The Three Who Stirred

Midnight draped its cloak over the Academy, muting the world into silence. The moon rode high, silver and cold, spilling pale light across spires that reached like fingers toward the stars. Students slept in their beds, unaware of the malice that slithered through their halls.

But in the Council chamber, shadows stirred.

Three figures stood around the long obsidian table, cloaks drawn tight, faces hidden beneath hoods that shimmered faintly with layered illusion. Candles guttered in their presence, their flames burning low as though afraid to shine too brightly.

“The cracks are already forming,” one whispered, voice like oil spilling over stone. “The royals no longer speak to him. He is isolated. Suspected. His reputation crumbles with every passing day.”

The second chuckled, a dry rasp that made the air crawl. “Humans are ever eager to devour their own. One whisper becomes ten. Ten become a verdict. The boy is already halfway to ruin, and he doesn’t even see it.”

The third said nothing, but a faint ripple passed over them as they adjusted the sigil carved into their wrist. For the briefest instant, horns glimmered through the illusion, then melted back into the false skin of a human brow.

The first leaned forward, gloved fingers drumming against the table. “Still, suspicion is not enough. He has survived this long because his enemies lack proof. Tonight, that changes. The relic of Sylphia will be found near his quarters. The moment that happens, even the princes and princesses will call for his removal.”

“Or his death,” the second added with relish.

The third finally spoke, voice low and smooth. “Do not underestimate him. The Redcliffe boy is not like the others. He sees patterns others cannot. He creates what should not exist.”

The first sneered. “And that is precisely why he must fall. The world has no place for such… aberrations. He is an error, and errors must be erased.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken truth. They did not move as humans moved. Their stillness was too complete, too unnatural, as though they were predators barely restraining themselves from lunging at prey.

Then the leader produced a shard of crystal. It pulsed faintly, light flickering within like a heartbeat.

The Elven Relic. A gift once entrusted to the Academy, thought to have been lost to time.

“How convenient,” the second murmured, stroking the air above it. “A relic stolen… by the boy who already walks under suspicion. Tomorrow, the Academy will spit him out like rotten fruit.”

“Place it in his quarters,” the leader commanded. “By dawn, Redcliffe’s fate will be sealed.”

The third figure tilted their head. “And if he resists?”

The leader’s lips curled, though their hood obscured the motion. “Then he will die screaming. It changes nothing.”

The three slipped from the chamber like smoke poured into the air, their footsteps soundless. They moved through the halls with the certainty of those who believed themselves unseen.

The torches guttered as they passed. The air chilled. Even the portraits lining the walls seemed to recoil, painted eyes averting themselves from the corruption that wore human guise.

At last, they reached the east wing. The corridor stretched before them, long and silent, lit only by moonlight streaming through narrow windows. The leader raised the crystal, its sickly glow painting their hands green.

“Here,” they said. “Let this place be the site of his downfall.”

But as they stepped forward, light erupted.

Golden runes blazed across the stone, racing along walls, ceiling, and floor until the entire passage glowed like a cage of sunlight. Lines of magic wove together, snapping into place with a sound like shattering glass.

“What—?!”

The figures recoiled, clawing at the lattice, but their movements were thrown back upon them, mirrored and trapped. Their illusions flickered violently, sparks dancing across their cloaks.

“Impossible!” the second spat. “We warded ourselves against detection!”

The leader snarled, eyes burning beneath the hood. “This… this is no ordinary seal. This is—”

Footsteps rang out from the far end of the corridor.

Steady. Confident. Unhurried.

Alex Redcliffe emerged from the shadows, his eyes sharp as drawn blades, his mana thrumming in the air like the taut string of a bow. At his side walked Tiberon Leonarth, swords unsheathed, their edges catching the moonlight in silver arcs.

“You should have stayed in the dark,” Alex said, voice calm but carrying the weight of iron.

The three cloaked figures hissed, their illusions unraveling. Human skin peeled away like smoke, horns curling upward, crimson eyes blazing with hatred. Their true visages writhed free, monstrous forms seething with barely contained malice.

Not human.

Not Council members.

But demons.