Stranger in the hall

The great hall blazed with torchlight, shadows leaping high against the vaulted ceiling. Professors stood in a line at the dais, faces hard, tired, and grim. Students bunched together in clusters, restless and frightened.

Lucien’s group stuck close, shoulders brushing.

“This feels bad,” Toren whispered. “Like, final-exam kind of bad. And I didn’t even cheat on this one.”

“Shut up,” Elira muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

“Why summon everyone?” Arian asked, low and sharp. “They only drag us out like this if—”

“Don’t say it,” Lucien cut in. He couldn’t bear to hear the word body again.

Before anyone could respond, Professor Aldwyn stepped forward. His voice carried cleanly, too clean, across the restless crowd yet tired like he didn't sleep the past few weeks.

“You will answer in groups,” he said. “No disruptions, no delays.”

The students stilled, uneasy. Professors moved among them, pulling aside clusters.

Lucien’s stomach twisted when Aldwyn’s gaze landed squarely on them.

---

Interrogation—

“Step forward,” Aldwyn ordered.

The five of them obeyed, tension clinging like a second skin. Another senior mage stood at his side, quill poised, parchment ready.

“You were seen outside the dormitories last night,” Aldwyn said, voice smooth but cold. “After curfew. Explain.”

Toren lifted his hands, lips twitching toward a grin. “Evening stroll? Helps digestion?”

No one laughed.

“Enough,” Aldwyn said, his eyes cutting straight through Toren. His gaze shifted, locking on Lucien. “Why were you there?”

Lucien’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Arian spoke before he could. “Because we were trying to do your job.”

The mage with the quill paused, brows rising.

Aldwyn’s expression didn’t flicker, but the air tightened. “Clarify.”

Arian’s tone sharpened. “While you sit in meetings, students are being hunted. We thought maybe patrols would do more good than waiting for the next scream.”

Lucien winced at his bluntness, but part of him wanted to cheer.

Aldwyn regarded them in silence for a long, taut moment. Finally: “Did you see anything?”

The words seemed simple, but Lucien felt the trap in them. Too casual. Too precise.

His throat worked. “Nothing useful.”

Arian’s eyes flicked sideways at him, and Lucien knew he didn’t believe that.

Darius crossed his arms. “Why are you grilling us? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, telling us if someone else is dead?”

The question cracked the air.

For the first time, Aldwyn’s mask slipped—just slightly. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t deny it.

“Return to your place,” he said curtly. “That will be all.”

Dismissed. Just like that.

As they stepped back into the throng, Arian leaned close to Lucien’s ear. “Did you see that? He dodged. Didn’t even say no.”

Lucien’s gut clenched. Another one. Who this time?

---

The assistant of our Headmaster stepped forward now, hands raised for silence.

“Students,” she said, her voice echoing sharp and cold, “effective immediately, the Academy is entering lockdown. Until further notice, no one will leave their dormitories after nightfall. Classes will proceed under escort. The archives, library, and outer grounds are restricted. Violate these orders, and you will be expelled.”

The words detonated through the hall. Whispers flared—angry, frightened, desperate.

“They’re hiding something,” Toren muttered.

“No,” Darius said grimly. “They’re hiding everything.”

Caelith tapped his fingers against his notebook, jaw tight. “Locking us in won’t stop whoever’s doing this. It only makes us easier to trap.”

Lucien said nothing. He couldn’t. His mind was spinning too fast.

---

The assistant continued, but her next words froze the air.

“In addition, the Council has dispatched aid. You will extend your full cooperation.”

From the shadows at the edge of the dais, a figure stepped forward.

Tall. Wrapped in a long, dark cloak. Hair silver at the temples. Eyes pale grey, so sharp they seemed to strip flesh from bone. They carried no staff, no crest, yet the torches bent away from them, as if light itself refused their company.

“This,” the Headmistress announced, “is Inquisitor Seroth.”

The name rippled through the crowd like a shudder.

“They have been sent to assist in the investigation.”

Assist. The word tasted false in Lucien’s ears.

Seroth let the silence stretch before speaking. Their voice was smooth, but too precise, every syllable honed.

“You are afraid,” they said. “Good. Fear is honest. Fear strips away lies. With your fear, we will find the truth.”

A nervous laugh broke somewhere in the back of the hall. No one else joined it.

Seroth’s gaze swept across the students once, slow and cutting. When it landed on Lucien, even for a breath, his stomach dropped. Heat crawled under his skin like a brand.

He looked away quickly, but the impression lingered—like Seroth hadn’t just seen him, but recognized him.

Beside him, Arian’s posture stiffened.

“Why you?” Toren whispered faintly. “They looked right at you.”

Lucien didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

---

The speeches dragged on—assurances of safety, orders repeated, promises sharpened into threats. But Lucien barely heard. His eyes kept straying to the far side of the hall.

There, near a side door, something marred the pale stone. A smear. Dark. Thin. Almost invisible under torchlight.

Blood.

His breath hitched.

When the assembly finally broke, students shuffled out in uneasy herds. Lucien moved before he thought, angling toward the mark. Arian caught his sleeve instantly.

“What are you doing?”

“Look.” Lucien nodded.

Arian’s eyes narrowed, following the faint trail. “Gods.”

Toren groaned. “Please tell me we’re not playing bloodhound now.”

But they were.

The smear threaded away from the hall, faint but steady, like something had been dragged. Step by cautious step, they followed it into a side corridor where the torches burned lower.

The trail ended at a plain wooden door, half-hidden in shadow. Not locked. Not important-looking. Precisely the kind of door no one notices.

Lucien pushed it open. The hinges creaked.

Inside was a dusty storage room—shelves stacked with spare parchment, half-melted candles, boxes of chalk.

And on the floor, shoved hastily beneath a crate, a scrap of fabric.

Lucien crouched, pulling it free. His chest tightened. Academy blue. Stained dark.

Arian bent close, eyes catching on the stitched name-mark.

“Kara.”

The word landed like a blow.

“She was buried,” Arian whispered. “Why is her cloak here?”

Lucien swallowed. His throat was dry as ash. “Unless it wasn’t hers anymore. Unless someone else wore it.”

The thought settled heavy in the room.

Behind them, footsteps echoed down the corridor. Slow. Deliberate.

“Hide it,” Arian hissed.

Lucien shoved the cloak scrap under his tunic, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the torches.

The door creaked wider.

And there, framed in the dim, stood Inquisitor Seroth. Pale eyes gleaming.

•••