The leaves had started to turn, rusting at the edges like pages of an old, tired book. Saint Aramond's campus, once filled with the bright chaos of summer, was beginning its slow drift into autumn. The wind tasted different no cooler, more distant and for some reason, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.
Emma Lennox sat by the dormitory window, her chin resting on her palm, watching the orange-red light fall across the campus lawn. For weeks now, she'd been waiting. For a message. For a letter. For a sign. Anything. But Andrew hadn't come back.
Not for the funeral. Not for her. Not even for Michael.
She traced the rim of a cold mug with her finger. The silence in the room felt like it was pressing against her chest. Kate Wimberly sat across the room at her desk, hunched over her laptop, tapping distractedly at her keyboard. But Emma knew she wasn't doing work. Not really.
"He's not coming back, is he?" Emma finally said.
Kate paused, fingers stilling. She didn't look up.
"Three letters," Emma continued, quieter now. "I sent him three letters. Not a single reply."
Kate pulled one earbud out. Her voice was flat. "You expected different?"
"He could've at least said goodbye."
Kate stood suddenly, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. "He didn't even come to Michael's funeral. What does that tell you?"
Emma flinched. "You think he doesn't care?"
"I think he's made his choice."
There was venom in her voice, but under it, something deeper. Hurt.
Michael had been buried five days ago. His parents came in quietly, left the same way. No ceremony. No procession. Just a few students, some faculty, and two girls clutching each other's hands like lifelines.
And Andrew had been absent through it all.
Emma sank deeper into her chair. "Everyone I let in just leaves. Jason. Andrew. Michael..."
Kate softened a little. "You didn't make them leave, Em."
"Then why does it feel like a curse?"
In a place far removed from Halberd, above craggy cliffs where storm clouds brooded and winds howled through broken peaks, the Citadel of the Gifted stood like a monument to forgotten wars.
Andrew Whitmore walked its halls with the kind of silence that turned heads.
He hadn't spoken much since the news about Michael.
He'd read the report alone, face unreadable as he traced the inked words detailing Michael's injuries. Not natural. Not survivable. And then he said nothing at all.
He didn't cry. He didn't shout. But something inside him had closed.
Valtan the Overseer, and perhaps the only person within the Citadel more unreadable than Andrew noticed the shift instantly. Andrew no longer flinched at pain or setbacks. He was methodical, focused. Calculating. Cold. A boy now wearing the armor of a man.
Even Seraphina Kade sharp-eyed and brazen felt the heat beneath his stillness. When Andrew passed through a corridor, people fell silent without realizing why.
"He's changed," Jason whispered one evening, watching Andrew speak in low tones to the tacticians.
"He's sharpening," Lisa replied. "Like a blade that's forgotten how to be anything else."
The scrolls had been acting strange.
Ancient texts recovered from the lower vaults began shifting words rewriting themselves, symbols burning new patterns onto old parchment. One night, Seraphina sat in the archive, fingers brushing a rune, when the scroll lit up.
"Andrew!"
He was there in moments. His hand hovered above the scroll as the text began glowing in a language even the oldest scholars hadn't deciphered.
"Coordinates," he said. "Near the Fracture Vale."
Ryo, Jason, Lisa, and Lilienne gathered as the scroll unraveled fully. Seraphina's eyes flicked to Andrew.
"This isn't just a lead. It's a call."
Valtan arrived minutes later, robes billowing, face tense. "Where did this come from?"
Andrew didn't flinch. "It came to us."
"We're not ready."
Andrew met his eyes. "We're out of time."
The two locked gazes for a moment too long. Then Valtan gave a slow nod.
"At dawn, then."
As the others discussed supplies and formation, Seraphina lingered by Andrew.
"You didn't ask to lead. But they follow you anyway."
He didn't look at her.
Back at Saint Aramond the rain came in waves.
Emma sat by the window again, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the droplets trace down the glass.
She had stopped writing poetry.
Kate had stopped making jokes.
Michael was gone, and Andrew? He might as well be.
They were ghosts walking the halls now. Girls who once spoke loudly and filled the common room with laughter were now shadows of themselves.
And somewhere, across the dying horizon, the first battle waited.
They didn't know it yet.
But they would soon.
Because darkness never stays patient forever.