"By the radiance of the Dawn, I command you, back away. Darkness holds no sway here."
Ambrosius Vortigern's voice cleaved through the air like the first light scattering fog. It rose above screams, panicked whispers, and the tremble of ambient energy. Each syllable echoed through the sanctuary stones, sinking into the marrow of all who heard it.
The engraved symbols on the pillars lit up in response, casting golden ripples that pulsed in harmony with the Grand Druid's presence.
The Umbra, this churning tide of living impossibility, screamed. Not in fear. In refusal. It recoiled, contorted like a beast forced to retreat. Its tendrils tore free from reality, sucked backward, raking at the space around them with harsh, grating echoes. The pressure cracked the air, black sparks fading into sizzling ash. A moment ago, the floor had been swallowed by shadows; now, it gleamed again, purified, sacred.
Students gasped, some clinging to the columns, others on their knees, sweat sticking to their skin like a second layer. Pale faces. Wide eyes. They had witnessed the might of an Altered being, and then an Exalted. The most sensitive among them, the Ardentis, were the most shaken.
And yet... she, at the heart of it all, hadn't moved.
Astraéa.
She stood, legs once trembling, now slowly straightening with deliberate poise. Her slender frame, wrapped in a tunic torn by lightning and light, bore fresh burns, but her posture was firm. Unbending. Strands of sweat-drenched hair clung to her face, where fatigue met clarity... and something else.
Her eyes had become a whirlpool of gold and black.
Two worlds waged war and coexisted in her gaze. Two irreconcilable forces... bound in one look.
Even Ambrosius, so used to wonders and horrors alike, felt a shiver creep down his spine. He had seen much over the decades, but this balance… this unbroken coexistence, even as she rose as a guardian of the Lumen... it was an anomaly. A marvel.
"A harmony that should not be," he murmured to himself.
But just as a heavy silence was settling, Astraéa raised her head.
And she spoke.
The voice that left her lips was no longer the one he knew, light and cheerful. It was deeper. Fractured. Distorted.
As though two voices had merged: the Astraéa he knew... and something else he hoped would never surface.
Yet beneath that roughness, a piercing lucidity remained.
"I feel a wave of shadow coming."
Her words fell like stones into a still lake.
Confused glances turned her way.
'A wave of shadow?' Ambrosius thought. 'Here? Now?'
He narrowed his eyes, extending his senses beyond the sanctuary. No... This wasn't just some vague threat. Something, or someone, was coming.
He felt the pulse. Heavy. Deliberate. Approaching with long, purposeful strides. The Umbra... but not wild.
Controlled.
Willed.
And then he understood.
"Brace yourselves! We have an unexpected guest crashing the party!"
_ _ _
Gaël didn't grasp it immediately.
But the professors' reaction told him more than any explanation could. They exchanged sharp, silent glances, and bolted toward the exit.
Everything happened too fast.
His instincts moved before his thoughts.
His hand slipped beneath his tunic, fingers brushing the worn leather strap pressed to his chest. They found the knife's hilt, not just any knife. His father's.
He wasn't supposed to carry it during training. The rules were strict. Normally, he kept it folded in cloth beside his bed. But today... something had felt off. One of those days where you just know something might go wrong. So that morning, he'd strapped it to himself. Just in case.
And now "just in case" had arrived.
The wooden grip was worn smooth, familiar beneath his fingers, shaped by the hands of the one who came before him. Its touch calmed him.
Still, Gaël's heart thundered. 'What's happening…?'
He didn't have time to ask. As the professors moved out, a command cracked through the tension, firm, final:
"First-years, remain under the dome! No one steps outside!"
The Grand Druid's voice crushed any thought of protest. Around him, nervous whispers buzzed. Some students obeyed, panic widening their eyes. Others exchanged confused, uneasy glances.
'What kind of threat makes professors move like that?' Gaël wondered.
Kaëlan, right beside him, turned, mouth half-open.
"You think this is an attack? Or... some kind of test? You know, to see if we panic or piss ourselves? 'Cause right now... I'm not loving the odds."
His tone aimed for levity, but his voice was pitched too high, and his hands twisted his tunic in a nervous knot. Gaël responded with a brief nod, eyes still scanning.
"Not a test. Look at them."
Because at that moment, even the Grand Druid had frozen in the doorway.
His eyes, blazing with rare intensity, swept across the gathered students before locking onto Cassandre. A silent exchange passed between them.
Then his voice rang out, stern, resolute:
"Follow Professor Délviane's instructions."
'What danger warrants the Grand Druid himself taking precautions?' Gaël swallowed hard.
His gaze landed on Astraéa again, still standing at the center of the rune circle. Her breathing had steadied, but that strange aura, a pulse of gold and shadow, still shimmered around her. Was it because of her... or what she had sensed approaching?
Cassandre broke the silence. Her voice, sharp as a drawn blade, sliced through the thick air:
"Stay together. No unnecessary questions."
Her steel gaze swept across the students, lingering on the most restless.
"If I see even one of you step over that threshold... she pointed with a brisk motion to the grand door "I will make sure you regret it long before anything else does."
A collective shiver rippled through the group. No one doubted her.
The silence that followed was worse than shouting.
Kaëlan, arms crossed but brow furrowed with worry, muttered softly, no trace of irony now:
"Gaël, you think we're safe? Under the dome? It's supposed to protect us, right?"
Gaël didn't answer right away. He glanced at the rune circle beneath Astraéa, at the flickering glow of her aura, at how the air itself seemed to resist around her.
Then he remembered something his father once said, on a stormy night:
"When the wind suddenly dies, it's not the end of the storm. It's the breath it draws in."
So Gaël straightened, fingers slowly leaving the knife's hilt. His breath slowed. His senses stretched outward.
He didn't know what was coming.
But he knew he had to watch the wind.
And act... at its first breath.