Rain pelted the windows of Ouroboros Academy's library, the air damp and heavy.
Nico and Theo stood behind a towering shelf, its dusty tomes looming like silent watchers.
Nico clutched a blank note, its edges worn, his brow furrowed as he examined it under the dim glow of a flickering lamp.
The clocktower's tick echoed faintly, a relentless pulse through the stone walls.
Theo broke the silence, voice low. "Anything?"
Nico shook his head, frustration tight in his jaw. "Nothing. Let's search for a book—anything useful."
They split up, pulling books from shelves, pages rustling as they scanned for clues to the blank note. Hours passed, titles blurring—Arcane Rites, Lost Tongues—but nothing fit.
Theo groaned, slumping against a shelf, rubbing his temples. "I'm done, Nico. My head's killing me."
Nico sighed, his own exhaustion heavy from the day's chaos. "Yeah, I've had enough too. Let's shelve these and try another time."
They returned the books, the shelves creaking as if reluctant to let them go. With a final glance at the empty note, Nico tucked it away, and they left the library, the rain's patter chasing them toward their dorms.
In his dorm, Rowan stood by the window, rain streaking the glass, his reflection pale and tense.
The clocktower's tick thrummed faintly.
A sharp knock on the door jolted him. He hesitated, the day not yet dark enough for the academy's stranger threats. Steeling himself, he opened it.
A prefect stood outside, badge glinting.
"Room 208?"
"Yeah," Rowan said, wary.
"Someone will be moving into this dorm soon." The prefect turned to leave.
Rowan's stomach twisted. "Who?"
The prefect didn't answer, disappearing down the hall.
Rowan slammed the door, irritation flaring, but a foot caught it.
He glanced down, then up, as the door swung open. Blake stood there, cold eyes glinting with malice, a menacing grin spreading.
Rowan's blood boiled. "Blake? Why the hell would they put you here? Who thought this was a good idea?"
Blake shoved past, shoulder-checking Rowan, silent. Rowan's fists clenched. Blake dropped his bag, voice mocking.
"Where's your boyfriend, Rowan?"
Rowan's jaw tightened, rage simmering. "Watch your mouth."
Blake stepped closer, towering. "Or what? You gonna cry about it?" He smirked.
" Turned on him at the last minute. Broke up yet?"
Rowan's voice was low, dangerous. "Shut up, Blake."
"Chicken," Blake taunted, leaning in.
Rowan stormed out, slamming the door, rain hitting him as he walked into the night. He found a secluded courtyard, its stone walls hidden by ivy, and let out a raw scream, pain and frustration tearing free.
The rain froze mid-air, droplets suspended like glass.
Birds halted in flight, wings still. Rowan stepped out, heart pounding, scanning the silence.
His eyes caught a shadow—12 feet tall, six arms, three on each side, red eyes glowing, teeth sharp and hungry.
Its aura reeked of death, heavy, suffocating.
Rowan's breath caught, fear choking him.
"It's going to kill me," he whispered, running, legs shaking.
The air spoke, a deep, resonant voice calling, "Rowan."
"Leave me alone!" he shouted, voice cracking.
"I don't want to kill you," the entity said, its voice everywhere.
It appeared before him, red eyes piercing. "I want to be one with you, like old times."
Rowan collapsed, choking on its aura, gasping, "I don't want to, I don't want to."
Tears stung, but none fell. He didn't notice the world unfreeze until a hand tapped his shoulder. "Rowan, what's wrong?"
He spun, spooked, to see Asher under an umbrella, concern in his scarred face.
Rowan lied, voice shaky. "Seizure."
Asher frowned. "Since when do you have seizures?"
Rowan dodged, voice tight. "You'll have one too when you see our new roommate."
Asher's eyes widened. "Who?"
Asher and Rowan trudged back to their dorm, rain soaking their shoes. Asher's voice exploded. "Blake, of all people? That's insane!"
Rowan nodded, the tick of the clocktower faint but ever-present. Silence fell, heavy with shared dread. Asher broke it, teasing. "Did you make it?"
Rowan blinked. "To where, the Seven?"
Asher grinned. "No, your mom's house. Of course the Seven, idiot."
Rowan smirked. "Yeesh, take it easy. Yeah, I made it."
Asher's grin faded. "You played shady at the end, though."
Rowan sighed. "I didn't mean to. You pushed too hard though, ended yourself in the hospital. Should've just let me win."
Asher's eyes hardened. "I'd push my limits again to survive. No regrets."
Rowan's voice softened. "What if I was in your way?"
Asher didn't flinch. "No exceptions. But I won't kill to win, anything else goes."
Rowan chuckled, dry. "Now I feel stupid telling Blake to go easy on you."
Asher laughed, clapping Rowan's shoulder. "Never hesitate to shove me aside if it means winning. Survival's the game."
Rowan nodded. "Noted."
Asher teased, "You held back at first, though. Softie."
High above, in Talus's office, the headmaster watched through his twin glass clock eyes, their lenses glinting.
He held a photo of eleven figures, his gaze fixed on one with scars like Asher's. A slow, cold smile spread across his face.
Late that night, Darel, dressed in black, face masked, crept to the secret library's entrance, the brass key heavy in his pocket.
Gaius's directions led him to a small room, its walls bare except for a raven statue, its eyes glinting like keyholes.
Darel inserted the key, and a doorway creaked open, torches flaring to life.
The door shut behind him as he descended into a vast library, shelves stretching into shadows.
He removed his mask, scanning for language dictionaries.
He pulled book after book—Ancient Lexicons, Lost Scripts—searching for Il es despertus.
Hours passed, his eyes burning, nothing fitting. "Damn it," he muttered, slumping at a table. The lights flickered out. "Shit!" he hissed, heart racing.
A glow caught his eye—a book at the shelf's end, pulsing faintly. He grabbed it, and the lights snapped back on.
"The hell?" he cursed, scanning the room.
The book's cover read Serpetus Beneath Lost Latin, its script eerily close to Il es despertus.
He grinned, amused. "This library's alive. It knows what I'm looking for. Gaius didn't mention that."
Sitting, he cracked the book open, its pages dense and confusing.
Hours of translation—head throbbing, words twisting—finally clicked.
He pieced it together finally, the meaning, the message—
HE'S AWAKE.
Darel asked himself. What was awake? And was puzzled by the meaning, he expected more.
But the real question was what lira had to do with it.
The clocktower screamed, a piercing wail, lights flickering wildly. Darel grabbed the book, sprinting from the library, the tick pounding like a heartbeat, as if the academy itself had stirred.