The hallway was empty.
It shouldn't have felt wrong, but it did.
The lanterns along the corridor burned with steady orange light, throwing clean shadows on the wood floor. The air smelled faintly of soap and old stone. Everything looked normal—quiet, late-night guild normal.
And yet my skin kept prickling like someone was watching from just beyond the light.
I stood with my guest room door half open, listening.
No footsteps.
No cloth rustle.
No retreating shadow.
Only the soft creak of the guild settling in its sleep.
The Guild Master left instructions. You'll report tonight.
I'd heard it clearly. I knew I had.
But when I'd opened the door, there'd been no one.
For a moment my mind tried to take the easy path—you imagined it. The guild had been loud today. I was exhausted. I'd punched a sick kid. My brain was fraying.
Then another part of me—the part that had learned what it felt like to be crushed without touch—cut that thought off.
If Sir Erdallion's name was attached, it didn't matter whether it made sense.
You obeyed.
I closed the door softly and leaned my forehead against it, breathing through my nose.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
My hands shook slightly.
Not from fear of monsters.
From fear of myself.
I walked to the wash basin and splashed cold water on my face until the sting sharpened my thoughts. I flexed my swollen knuckles. The pain reminded me I'd earned it.
Then I forced myself to do something small and stupidly practical.
I counted.
One breath in—four beats.
Hold—two.
Out—four.
Again.
It wasn't aura. It wasn't power.
It was just… not letting my body run ahead of my mind.
Tiny restraint.
When my breathing stopped sounding like panic, I left the room.
***
The guild at night felt like a different place.
Not dead—never dead—but quieter, the noise pulled inward like a tide. A few lanterns burned low. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed softly, then the sound faded.
My footsteps echoed more than they should have.
I kept my gaze forward and my shoulders squared, repeating the rule in my head like a prayer.
Obey first. Question later.
Downstairs, the main hall was still active in pockets. Two adventurers leaned over a counter, arguing about something in low voices. A trainee carried a bucket past me, eyes half closed with sleep. The smell of late stew and old parchment mixed in the air.
I scanned the receptionist counters.
Vira was there, still working, her hands moving fast between ledger and stamp. She looked tired in the way that made her face seem smaller—like exhaustion stripped her of her usual nervous energy.
I hesitated, then approached.
"Vira," I said quietly.
She flinched like I'd tapped her shoulder with a knife, then relaxed when she saw it was me.
"T-Trey," she whispered, glancing around as if expecting someone to appear behind me. "What are you doing up?"
"I… I was told to report tonight," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Do you know where?"
Vira blinked, and her eyes darted to the side—toward a quieter corridor off the main hall.
"If it's… if it's Guild Master instructions," she said carefully, like she was choosing words that wouldn't get her in trouble, "then you should use the booth."
"The booth?" I repeated.
She nodded quickly. "The message booth. The one for—long range… communication." Her hands fluttered awkwardly above the ledger, then she pointed again, more firmly. "It's down that way. You… you put your emblem in."
I stared in the direction she indicated.
I'd walked past that corridor before. I'd never had a reason to go down it.
"Is that where I'm supposed to report?" I asked.
Vira swallowed. "It's… it's how you get the instructions. Sometimes." She lowered her voice further. "Just… follow what it says."
She didn't say Sir Erdallion's name. She didn't need to.
My stomach tightened.
"Okay," I said. "Thank you."
Vira nodded once, eyes already returning to her work as if the conversation itself was dangerous.
I turned and walked toward the corridor.
***
The thing at the end of the hall looked like a small standing room made of wood and glass—tall enough for one person, enclosed on all sides, with a narrow door that didn't quite match the guild's usual heavy oak.
It was out of place.
Like someone had built it from a different idea and then forgot to make it blend in.
A sign above it read, in simple lettering:
TELENVELOPE
I hesitated.
I'd never seen anyone use it. I didn't know what it did beyond Vira's vague explanation.
But Sir Erdallion's name hung over it like a weight.
So I stepped inside.
The booth was just big enough for me to stand comfortably. The door clicked shut behind me, muting the guild's distant sounds until it felt like I'd stepped into a pocket of quiet.
In front of me, mounted on a small pedestal, was a box.
It wasn't ornate. It didn't glow.
But it felt… important.
At the center of the box was a carved indentation—a hole shaped exactly like a guild emblem.
The shape was so perfect it felt almost inviting. Like the device was patiently waiting for the one obvious thing people would do.
Beside the box was a laminated sheet of paper.
Smooth. Cool to the touch. Thick, permanent.
Completely blank.
No ink. No quill. No stamp.
Just clean white, like it had never been used in its life.
My heart beat faster.
This was my first time. My hands were already sweating.
I pulled my emblem out from under my shirt and held it above the indentation.
For a moment I hesitated, as if doing this would make something irreversible happen.
Then I placed it into the slot.
It fit perfectly.
The box made no sound.
But the air in the booth shifted subtly, like something had woken up.
The blank paper beside it shimmered—so faintly I thought my eyes were lying.
Then letters formed on the surface as if written by an invisible hand.
Not slowly.
Instantly.
Black, clean, crisp words:
"Training begins earlier than planned. Report to the training room. Alone."
My throat went dry.
The message was short.
Too short for how much it changed.
My spine straightened without permission. My lips moved before I could think.
"Yes sir," I whispered, as if he were standing right in front of me.
As if the magic could hear me.
As if somewhere far away, those gold eyes were watching my reflection in the booth glass.
I stared at the words again, making sure I hadn't misunderstood.
Alone.
Tonight.
I swallowed, then reached down and lifted my emblem out of the slot.
The moment I lifted my emblem, the words on the laminated paper began to fade, dissolving into nothing like smoke pulled into water.
Then I opened the booth door and stepped out.
By the time the door clicked shut behind me, the sheet was pristine white again.
No trace.
No ink stain.
Nothing.
I stared for half a heartbeat, impressed despite myself.
Magic that acted like paper. Like a message. Like a command that appeared and vanished without leaving evidence.
My curiosity sparked—how did it work? Who invented it?
But curiosity didn't matter tonight.
Instructions did.
I turned and walked away.
Fast.
Not running—my legs wouldn't let me—but with purpose sharp enough to cut through fatigue.
***
The corridors between the main hall and the training wing were darker, lanterns spaced farther apart. The guild felt older here, quieter, like the walls remembered more than they showed.
Halfway down the hall, something shifted at the edge of my vision.
A shadow.
Not a lantern shadow. Not the slow sway of light.
A shape.
A person-height outline slipping behind a pillar, quick and deliberate.
My heart jumped.
I stopped so suddenly my sore legs protested. I turned my head, eyes scanning the corner.
Empty.
Only wood beams and stone.
No footsteps.
No rustle.
Just quiet.
For a second I stood there, listening hard enough my ears felt like they hurt.
Nothing.
I swallowed and forced myself to move.
It's exhaustion.
That's what I told myself.
But the prickling feeling didn't leave.
It stayed with me like a thin thread, tugging at the back of my neck.
***
The training room waited at the end of the corridor, the door slightly ajar like it had been left that way on purpose.
Light spilled out—soft, pale.
Moonlight.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The grass field lay silver under the roof glass, like the room held a piece of night sky captive. The stone strip along the wall looked colder than I remembered, and the weapon racks stood in quiet lines, their wooden shapes like sleeping teeth.
Ash was already there.
He stood near the center of the field, arms crossed loosely, practice sword leaning against his leg. Bandages wrapped his arms as always, pale in the moonlight, but he didn't look exhausted tonight.
He looked alert.
Like he'd been waiting for someone to arrive.
When he saw me, his expression softened into something almost friendly.
"Trey," he said, voice low. "You made it."
I swallowed, feeling suddenly small again in the vast room. "Yes."
Ash's eyes flicked to my face, then briefly to my hands—my bruised knuckles. He didn't comment yet.
"You alright?" he asked, casual enough that it could've been a normal question between older and younger trainees.
I hesitated.
The honest answer was still complicated.
So I gave the simplest truth.
"I'm… trying," I said.
Ash let out a quiet breath that might've been a laugh if it had more air in it.
"Fair," he said. Then he nodded toward the stone strip. "Long day?"
I swallowed again. "Yes."
Ash's gaze sharpened a fraction, like he could hear the weight behind the word.
And then—because my mind was still caught on it, because the booth had felt like a mystery with teeth—I asked the question that had been pressing against my tongue since I'd left the corridor.
"Ash," I said carefully, "what was that thing downstairs? The… Telenvelope booth."
Ash blinked.
Then his lips twitched, almost amused.
"You've never used it before," he guessed.
I shook my head. "No. I didn't even know it existed."
Ash scratched lightly at the edge of one bandage, thoughtful.
"It's a long-range message device," he said. "Old guild tech. Magic tech." He shrugged like the words were interchangeable. "I don't really know how it works. Most people don't. You just put your emblem in and it tells you what you need."
My curiosity flared. "Who made it?"
Ash tilted his head, searching his memory.
"The story is it was invented by the kingdom's greatest archmage," he said. "Three hundred years ago. Altes Baltazhar."
The name hit like a bell.
Three hundred years.
Greatest archmage.
I opened my mouth, a dozen questions rising—
"What—"
Ash held up a hand, not rude, but firm, cutting off the curiosity before it could turn into a spiral.
"Anyway," he said, and his tone shifted—less casual, more official, like someone had just stepped from friendly into duty. "The reason I am here tonight is because Sir Erdallion tasked me to teach you control. Restraint training."
My chest tightened.
I straightened without meaning to.
Ash's gaze held mine, serious now.
"You got the message," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I answered quickly. "It said to report here. Alone."
Ash nodded once.
Then he looked directly at my knuckles again, and the moonlight made the swelling more obvious than daylight ever had.
"Sir Erdallion already knows everything that happened here," Ash said.
The words hit cold.
My stomach dropped.
"How—" I started, then stopped, because the question felt childish. Like asking how storms knew where roofs were.
Ash didn't answer the question anyway. He didn't need to.
He simply said, "So we're not here to talk about whether you were right or wrong. Miss Nanda handled that."
My throat tightened. I couldn't tell if relief or fear rose first.
Ash continued, voice steady.
"We're here because you lost control," he said. "And control comes before power."
His eyes were sharp, not cruel.
"We're going to teach your body to obey you," Ash said. "Not the other way around."
I swallowed hard.
"Yes," I whispered.
Ash nodded toward the stone strip. "Come on."
I moved across the grass slowly. Each step made my legs complain, but the cool softness helped. When I reached the stone, the change under my feet felt like stepping from comfort into truth.
Ash stood opposite me.
"Feet shoulder-width," he instructed. "Knees soft. Back straight."
I copied him.
My legs trembled.
"Good," Ash said. "Now breathe."
I did.
"In," he said. "Hold."
My lungs filled. My chest tightened.
"Out," he said.
The air left me slowly.
We repeated it.
Again.
Again.
At first it felt pointless. Like pretending breathing was training.
Then my mind tried to wander—back to the classroom, to Mya's tears, to Arlo's pale face—and my chest tightened, my breathing stuttered.
Ash's eyes narrowed.
"Stop," he said sharply.
I froze.
"Don't run," Ash said. "Don't chase the thought. Don't fight it. Just—notice it."
I swallowed, throat dry.
"Now," Ash continued, "unclench your hands."
I blinked.
I hadn't realized I'd clenched them.
My fingers slowly opened.
Pain pulsed in my knuckles.
Ash nodded, satisfied.
"That's the habit," he said. "Emotion rises, and your body becomes a weapon without asking you."
My throat tightened.
He wasn't wrong.
Ash stepped closer, not threatening, just present.
"Say this," he said. "Out loud. Calmly."
I stared at him.
Ash's voice stayed even. "Say: I will not move until I decide."
My heart thudded.
It sounded simple.
It also sounded like the exact thing I'd failed at.
I forced the words out.
"I… will not move until I decide."
My voice shook.
Ash's eyes sharpened. "Again."
I swallowed and tried again, steadier.
"I will not move until I decide."
Ash nodded once. "Better."
Then he did something that made my skin prickle.
He stepped into my space—close enough that I could smell the faint medicinal scent of his bandages.
He leaned in slightly, eyes locked on mine.
"Now," he said softly, "think about it."
My stomach clenched.
Mya running past me. Tears.
Arlo collapsing.
My fist.
The memory hit like a wave.
Heat rose in my chest. My hands twitched.
Ash's voice cut through, immediate.
"Breathe."
I dragged air in.
My lungs shook.
"Hold," Ash said.
I held it, chest burning.
"Out," he ordered.
The breath left me.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Ash watched my hands.
They stayed open.
Barely.
But they stayed open.
"Again," he said.
We repeated the cycle until the memories dulled from sharp knives into distant shapes.
That was all it was.
A tiny thing.
But it was mine.
Ash stepped back.
"Good," he said quietly, and there was something like approval in his voice, small but real. "Now—stance. Stay like that."
My legs trembled harder.
Ash didn't let me adjust.
He made me hold.
Seconds stretched.
My muscles burned.
My mind screamed for relief.
And then, somewhere between pain and stubbornness, the room… shifted.
Not like Ash's flame.
Not like Sir Erdallion's gravity.
Just a subtle change, like the air thickened by a hair.
My skin prickled.
The lantern light seemed to pause.
My heart hammered.
It was faint—so faint I could've dismissed it as imagination if I hadn't felt it before, under the Guild Master's gaze.
A presence.
Not outside me.
Inside.
Pressing outward for the smallest heartbeat, like my will bumped against the world and the world noticed.
Ash's head snapped up instantly, eyes sharp.
"Stop," he said, voice suddenly harder.
I froze, panic flaring.
"What—" I started.
"Don't chase it," Ash warned, stepping closer, hands raised slightly as if to steady me without touching. "Breathe. Now."
I dragged air in, too fast.
Ash's eyes narrowed. "Slow."
I forced it slower.
"In."
Hold.
Out.
The faint heaviness eased, like something retreating back into my ribs.
I swallowed hard, shaking.
"Did I—" I started again, terrified of the answer.
Ash's gaze stayed locked on me.
"You felt it," he said.
My throat went dry. "Was that… aura?"
Ash's jaw tightened.
"Not yet," he said. "Not fully. But it's a hint. A door creaking."
My stomach twisted.
Ash's voice lowered.
"If you grab at it with emotion," he said, "you'll teach yourself the worst kind of control. You'll make power come when you're angry. When you're scared. And then you'll never be able to trust yourself."
The words hit deep.
I nodded, trembling.
"Yes," I whispered.
Ash exhaled slowly, then stepped back, letting the tension drain a little.
"Good," he said again, softer. "You listened."
I didn't feel good.
I felt like I'd almost stepped off a cliff without realizing it.
Ash looked toward the door, then back to me.
"That's enough for tonight," he said. "Go rest."
My legs wobbled as I released the stance. The relief was immediate and humiliating.
I nodded. "Yes."
As I turned toward the grass, my curiosity clawed up again—different now, mixed with fear.
"How did Sir Erdallion…" I began, then stopped, not sure how to say it. "The knock. The message. Knowing what happened…"
Ash's expression shifted into something unreadable.
He didn't answer right away.
Then he said, quiet and simple, "He does that sometimes."
That wasn't an explanation.
It was a warning.
It implied systems. People. The guild itself. A reach that didn't need a body in the room to be felt.
My skin prickled again.
Ash's gaze sharpened. "Don't overthink it."
I swallowed. "Okay."
Ash nodded toward the door. "Go."
I left the training room with my head full and my hands open, forcing my fingers to stay that way even as my mind tried to curl them into fists again.
***
The corridor back toward the guest rooms felt longer than before.
Lanterns flickered softly.
The guild breathed around me, quiet but alive.
I kept repeating the phrase under my breath, as if it could anchor me.
"I will not move until I decide."
My legs hurt.
My knuckles throbbed.
But my breathing stayed steady.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I rounded a corner—
—and someone stepped out of the shadows.
Lyan.
He didn't look angry.
That was the worst part.
His face was smooth, almost polite, as if we were two normal trainees passing in a hallway.
He stopped just close enough to block my path.
Lantern light painted one side of his face and left the other in darkness.
His eyes flicked to my bruised knuckles.
Then back to my face.
"I heard you punched Arlo," Lyan said, voice soft.
My stomach dropped.
The news had spread fast.
He tilted his head slightly, like he was studying an interesting insect.
Then his mouth curved into a faint, unreadable smile.
"Good," he said.
My breath caught.
My hands twitched.
I forced them open.
Lyan's smile widened by a fraction.
"Now you owe me," he said, almost kindly.
And the lantern light above us flickered once, like it flinched.