The heavy oak door of the Master's cabin thudded shut, cutting off the evening air. I stood in the courtyard for a second too long, staring at the brass handle. Neville and Lucious hadn't just walked in there to grab a drink; they walked in there like men stepping into a war room.
"Lance? You coming?" Percy called out.
"Yeah," I muttered, shaking off the chill. "Just thinking."
We started the trek back toward the dorms, the orange glow of the setting sun making the white stone of Xernes look like it was bleeding. We were just students, worrying about our next class, completely unaware of the conversation happening behind that closed door.
[POV: Third Person - The Master's Cabin]
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was suffocating. The walls were lined with ancient grimoires, their spines glowing faintly with protective enchantments. Lucious didn't sit down. He paced the length of the rug, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floorboards.
"The Night Cultists," Neville began, his usual carefree smirk replaced by a hard, calculating line. "You said there was a prediction. What was that about a war?"
Lucious stopped. His hands were trembling—just a fraction—but enough for Neville to notice. "It's not a confirmed prophecy, Neville. But the signs... the mana in the air is thinning. There is a high chance the Dark Lord is returning."
Neville let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "No way. We saw him die, Lucious. We stood over him. How could he be alive for sixteen years without us knowing?"
Lucious slammed his fist onto the desk, the wood groaning under the impact. "How do you think I feel?!" he roared, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot. "I gave my youth, my magic, my everything to bury that monster. Knowing he might come back... it makes me feel useless."
Neville stepped forward, his voice firm. "You're one of the Five Survivors. You started Xernes to ensure we don't make those mistakes again. You aren't useless. You're the only one who saw this coming."
"I forced the truth out of the two we caught," Lucious whispered, leaning over a bowl of shimmering water. "I used a torture spell I swore I'd never use again. One of them broke. He told me he was recruited by a man in a grey robe. A man whose skin was turning to dust every time he used magic... like his own power was consuming him."
Neville's face went pale. "A man made of dust... it can't be."
"It's not confirmed yet," Lucious said, his voice dropping to a deathly quiet. "But we have to assume the worst."
[POV: Lance]
By the time we reached the dormitory crossroads, the mood had shifted. We ran into Florida, who was leaning against a pillar, watching the stars come out.
"How was the first day of hell?" she asked, her eyes dancing with mischief.
"Tiring. Risky," I said, looking at Dean. He looked worse than me; he was staring at his palms as if they were cursed.
"Dean's a Sky-user too," I told her. "But it's hurting him. He thinks he's defective."
Florida's playful look vanished. She walked right up to Dean, her presence suddenly heavy. "I almost quit in my first month for the same reason," she said. "I thought the sky was trying to kill me. But my father told me that everyone carries a burden—some physical, some mental. The burden isn't the problem; it's how you carry it. Stop fighting the storm, Dean. Find a way to make it comfortable."
Dean didn't say a word. He just gave a slow, deep nod.
As the rest of us headed inside to eat, I saw Dean turn around. He didn't go for the food. He headed for the jagged mountain cliffs.
Hours later, from the window of the Mammoth House, I saw blue flickers against the dark peaks. Dean was out there, alone, practicing his 'Lightning Dance' over and over. He wasn't just practicing a spell; he was preparing for whatever Lucious was afraid of