MYSTERY OF SAINT HILLER DORMITORY

The Orion Express surged through the night like a silver arrow piercing a sea of darkness. Thin smoke trailed from the refurbished old locomotive, slicing through the cold air that shimmered beneath the stars. Inside the first-class carriage, Brian Nicole sat alone by the window, his gaze fixed on the black void beyond, occasionally broken by the silhouettes of distant mountains. The trail of stars in the sky seemed to move with him, accompanying a journey toward a fate still cloaked in shadow.

But it wasn’t the sky that filled his thoughts.

James Nkono.

The man who had once stood so close, now reduced to a mere echo in his mind. James’s soothing smile, his deep, compassionate gaze, and that resonant voice that had once anchored Brian in a world spinning out of control—these were now hollow ghosts of memory.

Yet Brian knew—part of James lived within him still. And perhaps it was that very part that was now calling him to Saint Hiller.

His hand reached into the pocket of his dark, heavy jacket, its thick fabric shielding him from the chill of the night. There, his fingers found the cool surface of a small pendant. He drew it out slowly—a **jet-black pendant shaped like an eye, its lid tightly closed**, eerily organic in the silence.

He remembered the moment he’d received it, during James’s funeral. Han—a longtime friend of James—had appeared mysteriously, almost without form.

"I am Han, a friend of James. Take this," Han’s voice had whispered in Brian’s ear.

Suddenly, something had materialized in his palm.

"This is no ordinary trinket," Han had said, his voice trembling. "It will open when you are ready... ready to see the unseen."

Brian returned the pendant to his pocket. Beyond the icy steel and glass of the window, the Orion Express began to slow. A long, mournful whistle pierced the stillness of the forest outside.

The train was now entering Belgorov—a name that weighed heavy on the tongue. A land of hard soil, a history older than any map, and secrets darker than any fog. Though the calendar spoke of spring, snow still blanketed the ground, casting a pale glow among towering fir trees that stood like silent sentinels. The wind here was different—heavier, laced with the scent of iron, damp earth, and something older than time itself. Brian shivered, feeling an unseen pressure settle around him.

As the train came to a wheezing halt, the Belgorov Station resembled a half-ruined castle rather than a functional depot. Its ancient stones were thick with moss and strange carvings. Among the sparse crowd of disembarking passengers, a tall man in a long coat stood waiting.

His face was gaunt, silver-gray hair slicked back with precision. His eyes were sharp—like an eagle watching from the highest peak.

"Brian Nicole?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the air.

"Yes," Brian replied with a small nod.

"I am Yosef. Your uncle. Come. The car is waiting."

There was little room for hesitation. Brian followed Yosef’s long, measured strides through the biting cold toward a vintage black car, meticulously restored yet exuding the air of a clandestine government vehicle.

Inside the warm leather cabin, Yosef sat rigid, eyes keenly scanning the road ahead. The Belgorov mist swirled thickly through the forest, making the road appear and vanish with each passing second.

Silence stretched between them until Yosef finally spoke.

"I know about James," he said, his tone laden with unspoken weight. "And I know what he did for you. It was no small thing, Brian. You carry a legacy that can change much... far more than you can imagine."

Brian bit his lip. "What really happened at Saint Hiller?"

Yosef drew a deep breath, eyes still fixed forward. "Saint Hiller... is older than Belgorov’s own history. It is not merely a school, nor a dormitory. It is alive. It chooses. And it remembers. Everyone who enters, everyone who leaves. Even those who vanish."

The words hung in the air, heavier than the fog outside.

---

At last, the gates of Saint Hiller emerged from the mist, looming like the gaping maw of a colossal beast poised to swallow all who entered. The black stone gates were etched with ancient symbols—symbols that seemed to shift and dance in the moonlight, though Brian knew stone should not move.

As the car passed through, the very air seemed to change. The temperature plummeted, sharp and penetrating. Distant sounds echoed—whether from nocturnal birds or something older and far less natural, Brian could not tell.

The main building of Saint Hiller rose like a gothic fortress, its towering spires and stained-glass windows casting eerie shadows in the night. The student dormitories lay in the eastern wing—a darker, quieter place. There, within one of its blocks, Brian was introduced to a few other students. They seemed ordinary—too ordinary—as though wearing masks to conceal something far darker beneath their eyes.

But Brian’s first night was anything but ordinary.

In restless sleep, he was flung into a strange dream. He stood in a dark underground chamber, its moss-covered walls dripping with dampness, the air thick and oppressive. Whispers slithered from every direction—not words, but fragments of sound that stabbed at the ear.

In the center of the room stood a young man, facing away. His hair was blonde, his frame strong. But as Brian stepped closer, the figure slowly dissolved into shadow.

"Silvester..." Brian murmured as he awoke, gasping, drenched in cold sweat.

---

The following day, classes began. The teachers at Saint Hiller were anything but ordinary. Each seemed to carry a weight of ages past.

There was Professor Marr, a tall, gaunt man whose eyes could turn entirely white when consumed by rage.

There was Madame Liora, an elegant figure whose face was perpetually hidden behind a golden veil, speaking only through thought. Every word felt like a reverberation echoing directly in one’s mind.

In the History of Clans class, Brian heard names that made his blood race. Clan Obscura. Clan Solithar. Clan Ravenborn. And one name that made his heart pound harder: Clan Vindrae.

"Clan Vindrae," Professor Marr intoned, "is a clan nearly extinct. Too many sought to bury their truths. But their blood still flows... among us."

At that moment, a sudden throb struck Brian’s temple. Piercing pain. As he glanced toward Madame Liora, he suddenly saw a faint aura of light surrounding her body. Soft, pulsing violet light, dancing in the air.

He blinked—and the vision vanished.

He had begun to see.

---

A few nights later, rain whispered across the school’s courtyard. The sound of water became the silent breath of a world holding itself still.

In the dead of night, as Brian walked alone through a dark dormitory corridor, a whisper drifted through the air.

"Brian... you must leave."

He spun around. The corridor was empty. The air bit with cold. Yet the pendant around his neck suddenly grew warm—burning against his skin with increasing intensity.

Grasping it, Brian’s vision blurred. The world around him shifted. He now stood within a dark chamber filled with symbols burning in the air. In its center, a great stone slab stood.

Upon it, the inscription read:

"Silvester Alexander — Missing, not dead."

"He is still here," Brian whispered, understanding something he had yet to fully grasp.

When awareness returned, he found himself kneeling before **Lord Archiemore Thompson’s statue in the central garden. Around him, several students had gathered. A long-coated teacher stood before them, eyes deep and penetrating.

"This boy... his eyes have been opened," the teacher whispered.

---

That night, Yosef came to Brian’s dormitory. His face was grim, harder than before.

"I know this is happening too fast. But you must be ready. Your time at Saint Hiller will not be easy."

"Ready for what?" Brian asked, still breathless.

"To survive," Yosef replied, his voice low, as though the words carried the weight of death itself.

And so, Brian’s journey at Saint Hiller truly began—with a power awakening within him, dreams guiding him, and a web of mystery darker than he had ever imagined.

Behind the ancient stone walls of Saint Hiller, something was stirring.

And now, Brian was caught in its rising tide.