Marked

The bell tolled seven times, echoing across Islendir like a mourning song. Lucien sat at the long refectory table, spoon untouched in his bowl. The porridge had cooled into a gray paste, but he hadn’t noticed.

The hall buzzed with whispers. Students sat in tight knots, faces pale, eyes darting toward the doors as if expecting another scream. Every few moments, one of the guards passed through, armor clinking too loudly in the tense air.

“They’re losing control,” Arian muttered beside him. He leaned back, gaze sweeping the room. “Look at them. Half are ready to flee.”

Lucien followed his eyes. It was true. Some students hadn’t even changed out of their travel clothes, trunks already packed.

“What about you?” Lucien asked.

Arian raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“Thinking of leaving?”

“Not until I know what’s happening,” Arian said simply. His eyes darkened. “Not until we stop it.”

Before Lucien could answer, Toren slid onto the bench across from them, a half-eaten roll in hand. Darius and Caelith followed, both looking like they’d slept less than an hour.

“Well,” Toren said around a mouthful, “who wants to share first? We nearly got caught by a patrol guard who wouldn’t stop asking questions.”

“Nothing?” Arian asked.

“Not nothing.” Toren shrugged. “We found a smear of blood near the east stairwell. Old, though. A few days at least.”

“East stairwell.” Arian’s brow furrowed. “That’s close to where Kara’s body was found.”

“Exactly.”

Caelith set a folded scrap of parchment on the table. “I found another sigil. Different from the others. This one was drawn into the dust beneath a window ledge in the west wing.”

Lucien leaned in. The symbol was simpler than the ones he’d seen before—just two intersecting lines with a curve—but it carried the same crooked energy, as if the ink itself wanted to twist out of sight.

“They’re leaving trails everywhere,” Arian said. “Pieces of a larger puzzle.”

Darius stabbed his fork into his untouched porridge. “Great. So we’ve got a puzzle. Meanwhile, people are dying. Forgive me if I don’t find this reassuring.”

“It’s not about reassurance,” Arian said sharply. “It’s about understanding. Whoever’s behind this isn’t hiding randomly—they’re leaving deliberate signs. Which means they want someone to see.”

Lucien frowned. “Or they don’t care if we see.”

Toren gave a low whistle. “That’s worse.”

Before anyone could answer, the headmaster strode into the hall, robes billowing like storm clouds. His voice carried across the chatter.

“Attention, students!”

The whispers died instantly. Even the clink of cutlery stopped.

“The incidents of last night are under control. Additional patrols have been stationed across the grounds. You are not to wander after curfew, and you will remain within the academy unless given express permission. Do not give in to panic.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter broke through. Students glanced at one another. The headmaster’s jaw tightened.

“Discipline will be enforced. Anyone found spreading false rumors or disrupting order will be punished. That is all.”

He turned on his heel and swept out, a flock of professors trailing like crows.

The silence he left behind was louder than the speech itself.

“Well,” Darius said finally. “That inspired confidence.”

Lucien felt the tension in his chest coil tighter. The professors weren’t in control. They were afraid too.

---

Later, in the shadow of the northern courtyard, the group gathered again. The walls here were damp with ivy, muffling the outside world.

“Let’s compare properly,” Arian said, crouching to spread the scraps of parchment across the ground. Between the sigils they’d collected and the ones Lucien sketched from memory, a strange web took shape.

“See?” Arian tapped the lines. “They’re not random. Each one could be a fragment of a larger seal.”

Caelith’s eyes narrowed. “A summoning circle.”

“Not summoning,” Arian corrected. “Opening.”

Lucien’s stomach turned. “Threshold.”

Arian nodded grimly. “Exactly.”

Darius rubbed his arms as though cold. “Opening to what? And what's this threshold you guys been talking about ?”

“That’s what we don’t know yet,” Arian admitted. “But look at the placement. East stairwell. West wing. Courtyard. They’re circling the academy itself.”

“Like binding it,” Toren murmured.

Lucien’s mind flashed back to the dream of endless corridors, of his shadow double whispering you're going to lose everyone again. His pulse quickened. “They’re turning the academy into part of the ritual.”

The words chilled them all.

Before anyone could respond, a rustle came from the ivy behind them.

They spun, hands flying to weapons.

A figure stumbled out—not hooded, not cloaked. Just a boy, pale-faced, his uniform torn at the sleeve. Lucien recognized him instantly. He was one of the three who’d gone missing on the first mission.

“You,” Lucien said, stepping forward. “What are you doing here?”

The boy’s eyes darted wildly. Sweat slicked his brow. “I—I didn’t… I was just…” His words collapsed into stammering.

Arian caught his arm. “Where were you?”

“I don’t know,” the boy gasped. His voice cracked. “I don’t remember. One moment I was studying, then—darkness. And whispers. There's always whispers.” He clutched his head. “Please, you have to believe me.”

Lucien exchanged a look with Caelith. The boy’s eyes—clouded, pale around the edges—looked too much like the puppet-students they’d seen moving stiffly in the courtyard.

“Who made you draw the marks?” Arian asked sharply.

The boy froze. His lips parted, but no sound came. He stared at them as if trapped. Then suddenly, violently, he shoved Arian back and bolted across the courtyard.

“Stop him!” Toren shouted.

They gave chase, boots pounding against stone, but the boy ran with a speed born of terror—or something unnatural driving him. He veered into the eastern wing, vanishing into the shadows.

By the time they reached the corridor, he was gone.

Only a fresh sigil remained, scrawled hastily on the wall.

It was larger than the others, darker, the lines jagged like claws.

And at its center was something new.

A name.

Lucien’s.

His blood went cold. Not just his.

The group stared in silence, the torchlight trembling across the ink.

Whoever was orchestrating this wasn’t just marking the academy anymore.

They had marked him.

•••