Not celebratory either.
First years filled the benches in exhausted clusters—bandages visible, movements careful, voices subdued. The duels had wrung something out of all of them.
Arata and Wanuy entered together, both still sore in that deep, bone-level way that healing salves never quite touched.
Farworth was already there.
He sat near the far window, posture relaxed, a tray untouched in front of him. Lyra occupied the seat across from him, leaning forward slightly, her expression animated—she was talking, fast, hands moving, clearly mid-story.
“…and then the arena lights flickered,” she was saying, “for just a second. I thought it was a malfunction, but—”
She stopped when she noticed them.
Wanuy lifted a hand in a lazy greeting.
“Please tell me you’re not recounting our humiliation.”
Lyra snorted. “I was about to praise your dramatic timing, actually.”
Farworth’s eyes flicked to both of them—measured, sharp, but not unkind.
“Sit,” he said simply.
They did.
For a while, the conversation stayed light. Food complaints. Injuries. Lyra teasing Wanuy about how many medics he’d terrified by refusing pain suppressants. Arata barely spoke, mostly listening, his attention drifting in and out.
Eventually, inevitably, the topic shifted.
“So,” Lyra said, resting her chin in her palm, “was it just me—or did Fortuna almost break the arena?”
Wanuy exhaled slowly.
“She pushed past something she wasn’t supposed to.”
Farworth nodded once. “And survived it.”
His gaze settled on Wanuy first.
“Your duel,” he said, “confirmed something I’ve suspected since your first resonance assessment.”
Wanuy stiffened slightly.
“You noticed how Fortuna’s power weakened when she got close to you,” Farworth continued. “Not just her flames. Her control.”
Lyra frowned. “That wasn’t intimidation?”
“No,” Farworth said. “It was interference.”
He turned fully toward Wanuy.
“What you project isn’t suppression. It’s a Resonance Field.”
Wanuy blinked. “A what?”
“An extension of your blood’s core nature,” Farworth replied. “Every wyrmbound carries a conceptual center—the idea their dragon blood resonates with. Yours is death.”
The word settled heavily.
“A resonance field,” Farworth continued, “is what happens when that concept leaks into the space around you. Not as an attack—but as presence.”
Lyra’s eyes widened slightly. “So that’s why—”
“Why weaker wyrmbounds feel sluggish,” Farworth finished. “Why their powers hesitate. Why some instinctively back away.”
He looked at Arata next.
“The same principle applies to you.”
Arata looked up sharply. “It does?”
“Yes,” Farworth said. “The difference is control. Or rather—alignment.”
He tapped two fingers lightly against the table.
“Wanuy’s worldview aligns with his blood. He understands death. Accepts it. So his resonance stabilizes naturally.”
Wanuy didn’t respond—but his silence said enough.
“You,” Farworth said to Arata, “are fighting your own core. Your blood responds to something you refuse to fully acknowledge. It's like you are scared of the power in your blood”
Arata’s jaw tightened. You will be too if it was a mad dragon in your consciousness.
“That’s why your field destabilizes,” Farworth continued. “It flares, collapses, distorts. You don’t lack power. You lack harmony.”
Lyra glanced between them, quieter now.
“And the duel?” she asked. “With Fortuna?”
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Farworth leaned back slightly.
“That,” he said, “was something else entirely.”
“Every wyrmbound,” Farworth said, “progresses through six stages of power.”
He held up a hand—not dramatic, just precise.
“These stages are not levels of strength. They are principles.”
Arata frowned. “Principles of what?”
“Of the concept your blood resonates with,” Farworth replied. “Fire. Storm. Death. Time. Flesh. Whatever the dragon embodied.”
Wanuy tilted his head. “So mastering all six—”
“—means you have fully understood your blood,” Farworth finished. “Not just how to use it. But what it means.”
He paused.
“For someone like you, Wanuy, that would mean grasping six distinct truths about death. Not metaphorically. Personally.”
Lyra swallowed. “And that makes you…?”
“The strongest possible expression of that bloodline,” Farworth said. “Not invincible. But complete.”
Arata stared at the table.
“And Wanuy?” he asked quietly.
“He brushed against a principle He wasn’t ready for,” Farworth replied as he looked towards him. “You are beginning to understand it—you even manifested it.”
A dangerous thing.
“That surge you felt?” Farworth continued. “That was conceptual backlash. Your blood reacted faster than your mind could follow.”
Lyra shook her head slowly. “But if a wyrm bound has to understand what the principle behind the concept of dragon's bloodline is...”
"So even two fire wyrmbounds—will never be the same,” Farworth said firmly.
He looked at all three of them now.
“Because principles are filtered through worldview. Belief. Experience. Fear. Desire.”
“No two people see the world the same way,” Wanuy murmured.
“Exactly,” Farworth said. “And so no two manifestations are identical. Not among fire. Not among storm. Not even among death.”
He stood, collecting his tray.
“That is why imitation fails. And why understanding matters more than raw power.”
Farworth glanced once more at Arata.
“Especially for those whose blood refuses to be ignored.”
...
Arata stood abruptly and left the table.
No goodbye. No excuse.
Lyra watched him go, her expression tightening—worry, sharp and immediate, crossing her face before she could mask it.
What am I supposed to do?
Unlike Arata's Resonant Power, death was something humans brushed against every day. It was Loss, Fear or Endings.
Madness wasn’t like that.
Madness isn’t something people understand by living.
How am I supposed to understand it?
What am I supposed to do?
[Give up, Chagrin.]
Arata froze mid-step.
“Who’s there?”
[An old friend you’ve kept suppressed for a very long time.]
His breath hitched.
Slowly, he looked down at his chest.
The necklace—always there, always warm, always present—was gone.
“No… no, no—”
“Go away!”
[No need to shout, Wolf. You don’t want others thinking you’re mad… do you?]
Arata looked around.
Too late.
Cadets had stopped talking. A few were staring. A few more pretending not to.
His chest tightened.
He bolted.
He didn’t know where he was going. Only that stopping meant listening.
[Do you really think running will help?]
He reached the dormitory in a blur, slammed the door shut, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“Where is it…?”
He tore through the room.
Bedside drawer—empty.
Mattress—flipped.
Under the bed—nothing.
“Where?” His voice cracked. “Where is it?”
[Let’s talk for a while, shall we?]
[It’s not like I’ll eat you.]
“Shut up!”
He yanked open the cupboard, clothes spilling onto the floor, hands shaking as he searched desperately.
“Where did I put it?”
[Maybe you left it in the bathroom.]
The voice was closer now. Louder. Not echoing—inside.
Arata froze.
I am not going anywhere near a mirror.
“You fucking bastard.”
The silence that followed was almost amusing.
Arata left the dormitory and headed for one of the higher balconies in the tower.
He went there when the world pressed in too tightly.
The view was the same as it always was—mountains rising on either side of the academy, a river carving its way through the valley below, veins of shimmering mineral light threading through the water like exposed nerves. It was a sight visible from dozens of windows.
But here, somehow, it felt quieter.
Calmer.
The air was thinner, cooler. The noise of the academy dulled into something distant and irrelevant.
[You know… I could help you with your current problem.]
Arata didn’t turn. His hands rested on the cold stone railing.
Yeah, he thought bitterly. And you want my body in return.
[I remember saying you’re smarter than you look.]
“Then what made you think,” Arata muttered, “that I would ever agree to your deal?”
[Because the Academy hasn’t been completely honest with you.]
[And then there are the deaths.]
[At this point, I’m the most viable option you have.]
Arata stiffened.
“What do you—”
The words left his mouth before he realized it. “What do you mean?”
“Who are you talking to?”
Lyra’s voice.
[Ah. The observer.]
[This should be interesting.]
Arata turned sharply.
Lyra stood a few steps away, one hand resting lightly on the railing, her posture careful—non-threatening. Concern sat openly on her face.
“What are you doing here?” Arata asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “You left so suddenly. I just… wanted to check on you.”
She stepped beside him, gaze drifting toward the valley.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Arata said too quickly. “I just forgot something in my dorm.”
[Tell her what you forgot.]
[Tell her what you can’t find.]
Shut up.
Lyra glanced at him sideways. “You don’t sound okay.”
Arata tightened his grip on the railing.
The wind carried the faint hum of the academy’s wards up to the balcony—steady, controlled, artificial.
Everything here was controlled and catalogued. Except him.
"Nobody in this damned place is Okay. Every single one of the second year can level the capital and they were made in a human lab."
"They were all made for a purpose, and it is not levelling our empire's Capital."
Arata laughed once—short, hollow.
“Then what was I made for?”
He finally turned to face her.
“What’s my purpose?”
Lyra opened her mouth. Closed it.
Arata looked back toward the valley.
“I can’t even understand my Resonant… my blood.” His voice dropped. “I don’t even know what it means. Madness.”
He paused.
“Everything I touch breaks,” he whispered. “Everyone I get close to dies.”
The wind rose slightly, tugging at their uniforms.
“All I’ve caused so far,” Arata said, barely audible now, “is death.”
Lyra didn’t answer.
Not because she didn’t care.
But because—for once—she had no lie gentle enough to offer.
It helps a lot.