Chapter 19
Night settled softly over the Imperial Academy, blanketing its spires and domes in silver moonlight. Kelan should have been asleep in the dormitory at this late hour, but instead he found himself creeping through the hushed corridors of the east wing library. In his hand, he clutched a thin, leather-bound manuscript that he had "borrowed" without explicit permission – taken from a shelf in the restricted archives that earlier that day had been left momentarily unlocked.
He hadn't planned on taking it. Curiosity had drawn him to the archives after dinner, the echoes of the week's training and discoveries still alive in his mind. The manuscript's title, embossed in faded gold script, had caught his eye: On the Celestial Harmonies of Mind and Matter. It sounded esoteric and grand. Flipping it open, Kelan found dense paragraphs in an archaic dialect and detailed diagrams of star charts and levitating spheres. One illustration showed a robed figure lifting what looked like an armillary sphere – a type of astrolabe – with lines radiating from his hands. Marginal notes in a spidery hand cautioned about energy flows and "the balance of forces under Heaven's gaze."
Forbidden or not, the text spoke to Kelan's current obsession: pushing the limits of telekinesis. The events of recent days had kindled a fire in him. Cassian's effortless superiority, Nima's chant unlocking new possibilities, Master Dahan's high expectations – all of it fueled Kelan's desire to grow, to prove himself. So when he stumbled upon knowledge hinting at ancient techniques, the temptation was too great. He carefully slid the manuscript under his tunic and left the archives, heart hammering as if he'd committed a crime.
Now, ensconced in the quiet gloom of the empty library antechamber, Kelan lit a small oil lamp and pored over the manuscript's pages. The script was difficult – words with extra flourishes and old spellings – but he deciphered enough. One section described how, in bygone times, telekinetic masters aligned their energies with the movements of the heavens. There were references to astrological timings and a suggestion that at certain hours, lifting objects of significant mass could be eased by channeling "the cosmic fulcrum."
Kelan wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but one detail leapt out: the example given involved lifting a "great astrolabe of bronze" during the ascendance of particular stars. There was even a sketched diagram of a dome with an astrolabe at its center, arrows indicating it rising toward the starry sky. A note in the margin read: Only attempt with utmost focus and purity of intent; a single lapse may invite disaster. The note's warning tone did give him pause, but his excitement quickly overrode caution.
He felt as though the manuscript were daring him. Here, it seemed to say, is a test of your mind's awakening – are you bold enough to try?
Kelan closed the manuscript and pressed it against his chest. He knew of an actual large astrolabe on campus: in the Observatory Tower at the north end of the Academy grounds. During an orientation tour months ago, he had seen it – a massive bronze disk nearly four feet across, engraved with constellations and planetary rings, mounted on a swiveling stand. It had been a gift from some past desert ruler, if he recalled correctly, and was said to be used for teaching astronomy. More importantly to Kelan now, it was the heaviest single object he could think of within reach.
He hesitated only a moment longer in the library's entry hall, lantern light flickering over the rows of sleeping books. His rational mind whispered that this was reckless. If caught out of bed after curfew, he'd get sternly reprimanded at the very least. If caught with a clearly restricted manuscript, even worse. And if he actually attempted what he was contemplating… He forced the doubts aside. I need to know, he thought. I need to know how far I can go.
Tucking the old manuscript safely into his satchel, Kelan extinguished the lamp and slipped out into the corridor. The halls were dark but familiar; he moved quietly, avoiding the main routes where a patrolling custodian might pass. Soon, he emerged into the open night air. The Academy grounds were still, the only sounds the distant chirr of insects and the whisper of wind through cloister arches.
The Observatory Tower loomed ahead, a silhouette against the starry sky. It was a round structure crowned with a copper dome that had a large retractable slit for stargazing. Tonight the dome was closed, making the tower look asleep, its windows dark. Kelan approached the heavy wooden door at its base. Unbelievably, it was unlocked – perhaps an astronomy master had left it open for late observations, or simply forgot. Kelan took it as a sign that this attempt was meant to be.
Inside, the observatory smelled of aged metal, dust, and faintly of lamp oil. He ascended a narrow spiral staircase, his footsteps muffled by the stone. At the top, he entered the circular observation chamber. Faint moonlight filtered in through the slit in the dome – someone had left it partially open, a silver blade of night sky visible overhead. By that pale illumination, Kelan could make out the shapes of telescopes, rolled-up star charts on tables, and there, at the center on a low platform, the astrolabe.
It was even more imposing than he remembered. The bronze astrolabe consisted of several concentric rings within a large circular frame, mounted vertically on a pivot. It was decorated with etched celestial motifs and numerals around its circumference. At its base, it was anchored to a heavy pedestal that allowed it to tilt and rotate. The entire apparatus likely weighed hundreds of pounds. A rational part of Kelan acknowledged that lifting this by himself was madness. But the fervent part of him – the part hungry to leap ahead in mastery – latched onto the memory of the manuscript's diagram and the feeling of confidence that had been growing in him through trial and error.
He set his satchel and the lamp down by the wall, withdrawing the manuscript once more for a quick glance. He ran a finger along the lines of the cautionary note, "a single lapse may invite disaster." A drop of sweat fell from his brow onto the page, darkening the old paper. Kelan realized his palms were damp and his heart was racing. Fear mixed with excitement in equal measure.
He closed the book; he had memorized what he needed. Stepping up onto the platform, he placed a hand gingerly on the rim of the astrolabe. The metal felt cool and unforgiving. Tilting his head back, he peered through the open slit of the observatory dome at the sky. Countless stars glittered. He recognized a few constellations – the Dragon's Tail, the Crown, the Wanderer's Belt. The manuscript had mentioned alignments, but Kelan had no way of knowing if now was an auspicious moment or not. Regardless, the stars were out, and he would have to make do with his own strength of mind.
Climbing down off the platform, Kelan positioned himself a few feet in front of the astrolabe. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his breathing the way Master Dahan taught at the beginning of exercises. The memory of Nima's calming chant surfaced, but here he needed silence and inner focus – any sound might echo in the tower and draw attention.
The chamber was lit primarily by the moon. Kelan could barely discern the outlines of his own hands as he held them out toward the astrolabe. He closed his eyes, not needing sight for this task, and instead let his other senses extend. He felt the presence of the massive bronze structure ahead of him, its weight a kind of pressure against his mind's touch. He imagined probing it gently, like testing the heft of a large stone by nudging it with a foot.
A faint ringing began in his ears – or was it his imagination? He centered himself, assembling every ounce of will and energy at his command. He envisioned invisible arms enveloping the astrolabe's great disk. The manuscript's talk of cosmic fulcrums and aligning with heaven came back to him; perhaps, he mused, he should envision the stars themselves helping to lift. It sounded fanciful, but he would try anything.
Kelan opened his eyes and fixed them on a single bright star visible through the dome's opening – a twinkling point almost directly overhead. Help me, he thought in half a prayer to the distant light. Then, in a swift motion, he thrust both hands upward as if he himself were hoisting the astrolabe to the heavens.
"Rise," he whispered harshly.
A surge of power burst from him – far more than he had ever channeled before. He felt an immediate strain, as though something inside him stretched to its limit in an instant. The air in the room stirred. The bronze astrolabe creaked, and to Kelan's astonishment, it began to move. Slowly, the bottom of the great disk lifted off its cradle on the pedestal.
Kelan's eyes widened. It was actually working – the astrolabe was levitating, however slightly. Encouraged, he poured more focus into it. He imagined that star above pulling the astrolabe up by an invisible thread. Inch by inch, the heavy instrument rose higher, now fully clear of its stand. The only sounds were the soft groan of metal under stress and Kelan's own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his temples. The weight was immense – he sensed it acutely in his mind, like trying to hold a boulder overhead. His whole body trembled reflexively, muscles tensing though they did nothing physical. The astrolabe was now hovering a foot above its pedestal, wobbling slightly but unquestionably aloft.
A wild thrill coursed through Kelan. This was beyond anything he'd accomplished; it rivaled even what he'd seen Cassian do. Alone, at midnight, lifting a bronze giant with only his mind. Maybe I can even rotate it… The thought flashed unbidden. Slowly, carefully.
He attempted to gently spin the floating disk, to mimic the diagram's suggestion of aligning with the stars. But that was a deviation from simply holding it, and the shift in concentration cost him. One of his mental "arms" faltered for a split second as he tried to multitask.
The astrolabe lurched. Kelan gasped and immediately reinforced his hold, halting its tilt before it could slip completely. His head throbbed with the effort. He clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. The disaster had been narrowly averted – the astrolabe hadn't crashed, it was still in the air.
Yet in that moment, Kelan realized how precarious his control truly was. His initial surge of adrenaline was ebbing, and an avalanche of fatigue was close behind. The weight seemed to double as his mind grew weary. He felt a sharp ache behind his eyes, and his vision swam with dark spots.
He knew he should set the astrolabe down while he still had strength to do it gently. But a stubborn part of him hesitated, pride whispering that he could push just a bit longer, raise it just a bit higher – fully prove to himself he mastered it.
That hesitation proved fatal. A searing pain suddenly shot through his skull, as if a hot needle had been driven into his temple. Kelan's concentration shattered. With a strangled cry, he lost his mental grip on the astrolabe entirely.
In the dim light, he saw the massive bronze disk teeter in the air, then plummet. He flung his arms up instinctively, a futile gesture. The astrolabe crashed onto its pedestal and the floor with a deafening clang and a bone-shaking boom. The impact echoed violently within the stone chamber, magnified by the dome overhead. Kelan felt the floor tremble beneath his feet.
He stood dumbfounded, ears ringing from the noise. The astrolabe had toppled off the side of its pedestal and now lay at an angle on the floor, one of its delicate rings bent askew. A couple of smaller brass components had sheared off and skittered across the room. For a heartbeat, the disaster did not seem real to Kelan – like he was watching someone else's misfortune from afar.
Then the cold wave of reality hit him. He had failed catastrophically. Worse, the thunderous sound would surely draw attention.
Panic seized him. Heart pounding wildly, Kelan darted to snatch up the manuscript and his satchel. He hesitated for one agonizing second, gaze flicking to the astrolabe. Should he try to fix it or prop it back up? Clearly impossible now – the thing was far too heavy to budge in his current state, and the damage was done.
As if to underscore his thoughts, he heard something from below: the faint creak of the observatory's door and hurried footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming – likely a custodian or a night guard who heard the crash.
Fear trumped every other emotion. Kelan bolted toward a secondary staircase at the opposite side of the tower, one that led down to an alternate exit used for bringing in equipment. He moved on pure instinct and dread, clutching the precious manuscript to his chest. His lantern was left behind, but he dared not go back for it.
He half-ran, half-stumbled down the spiral steps in darkness. Behind him, in the observatory chamber above, he caught the flicker of light – someone had arrived with a lamp, gasping at the scene of destruction.
Kelan's breath was ragged in his throat, his body trembling. He reached the bottom of the secondary stairs and shoved his way through a small service door. It opened into the night at the side of the tower, opposite from the main entrance. Without looking back, Kelan slipped out and pressed himself against the cool stone wall, listening.
Muffled voices drifted from inside – one in alarm, another trying to soothe or assess. He heard snatches: "...fallen… what happened…?" and "...check if anyone..." The words spurred him to move. Keeping to the shadows, Kelan skirted along the side of the tower and into a stand of ornamental shrubs.
The Academy grounds that had felt serene earlier now felt ominous and exposed. Every moonlit path seemed like a stage that would illuminate his guilt. Kelan forced himself into a crouch and hurried from cover to cover – a hedge here, the shadow of a column there – until he was well away from the Observatory Tower.
He didn't stop until he was near the dormitory courtyard, breathless and heart drumming like a war drum in his chest. Only then did he pause behind a stone pergola to catch his breath and assess.
His mind was a tempest of emotions. Terror at nearly being caught red-handed. Shame at his foolish overreach and the damage he'd caused. And above all, an overwhelming guilt that pressed down on him heavier than the astrolabe had been.
Doubling over, Kelan clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the rising bile. In the still night, under a trellis of sleeping vines, he tried to steady himself. He realized he was still gripping the manuscript in a vise-like hold; his fingers had left creases in the old leather cover. He loosened his grip, cradling it instead. The very sight of it now churned his stomach. Moments ago it had felt like a treasure of arcane knowledge; now it felt like an accomplice in his wrongdoing.
A distant shout echoed from the direction of the tower – someone calling out, likely raising alarm about the accident. Kelan flinched. It took all his willpower not to sprint the remaining distance to his dorm; he knew running risked drawing the attention of any watchful eyes. Instead, he wiped sweat from his brow, straightened his tunic, and walked as calmly as he could manage across the final courtyard.
The dormitory building's side entrance was thankfully ajar – another stroke of luck, as a resident must have left for the privy. Kelan slipped inside silently. The corridors were dark, lit only by the low embers of a single wall lamp. He navigated by memory to his shared room, gently opening the door and easing in.
His roommate – a heavy sleeper – was snoring softly in the opposite bunk, oblivious to Kelan's late return. Kelan shut the door and collapsed onto his bed, the manuscript still clutched in his arms. In the darkness, the events replayed mercilessly in his mind: the initial triumph, the moment of blinding pain, the crash – that awful crash – and his cowardly flight.
He wanted to believe no one had seen him. He was fairly certain the custodian who entered the observatory had not caught a glimpse of him fleeing. If luck held, they would assume the astrolabe simply fell due to improper locking or some mechanical failure. Perhaps… perhaps no one would ever know Kelan was involved.
That thought should have brought him relief. Instead, Kelan felt a pang of deep remorse. The idea that someone else might take blame or that the cause would remain a mystery sat poorly with his conscience. But the alternative – confessing outright – was terrifying. He squeezed his eyes shut as if to block out the very notion.
His body ached all over, a mix of magical fatigue and tension. Every heartbeat in his ears reminded him of the risk he'd taken. What have I done? he thought, despairing. The price of his ambition lay broken in the observatory, and he had run like a thief in the night.
Carefully, Kelan slid the old manuscript under his mattress, hiding it from view. He couldn't deal with it now – he couldn't even look at it. Later... later he would figure out what to do with it. Perhaps return it secretly to the archives when no one was around, if he dared.
As he lay back on the pillow, he noticed his hands were still shaking uncontrollably. He clasped them together to still them, but that only reminded him how those same hands had been outstretched in the tower, commanding a power he wasn't ready for. A hot tear escaped one eye, tracing a line down his cheek into his hair. He hastily scrubbed it away, not wanting to admit even to himself that he was crying.
In the silence of the dorm room, Kelan could hear muffled noises drifting through the night – faint running footsteps, perhaps faculty or staff roused to investigate the commotion. He imagined the scene: the custodian's alarm, perhaps a night mage using light to examine the damage, the whispers of confusion and concern. He wondered if Master Dahan would be informed before morning. The thought of facing Dahan's severe disappointment made Kelan's chest tighten painfully.
He turned on his side, curling up and drawing his blanket over himself though he was drenched in sweat. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the astrolabe crashing anew, over and over. There was no undoing it.
All he could do was lie there in the darkness, anxious and sleepless, hoping beyond hope that the calamity he caused might somehow pass without entangling him. And as guilt gnawed at his insides, Kelan clung to a fragile wish: that come dawn, this might all feel like a terrible dream.
But deep down, he knew it was all too real.
Chapter 20
Dawn brought little relief to Kelan's nerves. He went through the motions of the morning routine in a daze, barely speaking a word to anyone. The dormitory buzzed with gossip about a late-night incident on campus – something about a loud crash heard near the Observatory Tower. Kelan kept his head down and listened anxiously as snippets of conversation swirled around the breakfast hall.
"I heard old Martek nearly had a heart attack when he found the observatory all askew," one second-year student was saying.
"Was anything stolen?" another asked.
"No, nothing stolen. But that big star-scope thing, the astrolabe – it fell over and broke," the first student replied, voice low and conspiratorial. "They say it made a mess of the place."
Kelan's spoon trembled in his hand. Porridge dripped back into his bowl, untouched. Across the table, Sera shot him a concerned glance. He realized he hadn't reacted outwardly to the news at all – perhaps too quiet, if anything – but inside, each word was a fresh dagger of guilt.
A third student joined in eagerly, "I heard a custodian left it unlocked or something. Master Raine was furious this morning."
Kelan's stomach turned. So they were blaming a custodian… Some part of him had hoped the staff would assume it was an accident of equipment. But of course, someone had to be held accountable for such an expensive piece being damaged. Martek – Kelan knew that name. The kindly old night custodian who often swept the library floors and lit lamps. A man near retirement, with shaky hands and a slow gait, but always smiling politely at students.
Now, apparently, Martek was under suspicion. Kelan felt sick. He pushed his bowl away, appetite utterly gone.
At training that morning, his misery compounded. The advanced telekinesis class assembled in the practice hall under Master Dahan's watchful eye, but Kelan's usual eagerness had been replaced by leaden dread. He could hardly meet Dahan's gaze, afraid he'd see knowledge or accusation in those piercing eyes. Of course, Dahan didn't know – couldn't know – but guilt made Kelan imagine condemnation everywhere.
The exercise was a follow-up on precision control: lifting small sand weights and placing them in narrow-necked jars. It required a steady hand and sharper focus than brute strength. Normally, Kelan might have done passably well at such a task. Today, however, the sand weights might as well have been mountains. His mind was completely elsewhere. He managed to levitate one small sack of sand, but as he tried to guide it into the jar, his control slipped and the sack thudded to the floor, sand spilling out in a little plume.
Master Dahan's head snapped in his direction at the sound. "Concentrate, Kelan," the instructor said sternly from across the hall.
Flushing, Kelan mumbled an apology and hurried to clean up the spilled sand with a broom. His hands shook with each sweep. He could feel the stares of a few nearby classmates – Cassian's in particular, a mix of annoyance and smugness. Typically, Kelan would have bristled at Cassian's silent judgment, but right now Cassian's opinion was the least of his worries.
Across the room, Sera met his eyes. She was paired with another student for the exercise but had clearly noticed Kelan's faltering. She offered him a small, encouraging nod and mouthed, "You okay?" from a distance.
Kelan forced a tight smile and nodded, though he quickly looked away. He was far from okay, but he couldn't explain it to her. Not here. Maybe not ever.
The session dragged on mercilessly. Every time Kelan tried to muster focus, his thoughts betrayed him. He kept picturing old Martek being scolded or punished for negligence, and it tore at him. The memory of last night's catastrophe replayed in a loop: the astrolabe's plunge, the thunderous crash. He felt phantom echoes of that sound whenever something clinked or thudded in the practice hall.
By the end of the class, Kelan had barely managed to complete a fraction of the task. Where others had neatly deposited all their sand weights into jars, his area had only two jars filled (both by Sera discreetly covering for him with an extra lift or two), and one jar lay on its side from when he bumped into it absentmindedly. Master Dahan's lips were pressed thin as he dismissed the students, and Kelan could sense the instructor's disappointment keenly. Normally, Dahan would have given a pointed critique, but perhaps even he recognized that whatever was affecting Kelan went beyond mere laziness or lack of effort. In truth, Kelan almost wished Dahan would have berated him – he felt he deserved it, if not for the poor performance then for his hidden misdeed.
As they filed out of the hall, Sera fell into step beside Kelan. He avoided her at first, pretending to busy himself dusting sand off his tunic. But she gently touched his elbow, steering him away from the others, who gradually dispersed toward midday activities.
"Kelan," she began softly, "something is wrong. Very wrong. Please talk to me."
Her voice was so full of genuine concern that Kelan's chest constricted. He swallowed hard, still looking at the ground. "I'm just… tired," he offered lamely. "Didn't sleep well."
Sera was not convinced. "I don't think I've ever seen you drop anything in class. And today you were miles away. Is it about yesterday's joint session? Did something happen after I left?"
Kelan shook his head quickly. "No, no. Yesterday was fine. Great even." His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. He could feel Sera studying him, her eyes searching his face for clues.
He realized then that beneath her worry was a hint of hurt – hurt that he wouldn't confide in her. They had become close friends; normally he shared his struggles and she helped him through them. With everything except this.
Kelan mustered the courage to meet her gaze briefly. He tried to convey reassurance he didn't feel. "I promise, it's nothing you did or anything like that. I just… I've got a lot on my mind. I need to sort it out myself."
Sera's lips pressed into a faint line, but she nodded slowly. "If that's what you need. But remember, you're not alone. I'm here when you're ready." She touched his arm again, a gentle squeeze, before letting go.
Guilt stabbed at Kelan anew. Sera's kindness only underscored how undeserving he felt right now. He gave her a weak smile. "Thank you," he murmured.
She hesitated, then asked, "It's not Cassian, is it? Did he say something to you?"
"No, it's not Cassian," Kelan assured quickly, almost relieved to talk about something trivial by comparison. "This isn't about him."
Sera seemed slightly relieved to hear that. She took a step backward, respecting his unspoken request for space. "Alright. I won't pry. Just… please take care of yourself. You look pale as a ghost."
Kelan managed a small, appreciative nod. "I will."
With that, Sera allowed him his solitude, though she cast one more concerned glance over her shoulder as she headed off toward the dining hall.
Kelan stood there in the corridor long after she left, the bustle of academy life flowing around him without really touching him. Students hurried to lunch or study sessions, laughter and chatter in their wake. It felt wrong that the world could carry on normally while his own conscience was in turmoil.
He skipped lunch, unable to face sitting among friends and pretending all was well. Instead, he wandered the grounds aimlessly for a time, avoiding crowded areas. He found himself gravitating toward one of the Academy's quieter corners: the small chapel near the western gardens.
The chapel was an old stone building with a modest dome and a single bell that chimed softly at dawn and dusk. It wasn't dedicated to any singular deity; over the years it had become an all-faith sanctuary for meditation and prayer, open to anyone seeking solace. Ivy crept up one side of its walls, and tall narrow windows of colored glass depicted abstract symbols of the sun, moon, and stars.
Kelan often passed by it but rarely went inside. Now, as twilight arrived and the campus settled into evening calm, he felt drawn to it like a moth to a gentle flame. Perhaps within those walls he might find clarity, or at least a moment's peace from the storm in his head.
He waited until deep blue dusk had fallen – when most students would be in their dorms or the library – before quietly pushing open the heavy oak door of the chapel.
Inside, the air was cool and still, carrying a faint scent of burnt incense and wax. A few wall sconces held flickering candles, their flames painting wavery shadows on the stone floor. Wooden benches lined a central aisle leading to a semicircular apse where a simple altar stood, adorned only with a white cloth and a single oil lamp. No one else was present at this hour; Kelan had the sanctuary to himself.
He stepped in gingerly, almost tiptoeing as the door creaked shut behind him. The silence was profound, broken only by the hushed crackle of candles. Kelan slid into a pew near the middle, not too close to the altar, and sat down. For a long moment, he simply sat, hands clasped and elbows on his knees, as if unsure where to begin with his thoughts.
His eyes roamed over the stained glass above the altar. The central pane showed an image of a radiant sun and crescent moon intertwined, an old symbol of balance and truth. Truth. The word weighed heavily on him. Here he was, hiding the truth of what happened, while an innocent man might take the blame.
Kelan lowered his head into his hands. The pressure of unshed tears made his eyes burn. He hadn't cried since the brief breakdown in his bed the night before, but the urge resurfaced here in this safe, empty place.
In a whisper that barely disturbed the stillness, he spoke: "What am I going to do?"
His words echoed faintly off the dome above. Of course, no answer came, only the soft flutter of his own heartbeat in his ears.
He thought of his upbringing in his quiet village before coming to the Academy. His parents had instilled in him a strong sense of right and wrong – honesty, integrity, taking responsibility for one's actions. He remembered once as a child accidentally breaking a neighbor's cart wheel by playing too roughly around it. He had been so scared to admit it, but his father marched him over to confess and help fix it. The lesson was simple: you owned up to your mistakes, no matter how frightened you were.
And yet here he was, cowering behind silence. The weight of that moral failure was crushing.
"But if I confess… what then?" he murmured aloud in the empty chapel. He could almost imagine a stern voice answering in his mind: Then you face the consequences, and you make things right. Perhaps it was his father's voice, or Master Dahan's, or just his conscience speaking.
The consequences. Expulsion was a real possibility – destroying valuable Academy property, sneaking into restricted areas, breaking curfew, stealing a manuscript... any one of those could warrant severe discipline, together they were damning. Would they expel him? Or worse, involve the Imperial Magistrate for destruction of historical artifacts? His blood ran cold at the thought of formal punishment beyond the Academy's walls.
All his dreams of becoming a master mage, of proving himself – they would evaporate overnight. He'd be sent home in disgrace, if not to a jail cell.
He gripped the edge of the wooden bench, the polished surface smooth under his tense fingers. "I don't want to be expelled," he confessed into the darkness, voice cracking. "I don't want to lose everything I've worked for…"
His words sounded small and selfish in the reverent space. He squeezed his eyes shut, and a couple of tears forced their way out, trailing down his cheeks. The thought of disappointing his family, of facing Sera and his friends with the truth of his reckless folly – it was almost unbearable.
Yet, another image tormented him: old Martek being reprimanded by the Provost or forced into retirement over negligence that wasn't his fault. The thought of the kindly custodian wringing his cap in his hands, apologizing for something Kelan had done… That struck a deep, dissonant chord in Kelan's heart.
"If I stay silent," Kelan whispered, "an innocent man suffers." Speaking it aloud made it even clearer. He scrubbed the heel of his hand over his wet eyes, anger at himself bubbling up. How had he become the kind of person who would even consider letting someone else take the blame?
He thought of Sera's faith in him, of Nima's respectful friendship, of Master Dahan's commitment to molding him into a responsible mage. Would any of them condone him if they knew he was hiding such a truth? Absolutely not, he imagined. Sera, especially, valued honesty and kindness; the idea of betraying those values sickened him.
Kelan leaned back against the pew and gazed upwards at the dome's ceiling. A faded mural was painted there – a ring of abstract wings surrounding a single eye, symbolizing divine insight watching over all. In the quivering candlelight, the eye almost seemed alive, peering directly into Kelan's soul. He shuddered and closed his eyes again.
Torn between fear and conscience, he remained there for what felt like hours, though only scant minutes passed. The candles burned steadily, oblivious to the boy waging war with himself below.
He imagined walking into the headmaster's office and confessing everything. How would he even begin? Perhaps with the truth from the start: that he had taken the manuscript and attempted a foolish feat, that no one else was responsible for the damage. He pictured the disappointment on the headmaster's face, the probable presence of Master Dahan as a witness to his pupil's disgrace. The thought made his heart twist painfully.
But then he thought of Martek again – perhaps being summoned at that very moment to explain the unexplainable. Kelan bit his lip hard. If he stayed silent overnight, by morning the Academy administration might have already formally blamed Martek or disciplined him. Every hour he delayed, an injustice solidified.
A quiet sob escaped Kelan's throat. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, not even sure to whom – to Martek, to his mentors, to his parents, to the universe at large for failing their expectations.
His voice echoed off the stone, sounding forlorn and childlike. In that echo, he almost thought he heard another voice, gentle and clear: Do what is right, not what is easy. It wasn't real, of course – just a memory of a saying one of his tutors would often repeat. But tonight it felt like guidance.
The easy path was to say nothing, hope the blame on Martek stuck and Kelan's life continued unscathed. The right path… Kelan wiped his face and drew a shuddering breath. The right path was terrifying. The right path could ruin him. Yet, could he live with himself if he avoided it?
He wasn't sure when he had sunk to his knees, but he found himself kneeling on the chapel floor, hands clasped together on the back of the pew in front of him. It was a posture of supplication he'd seen devout fellows take, though Kelan had never been particularly religious. Still, in this moment, he knelt like a penitent.
"I don't know if anyone or anything out there can hear me," he whispered, voice trembling, "but please… give me strength to do what I must. I'm afraid."
Tears splashed onto the wood beneath his hands. He let them fall; there was no one to witness but the silent stones and candles. Admitting his fear out loud felt strangely relieving, as if unburdening a small portion of it.
Kelan remained there in prayerful silence for a long while, letting the stillness of the chapel wash over him. His breathing gradually steadied. He imagined that with each exhale, some of the anxiety left him, and with each inhale, perhaps a bit of resolve entered.
At last, he rose from his knees and returned to sit on the bench. He felt emptied out – exhausted, yes, but also a tad clearer. The dilemma still loomed, but the edges of it were sharper now, less obscured by swirling emotion.
If he said nothing, he might preserve his future at the cost of his integrity and someone else's justice. If he confessed, he would likely face severe fallout – maybe the end of his studies here – but he would be owning up to his mistake. Accepting whatever came, however painful.
Kelan remembered the boy who broke a cart wheel and bravely apologized when prodded to do so; he wondered what that younger version of himself would think of the man he was turning into. He bowed his head, a few final tears slipping free as he made a tentative decision in his heart.
Outside, the chapel's bell gently tolled the hour – a soft chime that signaled nightfall was well underway. Kelan realized curfew was approaching; he would need to return to the dorm soon, or risk adding yet another rule violation to his tally.
Wiping his face one more time, Kelan stood. He felt unsteady but determined. Before leaving, he approached the altar. There lay several unlit votive candles for personal offerings. With a nearby taper, he lit one. The little flame sprang up, steady and warm.
"For Martek," he whispered as he set the candle among others. It was a small gesture, but it felt meaningful in the moment – a silent promise that at the very least, he recognized the wrong being done to the man.
As the candle's glow joined the others, Kelan turned and quietly made his way out of the chapel. The night air greeted him, cool and dark. Stars had emerged above, winking through the drifting clouds. He looked up at them – beautiful, distant pinpricks of light. Last night, those stars had witnessed his hubris. Tonight, perhaps they bore witness to his remorse.
Pulling his cloak tight around himself, Kelan walked back toward the dormitory. Each step was heavy, but his course was set, or nearly so. He hadn't fully worked out how to confess – to whom, at what time – but he knew in his heart that he couldn't let the lie persist.
Maybe in the morning, when his courage was bolstered by sunlight and a bit of rest, he would request a meeting with Master Dahan or the headmaster. The very thought made him break out in a sweat, but he clenched his fists and pressed on.
Whatever the consequences, he would meet them. He would not let an innocent carry the burden of his folly.
Yet even as this resolve formed, a tendril of fear still coiled in his belly. Consequences. The word echoed in his mind. He wasn't sure he was ready for them – for the disappointed faces of those he respected, for the possible end of his dreams at the Academy.
Kelan slipped into the dormitory courtyard, where shadows pooled beneath the arches. Most windows were dark now, save for a few dimly lit by bedside lanterns. He paused by the doorway to his hall, taking one last look at the tranquil night around him. In that moment, he felt painfully young and small – just a single student in a vast institution, having erred greatly.
He drew a shaky breath and entered, the resolve in his heart tempered by fear but not extinguished.
Upstairs, as he crept into his room, Kelan noticed the outline of the manuscript still hidden under his mattress. He gingerly pulled it out and stared at it under the moonlight filtering through the window. Such a small thing to have caused such upheaval. With a grim set to his mouth, Kelan decided he would return it to the archives first chance he got – anonymously if possible. It no longer held allure; it felt like a cursed object now, a reminder of his lapse.
Sliding the manuscript into his satchel, Kelan finally lay down. His roommate's soft snores were the only sound. Sleep would not come easily – of that he was certain. Tomorrow loomed over him like a judge's gavel, ready to fall. He knew what he ought to do, and he hoped fervently that when the sun rose, he would have the courage to do it.
As he stared at the slats of moonlight on the ceiling, Kelan whispered into the darkness, a final vow to himself: "I will make this right."
Whether it meant the end of his journey at the Academy or not, he would face whatever awaited. In the silent answer of the night, there was neither reassurance nor doom – only the steady rhythm of time moving forward, carrying him inexorably toward the consequences of his choice.
Torn but resolved, fearful but determined, Kelan closed his eyes and waited for morning.