The air was thick with silence.
Layron stood frozen amidst the ruins, his breath shallow, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
The presence loomed before him—not fully seen, not fully heard, yet pressing against reality like a shadow too deep to be cast by any light.
"You returned."
The voice was neither loud nor forceful. It was calm. Certain. As if it had been expecting this moment all along.
Layron's hands clenched into fists.
"This isn't real."
The thought came desperate and unsteady, but deep down, he knew better.
The whispers had followed him since last night. The pulsing mark on his chest had not faded. And now… this.
A shape, more suggestion than form, hovered in the dimness of the ruins. Flickering like smoke, its edges wavered as though they were never meant to be seen. Yet the presence itself was overwhelming.
"What are you?" Layron's voice was hoarse.
A pause.
Then, the voice answered, slow and deliberate:
"I am what you have always lacked."
Layron shuddered. He couldn't explain why, but the words struck something raw inside him.
"I… don't need anything."
Laughter. Not loud, nor mocking—just a quiet, knowing chuckle that sent a chill up his spine.
"Oh, but you do."
The presence shifted slightly, though it never fully took shape.
"Tell me, Layron. Were you strong enough to stop that boy from mocking you this morning?"
Layron's breath caught.
"Were you strong enough to defend yourself? To silence him?"
His fingers curled into his palms.
Rael's sneering face flashed in his mind. The way Anya had ignored him. The way Gramps had said nothing.
The way he had done nothing.
"And when you are cast aside," the voice continued, smooth as silk, "when they look at you with pity, with scorn—do you not burn with resentment?"
Layron gritted his teeth.
"I can help you."
A pause. The words hung in the air, weighty yet without pressure. As though the choice was entirely Layron's.
He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself.
"I don't need help."
"No?" The voice was patient. Unshaken.
"Then tell me, Layron—why did you come here?"
Layron stiffened.
Because he needed answers. Because he couldn't ignore the whispers. Because something inside him had told him he needed to.
But he wouldn't say that. He couldn't.
The silence stretched between them.
"You are not weak because of your body, Layron." The voice lowered, almost gentle. "You are weak because you believe you must be."
His chest tightened.
"But I can help you see the truth."
Another pause. Then, as if sensing Layron's hesitation, the presence stepped back—slowly, subtly.
"You do not need to answer me now."
Layron swallowed.
"You will come to understand… in time."
And just like that—the pressure in the air eased.
Layron staggered, a shiver running down his spine as the weight of the moment passed. The figure was still there, its form barely more than a whisper of darkness, but it no longer felt overbearing.
He could breathe again.
"When you are ready," the voice murmured, "I will be waiting."
Then, silence.
Layron blinked.
The presence was gone.
Had it ever been there at all?
He looked around the ruins, his heart still hammering. The air was still, untouched. No footprints in the dust. No sign that anything had happened.
Yet the mark on his chest still pulsed.
And deep inside, something had shifted.
---
The Seed of Doubt
By the time Layron returned to the academy, his thoughts were a tangled mess.
He wasn't sure why he had gone back at all.
The moment he stepped into the training yard, heads turned. Some students snickered. Others whispered.
Rael was among them, his usual smirk in place.
"Look who finally showed up."
Layron ignored him.
He had spent too much time worrying about the whispers of others.
And now, he had his own whispers to listen to.
"Observe."
The voice wasn't loud. It was just… there. A quiet presence at the edge of his thoughts.
"Do not react. Simply watch."
Layron inhaled. The other students moved through their sparring drills—attacking, dodging, countering.
"Too slow."
Layron's gaze landed on a pair of students practicing in the corner. One of them feinted too early—the other read the movement and struck back.
"Predictable."
Another group. A boy raising his sword high for a downward strike. The stance was too rigid—easily countered.
Layron narrowed his eyes.
He had never noticed these things before.
Not with such clarity.
"Combat is not about strength alone," the voice murmured. "It is about understanding. Control. The mind sees before the body moves."
Layron exhaled.
"Focus."
---
The Lesson in Shadows (Zorthaal's Influence )
Layron tightened his grip around the wooden practice sword, his knuckles white. The training yard was buzzing with anticipation, students murmuring among themselves, eyes flicking between him and Rael—his opponent.
The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the ring. Yet, despite the heat, Layron felt nothing. His senses were heightened. His mind sharp.
A voice—low, rich, and undeniably present—curled through his thoughts like smoke.
"Relax. Watch. See what he does not even realize himself."
Layron's breathing steadied.
Across from him, Rael smirked. Arrogant. Overconfident. The kind of person who fought with the certainty that he would always win.
"Fool."
Zorthaal's voice was almost amused.
The instructor called for the match to begin.
Rael lunged.
Fast, direct, predictable.
"Step right. Now."
Layron's feet moved before he even thought. The moment Rael's sword cut downward, he was already gone, a ghost slipping past the blow.
The wooden blade met nothing.
The crowd gasped.
Rael stumbled slightly, his momentum betrayed by his own overcommitment. He recovered quickly, his face flashing with irritation.
"Watch his wrist," Zorthaal's voice purred, darkly amused. "He always grips tighter before a real strike. His next move—high feint, low cut."
Layron's eyes flicked to Rael's wrist.
A twitch. A tightening.
A feint.
"Ignore it. The real attack comes next. Don't block. Move."
Rael's sword lifted high—meant to deceive. Layron didn't react. Didn't even blink.
Then—just as Zorthaal predicted—Rael switched mid-motion, blade dipping low toward Layron's ribs.
"Now. Step back. Pivot. Strike his wrist."
Layron obeyed.
A flawless pivot, just out of reach. The wooden blade whistled past his side. He was already moving, already in position—his own sword flicking up like a viper—tapping Rael's wrist before he could even react.
A clean hit.
A warning.
Rael snarled, ripping his hand back as if burned. The murmurs from the students grew louder.
Layron felt a slow, unfamiliar thrill rise in his chest.
"You like it, don't you?" Zorthaal whispered. "This feeling… of being ahead."
Layron swallowed hard. He couldn't answer.
Rael's stance shifted. Anger flared in his eyes. He hated being humiliated, hated being seen as anything but the strongest.
"He's losing control," Zorthaal murmured, "and that makes him vulnerable. Exploit it."
Rael lunged again.
Faster. Harder. Sloppy.
"Too desperate. He's trying to overpower you. Let him think he's winning."
Layron did as he was told—just barely dodging, making it seem as if Rael was pressuring him back. But in reality—Layron was leading him.
Every dodge was calculated. Every step backward was a trap.
"Now. Fake a stumble. Let him think you're weak."
Layron hesitated for a fraction of a second—just enough to make it look real. His foot faltered. His balance wavered.
Rael's eyes lit up.
He took the bait.
A triumphant smirk crossed his face as he raised his sword high, putting all his strength into what he believed was the final, finishing strike.
"Now."
Layron moved.
It happened in an instant.
A sharp pivot, shifting under Rael's attack. The sword cut down—too slow, too obvious—and Layron was already inside his guard.
"Strike."
Layron's sword slammed into Rael's ribs with perfect precision.
The sound echoed across the yard.
Rael staggered—his breath catching—his grip on his weapon faltering. His balance gone.
He crumpled to one knee.
Silence.
Then—the whispers started.
Layron stood over him, his chest heaving. He had won.
Not with strength. Not with brute force.
But with understanding. With control. With foresight.
"Do you feel it?" Zorthaal's voice was smooth. "The power of knowing… before they even act?"
Layron did.
He felt alive.
He had never fought like this before. Never felt so capable. So dominant.
He looked down at Rael—the boy who had mocked him, belittled him, treated him as lesser.
And now?
Now Rael knelt before him.
"You see it now, don't you?" Zorthaal whispered, his voice a dark caress. "You were never weak. You were merely blind. And I… have given you sight."
Layron inhaled sharply.
He couldn't deny it.
He liked this.
He liked the power.
---
End of Chapter 3
---