The corridors of the Silverlight Academy were unusually quiet. Not the peaceful quiet that comes with nightfall, but the kind that crept in with suspicion—hushed, wary, almost afraid.
Lucien walked with his head slightly bowed, his tattered cloak trailing just above the polished marble floor. His steps were light, calculated. It wasn't just habit anymore—it was necessity.
The whispers had begun.
They weren't saying his name yet, but Lucien could feel the tension in the air change when he entered a room. Conversations would falter. Eyes would linger a moment too long. Some of the more clever students had started to notice things: his subtle influence over certain instructors, the way some high-ranking nobles were oddly agreeable after speaking with him, or how his training partners came back quieter, more introspective.
But that was fine. Lucien preferred to work under the skin of things. Suspicion was manageable. Fear was usable.
He passed by a courtyard, where moonlight spilled through the glass dome above. A girl stood there alone—Alira, one of the more gifted healing students. She had offered him a handkerchief once when his lip was bloodied after a staged sparring match. He remembered the way she looked at him, with something between pity and intrigue.
She turned as she noticed him now, brushing a lock of silver hair behind her ear. "Lucien?"
He paused. "Alira."
"You're always walking alone," she said softly, her voice echoing lightly under the glass. "You know, people are starting to wonder."
"Let them," Lucien replied with a faint smile. "The truth is far too boring for gossip."
She smiled too, but it faltered slightly, replaced by something unreadable. "You're different, you know? Everyone's pretending to be something here—trying to impress nobles, climb ranks, get noticed. But you… you're not pretending."
Lucien tilted his head slightly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Is that so?"
She nodded. "It's strange, but kind of admirable."
Lucien said nothing. Instead, he stepped past her and disappeared down the corridor, the echo of his footsteps trailing behind like the ghost of a decision not yet made.
Back in his dorm, a small, dimly lit room near the west wing, Lucien opened a drawer and pulled out a scroll marked with an ink-black seal—a communication from the Demon Council. He cracked it open and scanned its contents.
"Your next task: weaken the influence of High Priest Merek. His presence in the capital disrupts our access."
He scoffed. "Subtle, aren't we?"
But the name made him pause.
High Priest Merek… One of the men who had stood at the podium, years ago, justifying the execution of his mother. Lucien could still recall the man's voice—righteous, booming, laced with holy venom.
He let the scroll drop to the desk, fingers curling into a fist.
Not yet, he reminded himself. Rage would burn bridges he hadn't yet crossed.
Instead, he began to write letters—dozens of them. Anonymous tips, requests, false confessions. Carefully phrased, seemingly unrelated. Each one would be sent to a different noble or knight with a whisper of scandal, a nudge of doubt.
By the time the Church noticed anything, they'd be too busy questioning their own to realize what was happening right under their noses.
Lucien leaned back in his chair, lit only by the faint glow of a single candle, and smiled—that quiet, devilish smile that only showed when the pieces were starting to fall into place.
Somewhere beneath the Academy, in an old, dust-covered tunnel he had discovered weeks ago, a small gathering of demons awaited further orders. They thought they were recruiting him for their cause.
Let them.
Soon, both sides would dance to his rhythm.
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[End of Chapter 16]