Chapter Eight: The Masked One
Darkness hadn't yet fallen when the air around the Spellforge Academy shifted. It began with the wind — sharp, not cold but biting, like a whisper meant for someone specific. Someone listening.
Elara was still in the Archives, her fingers tracing the pages of an ancient tome on elemental channeling, when the world went quiet. Too quiet. The ever-present hum of magic that filled the school grounds had gone still. Even the orbs that floated above the chandeliers flickered.
Caelin looked up from a stack of scrolls. "Do you feel that?"
Elara nodded slowly. "Something's wrong."
The silence was broken by a scream — high-pitched, distant, and quickly cut off.
Students poured into the hallways. Professors appeared out of thin air, spells at the ready. From the west wing, a deep boom echoed, like thunder trapped in stone. Elara and Caelin joined the flow of people pushing toward the source. She didn't know what drew her — curiosity or dread — but her legs moved on instinct.
They reached the western courtyard just in time to see him.
A figure floated above the cracked marble tiles, his cloak fluttering around him like liquid night. A porcelain mask covered his face — featureless but for two eye slits glowing red. No one knew who he was. Only that the moment he appeared, the Academy's wards failed.
A dozen guards circled below him, wands and staves aimed.
Lysander was already there. Of course he was. Elara recognized his silhouette, arms crossed as he stared up at the masked stranger.
The figure spoke — his voice hollow and distorted, like it echoed through every person present.
"I am Veyrion. I am the reckoning."
A hush fell. Elara's heart hammered. Caelin clutched her arm.
"Do not be afraid," Veyrion continued. "Be warned. The line between prophecy and delusion grows thin. You've placed your hopes in golden boys and broken runes."
Lysander stepped forward. "You shouldn't be here."
Veyrion tilted his head. "And yet, here I am. Tell me, Chosen One — do you feel chosen now?"
Spells flared. Zephyra appeared beside Lysander, wind swirling around her.
"This is your only warning," she called. "Leave, or face the consequences."
Veyrion laughed, and the sound made Elara's skin crawl. "Consequences are for those who still believe in order. I've come to dismantle it."
Without warning, he raised a hand. A wave of shadow magic burst forth — fast and crackling. Zephyra deflected it with a storm shield, but the force cracked several marble columns.
Chaos erupted. Guards fired spells. Veyrion dodged and weaved, never touching the ground, always smiling behind that mask. Then, just as quickly as he had come, he vanished in a blink of darkness.
Silence returned — thick and smothering.
Zephyra barked orders, students were herded back to safety, and Elara finally exhaled.
"That wasn't a warning," Caelin whispered. "That was a message."
Later, back in her dorm, Elara couldn't sleep. The mask. The power. The voice.
She stared out her window, the stars faint behind the clouds. A knock came at her door.
She opened it to find Lysander — jacketless, looking less polished than usual. His eyes were serious.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"To talk."
"Funny. You don't usually talk to 'people like me.'"
He leaned against the doorframe. "You think I'm proud."
"I know you are."
He didn't deny it. "But I also know that what we saw tonight — Veyrion — wasn't just a threat. It was a promise."
Elara folded her arms. "You think he's after you?"
"He said prophecy. He said chosen."
She studied him. "And you think it's you?"
His eyes darkened. "I don't want it to be. But I don't think I get to choose."
Elara looked away. "Well, don't expect me to swoon over your destiny."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
He turned and left.
Elara closed her door, pulse still racing. She wasn't sure who she hated more — the arrogant boy who thought he was the center of the world, or the masked man who might be right.
One thing was clear: the game had changed.
And the pieces were starting to move