Luke's eyes fluttered open like the hesitant wings of a moth emerging from its cocoon, trembling at the edge of consciousness. The world seeped back into his vision in slow, blurred waves—shapes forming out of shadow, light bleeding through the haze. His pupils dilated, drinking in the dim glow that painted the room in amber and gold, as if dawn had been captured and bottled within these walls. He had endured so much in such a short span—betrayal, poison, flight through alleyways slick with rain and fear—and now this: another trial, another threshold he never asked to cross. It felt as though the universe itself had conspired to test him, to press down upon his spirit with invisible hands, forcing him to bend until he feared he might snap.
And at the center of it all stood the one person he had trusted most—only for that trust to curdle into something bitter and sharp. Iris. The woman who had pulled him from the suffocating nightmare of that windowless apartment, whose voice had been the first kind sound in days of silence and dread. She was also the one who had slipped something into his drink, watched his body go slack, and carried him—unaware, helpless—into this unknown sanctuary. There had been no choice offered, no consultation, no respect for his will. His fate had been decided without him, rewritten while he slept, leaving him adrift in a current not of his making.
Sensation returned to him piece by piece, like fragments of a dream reassembling upon waking. The cool wood beneath his palms. The slight ache in his shoulders from sitting too long. The faint hum of electricity pulsing through hidden wires in the walls. He didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to see what came next. Every feeling echoed the same hollow numbness he'd known since the beginning—confusion wrapped in exhaustion, grief wrapped in disbelief. But there was one difference, one anomaly that tugged at his awareness like a loose thread in fabric: he could feel himself seated on a chair, yes, but nothing held him there. No ropes bit into his wrists. No chains clinked against the floor. No cuffs restrained his limbs. He was free. Utterly, unnervingly free.
That realization struck him like a spark in dry grass. If he wanted, he could rise. He could walk. He could run. The thought sent a jolt through his spine, not of hope, but of suspicion. Why leave him unbound? Was it mercy? Or was it mockery—a demonstration of how powerless he truly was, even in freedom?
Still, it was enough. Enough to make him lift his eyelids fully, to force his gaze forward, to meet whatever awaited him head-on. He braced himself—not just with muscle, but with mind—as if preparing to step onto thin ice over dark water.
And then he saw her.
Iris stood before him, framed by a room alive with light. Lamps of brass and glass hung from the ceiling and perched on shelves, their flames casting rippling halos across the walls. The warmth they emitted wasn't just physical—it was almost emotional, an invitation to comfort, to safety. Yet the irony was crushing. This beauty felt like a trap disguised as kindness. And in the center of it all, she remained motionless, her face smooth and unreadable, like a mask carved from marble. No flicker of guilt. No trace of regret. Just stillness.
Something inside Luke cracked.
Anger surged—not sudden, but deep, rising from the pit where betrayal festers. It wasn't just that she had knocked him out. It was that he had trusted her. That he had drunk poison because she told him to. That he had placed his life in her hands, believing she would protect it—and instead, she had used it against him.
"You're a cheater!" he spat, the words slicing through the quiet like a blade. His voice trembled, not from weakness, but from the sheer weight of emotion—rage, yes, but also sorrow, the pain of realizing that the person who saved him was also the one breaking him. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white, veins standing like cords beneath his skin. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that made his stomach twist.
Iris didn't flinch.
She stood there, silent, for more than ten seconds—though it felt longer. Much longer. Time stretched between them like a wire pulled taut, humming with tension. Her stillness wasn't calm. It was predatory. Controlled. As if she were measuring him, calculating every breath, every twitch of his jaw. The woman who had once seemed like salvation now looked different—colder, sharper. Her eyes, once soft with concern, now gleamed with something clinical, assessing. Authority radiated from her like heat from stone. And in that moment, Luke understood: she wasn't here as a friend. She was here as a gatekeeper.
Then his eyes dropped.
There, resting casually in her right hand, was a revolver.
Not raised. Not aimed. Just held, as naturally as one might hold a pen or a cup of tea. But its presence screamed louder than any threat ever could. It wasn't meant to kill him—not yet. It was meant to remind him. To show him, without words, who held power. Who decided when this ended. Who could end him.
Luke's anger didn't vanish. It coiled inward, retreating like a wounded animal, but still breathing, still watching. He swallowed hard. The weapon didn't need to fire to have effect. Its mere existence was enough to humble him, to strip away defiance and replace it with wary silence.
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The air thickened with unspoken words. The silence grew awkward, oppressive, like fog pressing against glass. Then, finally, Iris spoke.
"You think I kidnapped you? Abducted you? Cheated you?" Her voice was steady, level—devoid of emotion, like a surgeon explaining a procedure. "None of that is true. Yes, I rendered you unconscious. But only because I needed to bring you here without revealing its location. If you knew where we were, you might sell it. To anyone. For the right price."
Luke listened. He heard the logic. He understood it—even respected it, in a detached, analytical way. Survival demanded caution. Trust was dangerous. In this world, information was currency, and secrets were armor. But understanding wasn't acceptance. Knowing why she did it didn't erase the violation. It didn't wash away the sour taste in his mouth, the ache of being treated like a liability instead of an ally.
He stayed silent, staring at the gun.
Did she really believe he'd betray her? Did she see him as so untrustworthy that the only way to move him was to knock him out and drag him like cargo? Or was this simply how her world operated—where everyone was guilty until proven innocent, where kindness came with chains hidden beneath silk?
"You could have told me," he said at last, his voice low, stripped of fury but heavy with something worse: disappointment. "You could have explained. You could have trusted me."
For the first time, a flicker passed over Iris's face—something almost human. Regret? Doubt? It vanished before he could name it.
"Trust," she said, "is a luxury neither of us can afford right now."
The words landed like a stone in still water. They echoed in his chest. Because they revealed a truth he hadn't fully grasped: in this world of shadows, conspiracies, and unseen powers, trust wasn't the foundation of connection. It was a vulnerability. A weapon waiting to be turned against you. A flaw to be exploited.
"So why bring me here?" Luke asked, his voice hollow now, drained of resistance. The question wasn't curiosity. It was necessity. He needed to know. Even if knowing meant accepting that the woman who saved him also saw him as a threat.
"You can't know that yet," Iris replied. "It's classified. But it's for your own good too."
Her tone left no room for debate. Final. Absolute. Luke recognized it—the voice of someone who had already decided, who wouldn't be swayed.
He wanted to argue. He wanted to demand answers, to claw back some control over his own life. But the revolver remained in her hand, a silent sentinel of power. And deeper than that, a colder truth settled in: demanding answers was a privilege. Here, he had none. He depended on her—for knowledge, for shelter, for survival. She held everything. He held nothing. Not even his own life, which existed only at her discretion.
So he swallowed his pride, buried his rage, and asked instead, "So… the work I was brought here for—is it done?"
It was a way to move forward without forgiving. To acknowledge reality without pretending it was fair.
"No," she said. "It's still ongoing. It will take time. When it's complete, someone will come to inform us. After that, you'll stay in the apartment one more day, then leave for the University of Shadow the next morning. We'll assist you with everything—fees, documents, logistics."
"Thank you," Luke said quietly. "I'll repay you what I owe." Then, after a pause, "What about the old man who abducted me?"
He asked not just for closure, but to dig deeper. To understand the world he was being pulled into. The forces at play. The dangers ahead.
Before Iris could answer, the door slid open with a soft hiss.
A figure stepped through—tall, broad, imposing. As he moved forward, his features sharpened in the lamplight. A wide, rectangular face. Round, symmetrical eyes that gleamed with cold intelligence. His frame radiated strength—peak masculinity sculpted by discipline and purpose. Standing beside him, Luke felt like a child facing a mountain. Small. Insignificant. Powerless.
This was Alistair Valerius.
He approached Iris and leaned in, whispering something too low for Luke to hear. The words passed between them like secrets traded in darkness. Luke felt it then—the sensation of being a pawn. A tool. A subject in an experiment he hadn't consented to. Manipulated. Used. Meant for purposes beyond his comprehension.
But beneath the helplessness, a spark of pride flared.
At the very moment he discovered his true self—his hidden strength, his latent identity—he had kept it concealed. If he ever learned they intended to use him unwillingly, he could vanish. Change his name. Become a ghost in this vast, shadowed world. That secret advantage was his alone. And it gave him a sliver of power in a moment of utter subjugation.
Alistair turned.
His gaze locked onto Luke's—penetrating, unyielding, absolute.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice like stone grinding against iron, "you enter the University of Shadow as a candidate to become a Shadowborn. Remember this: only your strength and intelligence will define you there. Everything else—you past, your emotions, your regrets—means nothing. There, you fight merely to exist. Understood?"
Luke met his stare.
"Yes," he said. His voice didn't waver.
Outside, the sky surrendered to night.
The sun vanished beneath the horizon, swallowed whole by the earth's curve. Black clouds gathered overhead, massive and brooding, their bellies swollen with storm. Then, with a roar, they split open.
Rain fell—not in drops, but in sheets. Torrents crashed down like divine punishment, hammering rooftops, flooding streets, turning the city into a mirror of chaos. Thunder cracked across the heavens, a sound so deep it vibrated in the bones, as if the world itself were tearing apart. Each bolt lit the sky in jagged white, illuminating for a split second the silhouette of a man standing atop the tallest tower in the city.
Cloaked entirely in black, he was a shadow among shadows—indistinguishable from the night. Rain soaked through his garments, yet he didn't shiver. Didn't move. He waited. Patient. Silent. Like a predator who knew its prey would come.
Then, he leapt.
With impossible grace, he twisted through the air, spinning between buildings like a leaf caught in a gale. His form blurred against the darkness, merging with the storm, moving as if the night carried him. His eyes locked onto a distant structure—the building where Luke slept, unaware, dreaming, defenseless.
The hunter descended with deadly certainty.
Elsewhere, in a desert of endless sand beneath a blood-red sky, a nineteen-year-old boy ran.
Black hair matted with sweat. Blue eyes wide with terror. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. Behind him, a colossal scorpion—twice his size, armored in chitin the color of dried blood—chased him relentlessly, tail raised, stinger poised to strike.
"Hell… just leave me alone, you bastard!" he gasped, voice raw. "Go live your own life! Stop stealing mine!"
He knew it was a dream. But it felt real. So real that his body reacted as if it were truth—heart pounding, muscles straining, fear flooding his veins. His subconscious had always worked this way: when danger approached in the waking world, it warned him through nightmares.
Finally, exhausted, he stopped.
Gasping, trembling, he turned to face the beast.
It loomed over him. Raised its claw.
And with one swift, inevitable motion—sliced through him.
AGHHHHHH!
The boy screamed as he woke, bolting upright in bed, drenched in sweat, heart slamming against his ribs. His eyes darted to the window—and froze.
There, perched on the sill, sat a man dressed entirely in black. A silhouette against the night.
"Why can't you give me a better dream than a damn nightmare!" he shouted, frustration boiling over.
"That's not what matters now," the man replied, calm, unmoved. "I have news, Lord Ignis. Tomorrow—you join the University of Shadow."