Sign Of The Infernal Root

Though the second wave of the demonic assault had been repelled, Yggraeth remained far from peaceful. Reports from the Bastion—the Middle Trunk's defensive stronghold—continued to reach the Canopy. Wardens stood guard day and night around the new rift near Lynden, Aren's birthplace. The air itself was thick with tension.

Aren spent his days at the Warden Academy in a routine unlike anything he'd known before: waking in the Novitiate dorms, attending basic classes, and practicing control drills. Yet between all of it, memories of Lynden haunted him. Every night he woke in a cold sweat, the faces of Lyra, Finn, and Marin flashing behind his eyes.

Why did this power only awaken after everything was already gone? The question gnawed at him without answer.

That day, the Academy's mess hall buzzed with noise. Hundreds of cadets of all races sat at long tables carved from living wood. The smell of fresh bread and meat stew mingled with the sweet aroma of fruit harvested from the Academy's orchards.

Aren sat with the three who had gradually become part of his daily life: Kael Draven, the ever-smiling human boy whose energy never waned; Thalen, the broad-shouldered wolf-beastkin whose twitching ears were always alert; and Elira Vaelith, the elf girl whose noble bearing was hard to disguise.

Kael tore into a piece of bread. "You guys hear the latest? Word is the Wardens at Bastion are seeing signs of a third wave. Supposedly bigger than the last."

Thalen only snorted, sharp teeth flashing as he ripped into a slab of roasted meat—his near-exclusive diet. "Bastion's always the first to take the hit. No surprise another rift opened there."

Aren said nothing. Before him, his plate was already half empty. He ate quickly, spoon moving with practiced urgency. Back at the orphanage, food had never been enough—you ate, or you went hungry. The habit clung to him even here, surrounded by warm meals.

Seated with her small, perfectly arranged portion, Elira cast him a sidelong glance. "You eat like there won't be any left tomorrow," she remarked, her tone cool but tinged with curiosity.

Aren paused briefly, swallowing. "Habit," he replied curtly.

Kael chuckled. "Trust me, Elira—if you saw him fight, you'd understand why he needs all that fuel."

Elira arched a delicate brow, unconvinced. "Perhaps. But strength isn't everything. Control and discipline matter more."

Aren didn't reply. Her words echoed the night at Lynden, when his power had awakened too late. He bowed his head again over his meal, trying to banish the memory.

That night, after classes ended, Aren sat alone on the dormitory balcony, staring out over the sea of Canopy lights. The night air carried the resin-sweet scent of damp leaves. The Silent Mark on his left hand pulsed faintly, like the breath of a sleeping creature. With each beat came a whisper, soft and insidious—the voices of the demon souls he had absorbed.

"Can't sleep either?"

Aren turned. Elira stood in the doorway, silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. She stepped closer, keeping a measured distance as though weighing her words.

"You're always off on your own," she said, gazing into the distance. "Because of the Lynden tragedy?"

Aren was silent. After a moment, he murmured, "I don't know… if I'm alone because of that, or because I no longer know how to talk to anyone."

Silence stretched between them. Then Elira spoke again, her voice lower, "I know what it's like to live under pressure. I was born half-elven. In House Vaelith, that's a stain. They demanded perfection, always—to hide the 'flaw.' No matter how hard I tried, I was compared to them… and always found wanting."

Aren glanced at her, surprised—Elira rarely spoke of herself.

"Here at the Academy, I'm free of their eyes. But the habit lingers." She hesitated, then added, "I'm sorry for always looking down on you. I just… can't bear being surpassed. I have to stay ahead, to prove myself… or everything I've done means nothing."

Aren lowered his gaze, fingers clenching. "You still have something to prove. I… can't get anything back."

Elira turned, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met. "Maybe… but isn't that why you're here? To make sure it doesn't happen again?"

Aren said nothing, unable to answer. The Silent Mark on his hand throbbed faintly, as though stirred by her words.

The following days passed in a deceptive routine. The Academy remained a place of study and training, but tension gripped every cadet. Reports from Bastion grew increasingly grim: the third rift was expected to rupture soon. Veteran Wardens and soldiers from the Middle Trunk's kingdoms near Lynden were being sent there in waves.

Kael tried to keep their spirits up. "Hey, we've only just started training, right? Those rifts are for the senior Wardens to handle. Our job is to survive Academy life."

Thalen gave a low growl. "Our job is to be ready. If that rift fully opens, we'll all be called sooner or later."

Aren stayed silent, his thoughts never far from Bastion. Somewhere down there, the demons that had destroyed Lynden were gathering again. His hatred burned, but Serin's warning still echoed:

Your power can destroy you before it destroys them.

That night, Aren returned to the balcony. Elira, Kael, and Thalen were already asleep. In the moonlight, the Silent Mark glowed faintly, the whispers of demon souls creeping into his mind once more, tempting him with promises of greater strength.

Aren clenched his fist. "No. I won't become like you."

Yet even as he defied them, one truth remained: with every demon soul he absorbed, the line between himself and the darkness inside him grew thinner.

In the distance, the Bastion's warning bells tolled faintly, their echoes reaching the Canopy. Aren opened his eyes, gaze piercing the night.

The next shadow of war was already upon the world—and he would not be able to run from it.