The spell circle ignited beneath Noel's boots—radiant veins of gold and violet tracing ancient, foreign runes across the floor. The air thickened. Heat rose. Eyes bore down on him from all sides, anticipation and judgment wrapped into one crushing silence.
Alistair's pulse beat like a war drum in his ears.
He didn't know what spell he was supposed to cast—had no formal instruction, no refined chant. Just instinct, fragments of memory from a life now tangled between worlds, and the echo of magic in his blood.
"Focus on will," Draeven said, voice cutting through the room. "Not shape. Will."
The room dimmed. The illusion of the academy faded away, replaced by a surreal battlefield forged of light and haze. Shattered weapons floated midair. A broken moon cast light through a sky of burning clouds. From the edge of this false dreamscape emerged a figure cloaked in smoke.
It had no face—only eyes.
Eyes like his own.
Alistair flinched as heat gathered at his fingertips. Energy stirred in his core, unraveling and rebuilding faster than he could fully understand. A raw, golden current surged up his spine.
He lifted his hand—and the world held its breath.
Then he whispered, "Ignis…"
The figure lunged.
Flames exploded from his palm—jagged, white-hot, not pure fire but something deeper, alive with memory and hunger. The spell struck the illusion dead center, scattering it into thousands of burning glyphs that hovered in place before collapsing into sparks.
Silence fell.
Not even the scrolls reacted. Draeven's expression was unreadable—equal parts intrigue and caution.
"…Fascinating," the professor finally murmured.
Luciana stared at him, one hand half-raised. She hadn't expected that—not from a newcomer, not on the first day.Not from him
The circle dimmed, fading back into the cold stone of the classroom. As Alistair returned to his seat, murmurs whispered like wind through the benches.
Who is he?
That wasn't standard fire…
His eyes—did you see them?
Wait isn't he from Vesperion household.
That's Eveline twin.
Alistair ignored them. His fingers still tingled. Not from overuse, but from recognition. The magic hadn't just answered him—it had known him.
And that terrified him more than failing ever could.
A week had passed since his transmigration,a lot of things occured after the whole thing with his fire. It wasn't normal to say the least and with his status made public, his life in the academy had become a lonely one at that. Alistair could been seen taking in the site.
The wind was sharp that morning—cold enough to draw a shiver from even the hardened few—but Alistair stood motionless at the edge of the west courtyard's training terrace, staring out over Aetherion Academy's shifting grounds. He was a shadow against the silver-drenched skyline, arms crossed, posture tense, jaw clenched in habitual restraint. The ethereal bells had long since rung, summoning students to the first spell cycle of the day, but he hadn't moved.
It wasn't defiance.
It was silence. Solitude. Control.
Around him, the air shifted with faint magical currents, a reminder that even the very stone beneath his feet breathed arcana. The campus lived. And it whispered. And lately, it whispered about him.
Alistair Vesperion.
The name had begun to curdle in the mouths of the other students. He wasn't new, but he might as well have been—each time he stepped through the archways of the academy halls, all chatter dulled. Eyes followed him. Conversations died. Some of the rumors were idiotic. Some were close. A few were dangerously accurate.
One claimed he once incinerated a professor's desk in a fit of rage. Another said he drained the color from a classmate's eyes during a duel. The more popular theory was that he simply wasn't human. That he'd been born touched by something ancient, something unnatural.
He never denied anything.
Let them think what they wanted. Fear was more useful than trust.
"You're not in class."
The voice was quiet, familiar, and far too gentle for the storm pressing against his spine. He didn't need to turn. He could feel Eveline's presence as clearly as breath in winter—calm, cool, and infuriatingly steady.
"You're not supposed to be here, Eveline," he replied flatly.
Neither of them moved.
She hadn't changed. Not where it counted, anyway.
Eveline still walked like the world owed her silence—a procession of snowflakes falling in slow, deliberate steps. Even in the mess of cloaks and crests and nobility, she looked untouched. Distant. Hollow in a way only he seemed to notice.
Her hair caught the sunlight like spun frost, too perfect to be natural. Like it had been sculpted rather than grown. Her eyes, those pale icebound things, flickered across the courtyard once—and didn't stop on him. Of course not. Why would they?
They used to, he thought bitterly. Before everything cracked and she chose to pretend the pieces never cut her too.
To the rest of Aetherion, she was grace and power and the shining heir of House Vesperion. A poster child for poise. For restraint. For decorum.
To him? She was a ghost draped in skin. Familiar, and yet a stranger with his blood.
She hadn't spoken to him yet. Not since the entrance ceremony. Not since the whispers started circling—whispers he could feel clinging to his name like mold.
He could hear them even now.
"That's her twin?"
"The cursed one, right?"
"I heard he burned a whole training ground last year. Professor didn't report it."
"She's perfect. He's poison."
Maybe they were right.
But Eveline? She hadn't defended him. Not once. Not even with a look.
And that silence—hers—was louder than any accusation ever could be.
Eveline stepped beside him, her steps leaving faint frost-laced footprints along the smooth terrace floor. Her cloak clung to her shoulders, the silver embroidery catching glimmers of morning light. She didn't speak immediately. She just stood with him.
"You've been avoiding me," she finally said, voice carefully measured.
"I've been avoiding everyone," he said, tone clipped. "You're not special."
"That's not true. Not to me." Her words weren't defensive, just... sad, to little for Alistair to notice.
'She still hasn't given up'
Alistair finally looked at her, and for a brief moment, his guard wavered. There were traces of their childhood in her features—the same girl who once defended him when no one else dared. But that was a lifetime ago. He wasn't that boy anymore.
"Why are you still pretending I'm worth the effort?" he asked, almost genuinely.
Eveline tilted her head. "Because I know you. And I know most of what they say isn't true."
He turned away. "Doesn't stop them from saying it."
"No. But they don't matter."
He barked a short, humorless laugh. "They do here, Eveline. Reputation is power. And I'm a walking accusation."
She said nothing to that. Maybe there was nothing to say.
He walked past her, not saying goodbye.
'Hope this makes her hate me even a tiny bit'
---
The east wing of the academy was quieter, older. Here, the walls held more than spells and classrooms—they held secrets. Dustless despite their age, the stone corridors arched like cathedral ribs, etched with long-faded warding runes and glass mosaics of former archmages.
It was here that he crossed paths with Luciana Rookwood.His childhood friend.
She leaned against the arch of a sealed lecture hall, a single brow raised, one boot braced against the wall like she had all the time in the world.
"Ali," she greeted, voice velvet and venom, "still doing your best brooding statue impression?"
He didn't even glance her way. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? and don't call me by that name"
She pushed off the wall with ease, walking beside him, effortlessly matching his pace. "Wouldn't you love that? But no. I was curious. I heard from at least three first-years that you hexed someone in the dueling ring and made them forget how to walk. Is that true, or are you slacking?"
Alistair rolled his eyes. "You believe everything you hear?"
Luciana grinned. "Only the interesting parts."
They walked in silence a few paces more.
"I don't understand you," she said finally. "You act like you want to be hated."
"I don't have to act. They've already decided."
Luciana's smile faltered for a breath. "You know, some of the things they say about you... they don't sound entirely fake. I mean—people don't just start bleeding from their ears during basic spell drills. Not without help."
He stopped.
Luciana did too.
"Careful," he said, his voice low, warning. "You're dancing on a knife's edge."
"And yet, here I stand." She met his gaze without flinching. "Look, I don't know what happened to you before Aetherion, but this shadow you wear? It's not armor. It's a funeral shroud. And whether you mean to or not, you're dragging it everywhere you go at least talk to me make me understand you like before."
His expression didn't change. But something in his eyes darkened.
"I'm not here to be understood," Alistair said. "And I sure as hell don't owe anyone the truth."
He walked past her. This time, she didn't follow.
Behind him, Luciana watched, her smile fading entirely. And in the quiet corridor, the silence whispered not of fear—but of certainty.
Something was coming.
And Alistair Vesperion was the eye of that storm.
' I can't catch a break' thought Alistair dreadful .