Ritual

“You’re not sleeping, are you?”

Arian’s voice came quietly from across the dorm, low enough not to wake the others.

Lucien lay staring at the ceiling beams, shadows stretching long in the candlelight. He almost lied, but what was the point? “Neither are you,” he murmured back.

Arian rolled over with a sigh, the old mattress giving a tired creak. “Didn’t feel like it. Not after… that scream.”

Lucien closed his eyes. He could still hear it too—high, raw, splitting the night like a knife. “Yeah. Same here.”

Silence stretched. The little candle between their beds was almost gone, wax pooled and hardened in lopsided shapes. The room smelled faintly of smoke and old stone.

“You know what keeps bothering me?” Arian said at last. His voice was steady, but there was an edge beneath it, like a string pulled too tight. “It’s not just that people are dying. It’s that someone’s killing them in the same way, again and again. That’s not panic. That’s a plan.”

Lucien turned his head toward him. “You mean a ritual.”

Arian didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the ceiling as if reading something in the woodgrain. “Yeah. I think so.”

Lucien thought of Kara’s torn chest, of the deliberate cuts. He remembered the sigil smeared on the windowpane when he’d woken from his nightmare. His stomach tightened. “Then it’s only a matter of time before the next one.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Lucien pushed himself up, resting his arms on his knees. “So what do we do? The professors aren’t telling us everything. The guards can’t keep up. And the students…” He hesitated. “The students are terrified.”

Arian gave a humorless laugh. “You’re terrified too.”

Lucien met his gaze across the flickering light. “Of course I am.”

That admission seemed to soften something. Arian sat up as well, rubbing his face with both hands. “Good. I’d rather you didn’t pretend to be fearless. It makes the rest of us feel like idiots.”

Lucien almost smiled. Almost. “Noted.”

The door creaked faintly, and Caelith stepped inside. He moved so quietly Lucien hadn’t heard him approach. His pale icy eyes scanned the room before settling on them. “You’re both awake,” he said simply.

“No one’s sleeping, can you blame?” Arian muttered.

Caelith came closer, leaning against the bedpost. “Then listen. I found something.” He produced a small scrap of parchment and handed it to Lucien.

It was rough, torn at the edges, with a single inked sigil drawn across it. The same crooked lines Lucien had seen on the glass.

“Where did you—”

“In the courtyard. Near the hedges where we saw those… students moving strangely. It was tucked under a stone, half-buried.”

Arian frowned. “So they’re leaving marks behind?”

“Or messages,” Caelith said. “For each other.”

Lucien’s stomach knotted. “Threshold.”

The word tasted wrong on his tongue.

“What's that? Something's wrong lucien?”

“No.” Seeing Lucien hesitate Arian didn't ask much. He leaned closer. “What if these aren’t just symbols? What if they’re part of the ritual itself? Every mark, every line—it’s building toward something.”

Darius stirred in his bed, groaning. “Would you three shut up? Some of us are trying to—” He broke off when he saw the parchment. “What’s that?”

“Evidence maybe,” Caelith said flatly.

Toren sat up as well, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Evidence of what? Another nightmare?”

Lucien handed him the parchment. “Of whoever’s behind this. Seems they’re leaving signs.”

Toren traced the lines with a finger, then dropped it quickly as if the ink burned. “Creepy.”

Darius rubbed his temples. “So what now? We’ve got a scrap of paper and too many theories. Congratulations.”

“Now,” Arian said, voice sharpening, “we start treating this like what it is. An investigation. We track the signs. We watch who comes and goes. We don’t wait for the next scream.”

The room went quiet again. No one argued, not even Darius nor Toren.

Because they all knew he was right.

---

The next day passed in a haze of whispers and sidelong glances. Classes continued, though half the students looked ready to bolt. The professors tried to keep order, but even their voices carried strain.

Lucien caught fragments as he moved through the halls: “another one dead” … “not safe here” … “my parents will pull me out.”

He understood the fear. But leaving the academy wasn’t simple. Islendir was an island. And whoever was orchestrating this seemed to want them here. And outside world was spreading something more creepy stuffs.

By evening, the group gathered again in the courtyard. The torches flickered weakly, casting jagged light on their faces.

“We need to split up,” Arian said. “Cover more ground. Watch the patterns. Whoever’s leaving these sigils—they’re doing it right under our noses.”

Darius looked skeptical. “Splitting up in a horror story. Brilliant.”

“It’s not a story,” Arian shot back. “It’s real. And people are dying. You're free to leave.”

Toren raised a hand. “How about pairs, then? At least if something happens, one of us can run for help.”

Caelith nodded. “Agreed.”

Lucien glanced around at them—his friends, his allies, his only shield against the shadows closing in. “All right. Pairs. But we meet back here before curfew.”

They split. Lucien found himself with Arian, Fen and Syl by their side following closely. While the others drifted into the eastern and western wings.

The academy was quieter than usual, as though holding its breath. Their footsteps echoed too loudly against the stone.

“You really think these marks mean something?” Lucien asked as they walked.

“I know they do,” Arian said. His gaze flicked constantly over the walls, the floors, the windows. “When I was in the archives with last night, I saw references to thresholds you mentioned—not just as barriers, but as gates. Doorways between places. And the notes… they hinted at rituals to open them.”

Lucien’s pulse quickened. “Doorways to where?”

Arian’s lips pressed thin. “That’s the part I couldn’t find.”

They turned a corner into an older section of the academy, unused classrooms thick with dust. The air here was heavier, damp with the smell of mildew.

Arian stopped suddenly. “There.”

On the wall, just above the baseboard, a faint chalk sigil gleamed in the torchlight. It was smaller than the one on the parchment, but unmistakable.

Lucien crouched to study it. “Fresh.”

“See how the dust is disturbed?” Arian pointed. “Whoever drew it was here within the day.”

A shiver crawled down Lucien’s spine. “Then they’re close.”

Arian’s eyes flicked to the shadows stretching along the corridor. “Closer than we think.”

For a moment neither spoke. The silence was thick, pressing.

Then—footsteps.

Light, measured, too precise. The same sound Arian had described.

Lucien’s heart leapt into his throat. He extinguished the torch, plunging them into shadow. They pressed against the wall, holding their breath.

The footsteps drew nearer, echoing steadily.

A figure passed—hooded, tall, moving with that same unnatural rhythm. It paused, just inches from where they hid, head tilting as if listening.

Lucien’s hand tightened on Arian’s arm. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. 

Fen and Syl can hide themselves like any other trained companions that's why elders doesn't go around showing their companions. As for Lucien and Arian they can manage for some minutes.

After a long, terrible moment, the figure moved on, disappearing into the darkness.

Only when the footsteps faded did Lucien exhale.

Arian’s voice was barely a whisper. “Told you.”

Lucien nodded slowly, adrenaline still racing through his veins. “Yeah. You were right.”

They stood in silence, the sigil on the wall gleaming faintly beside them, a warning—or a promise.

So it lead back to this threshold huh! Whatever the Threshold was planning, it was already underway.

And they had just come face to face with someone pulling the strings. 

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