose, frustration simmering beneath his skin. "I'm not avoiding anything. I just don't like them. They walk around like they own everything. Especially the Mallorans. That name—" He stopped himself short.
Idris gave a slow nod. "So it's not just dislike. It's anger. And as much as you may despise all nobles, you really only hate the Mallorans and the image they've set in your mind, right?"
"I grew up in a village where sometimes we had to ration firewood in winter. Meanwhile, they were holding ice-sculpture banquets in summer." His voice cracked. "And now I'm here, and I'm supposed to just forget all that?" Kyle said, avoiding the last question.
"No. But I'd like to help you understand it. Maybe even ease its hold on you."
Kyle raised a brow. "How?"
"With your consent, I can guide you through an illusion-assisted memory dive. You stay in control—well, you as in your mind and soul. I help focus your mind. We might be able to trace the roots of your resentment—perhaps even find what you're really angry at."
There was hesitation. Then a nod.
"I'm in."
Idris leaned forward and offered his hand. "Close your eyes. Breathe slowly. We begin when you're ready."
Kyle grasped it.
Inside the Mind
The world melted into memory. Kyle was small again, barely six, clinging to the back of a merchant's cart as rain poured from grey skies. The stones of the noble district were slick and bright. Boys in fine coats stood under an archway, laughing.
"Missed a spot, peasant!" one called.
Even the children had voices laced with arrogance.
Another shift—twelve years old. A market stall. Kyle reached to help a noble girl who had dropped her purse. She recoiled.
"Don't touch him," her mother snapped. "He's from the outer wards."
Each memory layered on another: the glares, the dismissals, the cold disregard. Kyle clenched his fists, heart pounding.
But something shifted in the illusion. The next memory refused to surface clearly. The space around him darkened. Idris's voice echoed gently in the background.
"We're close. One more step—"
Space shifted once again, this time more distorted. Kyle was young again—eight, perhaps—and a room emerged. Not one Kyle recognized. Stone walls, dim candles, and strange symbols drawn in chalk on the floor. There was a child in the center—it was... him? Maybe—but the face was blurred, half-shadowed.
Something else stood in the corner. It stood tall compared to the child. It looked almost human. It was watching. Smiling.
Idris reached out in the illusion, trying to get a clear view—and recoiled instantly. The being turned. It saw him.
The link shattered.
Back in the Office
Kyle gasped awake, eyes wild. Idris sat back, breathing heavily, sweat beading at his brow. His hovering notebook had crashed to the floor.
"What was that?" Kyle asked hoarsely.
"I don't know," Idris murmured. "But it wasn't a memory you're aware of, given your question. It was something deeper. Shielded. And it was aware of me."
Kyle's hands trembled.
Idris composed himself. "I won't attempt that again—not without protections. For now… I'm recommending you return to regular classes. These sessions won't help until we understand what's blocking us."
Kyle nodded mutely.
"One more thing," Idris said as Kyle reached the door. "Try to see the others—your classmates—as individuals, not their surnames. Remember, the academy recognizes will and achievement, not birthright. I'm not asking you to like them. Just… see them," the professor said softly.
Kyle paused, then nodded again.
After he left, Idris sat alone for a long while. Then he retrieved a pen and wrote a short message:
To: Professor Iskra
Subject: Kyle
"Session yielded troubling results. Illusion dive was repelled by an unknown force within his subconscious. Possible latent trauma—or something else entirely. I recommend quiet monitoring. Will debrief in person."
I hope this system won't cause the child more harm than good. Idris thought to himself.
After the session, at the terrace, Kyle found himself drifting toward the view over the edge of the rail, drawn by instinct more than intent. The sky was painted in long streaks of crimson and violet, and the city of Ardenhall glittered far below where he stood. It should have been beautiful. But Kyle couldn't stop hearing Professor Iskra's words.
"Rage hollows out the core, creates a cavity. A gap. And gaps can be filled by many things—desired and undesired."
He leaned on the stone railing, staring out. Students passed by beneath him, chatting, laughing. Some noble, some not. And in that moment, he tried—really tried—to see them as individuals.
Chris Malloran strolled by in the distance, his coat impeccable, his posture princely. Kyle's jaw tightened—but this time, he looked beyond the face. He saw the boy who had sat across the room in class. The one who scribbled notes furiously as he did. The one who seemed… perfect, in his own way.
Separate from their families, Idris had said.
Could it be that simple?
Kyle closed his eyes. The wind tugged gently at his collar. Beneath everything—resentment, fear, even ambition—was something else he hadn't yet named.
A whisper of something he didn't fully understand.
Not yet.