Patrol

The torches hissed and spat in their brackets, throwing restless shadows that leapt across the walls. Lucien had walked these corridors a hundred times by day, but at night they looked longer, narrower—as if the academy itself had shifted into something older, meaner.

He adjusted his cloak and glanced back. Darius trudged behind him, arms folded across his chest, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Toren, on the other hand, walked lightly, alert, fingers tapping the pommel of his dagger as though itching for an excuse to use it. 

Caelith, quiet as ever, kept his gaze moving, pale eyes flicking over doorways and windows with clinical precision. Arian who received message from his family was in his dorm thus was late.

“This is pointless,” Darius muttered, breaking the silence. His voice echoed too loudly against the stone. “What are we supposed to do? Catch a murderer by walking in circles?”

“We’re supposed to be watching,” Lucien said. He tried to sound steady, but even his own voice seemed out of place here. “If someone’s prowling around, better us than another student getting their throat torn open.”

Darius grimaced. “Yeah, because that’ll end well for us.”

“Better to try than sit in our rooms pretending nothing’s happening,” Toren said. “Besides, it beats waiting around for another body to turn up.”

Lucien caught the flash of guilt in Darius’s face. They were all thinking of Kara. No one wanted to say it out loud.

They walked on. The air was cooler here, carrying a faint metallic tang that clung to the back of Lucien’s tongue. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the silence was watching them.

“Do you think it’s really one of us?” Toren asked after a while.

Lucien glanced at him. “One of us?”

“I mean the students,” Toren said. “Who else could get around so easily? It’d have to be someone inside.”

Darius let out a sharp laugh. “Right. Because students just go around ripping people apart and draining their mana. Totally normal hobby.”

Toren glared. “You’ve got a better theory?”

“Yeah. That this is way above us, and we’re walking bait for something we don’t understand.”

“That’s not a theory, that’s whining.”

Lucien stepped between them before the argument sharpened further. “Quiet.”

Caelith had stopped at one of the tall windows, eyes narrowed. “Look,” he said.

They followed his gaze. Across the courtyard, two figures moved between the hedges. At first Lucien thought they were guards, but something was wrong. Their gait was stiff, mechanical, almost synchronized.

The moon slipped free of the clouds, silvering the scene. Lucien’s chest tightened. They were students—ones he recognized. Both had gone missing weeks ago on the first mission, only to reappear the next day with thin excuses about wandering too far.

Now he understood why the whispers had followed them.

Their faces were slack, eyes glinting faintly pale. They didn’t breathe heavily or even shift naturally, only moved with that unnatural, puppet-like rhythm.

Darius swore softly. “They look… dead.”

“Not dead,” Caelith said. His voice was flat. “Hollow.”

The words settled uneasily over them.

The figures stopped abruptly. Their heads turned in the same motion, snapping toward the window.

For one terrible moment, Lucien met their eyes. Empty.

“Move,” Caelith hissed.

They ducked from the window and sprinted down the nearest corridor. Their boots thundered, the echoes chasing them louder than footsteps. Lucien’s lungs burned as he forced himself to keep running. He risked a glance back.

Nothing.

The corridor was empty.

They skidded to a halt, chests heaving.

Darius pressed his back to the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. “We lost them.”

“Or they wanted us to lose them,” Toren muttered. His hand still hovered near his dagger.

Lucien swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. “Whatever that was… they’re not normal. Not anymore.”

No one disagreed.

They forced themselves onward, nerves drawn tighter than bowstrings. Every sound—a settling board, a gust of wind—felt like a threat.

When they reached the stairwell leading to the restricted archives, Lucien froze. A tall figure cloaked in black was gliding across the shadows at the far end of the hall.

“There.” He pointed, voice sharp.

By the time the others looked, the figure had vanished.

Caelith’s jaw tightened. “Someone doesn’t want to be seen.”

“Or we’re losing our minds,” Darius muttered.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Toren said grimly.

They debated following, but the stairwell yawned dark and deep, the air heavy with a chill that clung to their bones. Lucien made the call. “Not tonight. We’re not ready. It seems dangerous.”

Darius let out a breath of relief, but Caelith’s expression was unreadable.

They turned away.

The west wing was worse. The torches burned lower here, casting more shadow than light. At the far end, Lucien spotted a dark streak along the stone. He knelt, touched it, and his stomach turned.

Sticky. Metallic. Blood.

The trail smeared into an unused corridor.

Lucien pushed the door open carefully. The room was empty, stacked with old crates. But the blood didn’t stop—it streaked across the floor in long lines, as if something had been dragged inside.

“Dragged,” Caelith confirmed, crouching to study it. “Recently.”

“Dragged to where?” Toren asked.

The trail ended abruptly near the center of the floor. No exit, no broken boards, no secret door. Just… stopped. It vanished without any trail here? No. 

Lucien stared at the smeared stain, unease knotting in his gut. Not ended nor vanished. Removed. As if the body had been lifted away.

They retreated quickly, all on edge.

By the time they returned to their dormitory, exhaustion tugged at them, but no one felt safe. Toren bolted the door. Darius stretched out on his bed, arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes wide open as if daring sleep to come. Caelith took the desk chair, silent and thoughtful.

Lucien sat at the window. The courtyard lay still under the moon, the hedges unmoving. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched.

Hours passed before sleep finally pulled him under.

And with it came dreams.

Dark corridors twisted endlessly. Whispers leaked from the walls, voices he half-recognized—Kara, Rowan, strangers—all begging for help. Hands clawed from the shadows, reaching for him.

Then his double stepped forward. Cloaked in black, face his own but hollow, eyes gleaming faint white. The shadow smiled cruelly.

It whispered, 'you will lose everything again...' Even though it moved it's mouth after saying that Lucien couldn't hear. 

Lucien woke with a violent jolt, sweat chilling his skin. The dormitory was quiet, the others asleep. He forced his breathing steady. Just a dream. Though this nightmares of his was not anything new but it was the first time he saw that double of his since his birthday night. 

Then he saw it.

On the inside of the windowpane, traced in condensation, was a crooked sigil. Faint, but unmistakable—the same symbol he’d glimpsed once in the restricted archives, buried in the margins of forbidden texts.

The mark of the Threshold. After Arian came back Lucien didn't wanted to do anything nor think about Threshold and other stuff. 

But is it just a coincidence? Those strange things, those dreams and notes, messages?

Lucien reached out his hand. The moment his fingers brushed the glass, the symbol smeared into nothing.

But the terror remained.

Because if the mark had been drawn from the inside, then someone—or something—had been in their room while they slept.

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