The sun dipped below the Academy's central tower as the last class ended, casting long shadows across the western terraces. Students filtered from lecture halls in loose clusters, still humming with debate over today's field technique demonstration.

Aston moved quietly through the dispersing crowd. His jacket fluttered faintly with each step, spiritlight from the arching walkways brushing along his collar. Behind him, Mirage flew high above the domes in tight, slow circles. Gray padded near his heels, his movement as silent as breath.

"You're not coming to the arena?" Rowan had asked earlier in the day. "Some of the other second-years want to test rookies."

"I've got something else," Aston had replied simply.

Kai had narrowed his eyes. "Training?"

"In a way."

They didn't press him further. Seria only gave him a small nod. She had seen the look in his eyes.

Still, beyond his close circle, the tone was different.

He'd proven himself in class—accurate spirit resonance scans, quick team decisions, even defeating Mavrek. But outside the classroom walls, his name still bore weightless impressions.

"Rhyner, wasn't that the one who got a 'clear' reading during awakening?"

"I heard he's only decent because he rides others' coattails."

"His spirit beast is impressive. But is he?"

He ignored them. Let the noise remain noise.

—

By the time he reached the weather-worn courtyard—half forgotten at the northeast edge of campus—the dusk haze had rolled in. The cracked stone arch still loomed as before, ivy clawing its edges.

Mirage landed softly on his shoulder, feathers faintly glowing with residual frostlight. Gray stood alert beside him.

Aston took a breath.

"Nova. Trigger scan. Overlay the hidden entrance."

The world shifted. A subtle shimmer wavered behind one of the central stone pillars. To most, it looked like a weathered wall of slate. But to Aston's eyes—guided by Nova—it unraveled, revealing a faint glyph-etched frame.

The archway pulsed once in acknowledgment of his presence.

Aston stepped through.

—

The temperature dipped immediately. The air inside was still, but not dead. Like something had just moved and left silence behind.

The tunnel beyond was narrow, the walls carved with intent rather than convenience. A faint hum whispered along the edge of hearing. Magical arrays, dormant for years, now flickered back to life.

Ahead, the tunnel was split into two—a fork.

To the left, a spiral descent. To the right, a bridge carved of stone and suspended by spectral chains over a chasm with no bottom.

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"Of course she wouldn't make it easy," Aston muttered.

Knowing no context about the fork, he took the bridge.

The corridor narrowed ahead, dimly lit by hovering motes of spiritlight embedded into the arched walls. Their faint blue glow danced along the stone, revealing just enough to move—but not enough to be sure. The air grew still, unnervingly so, as if something just beyond hearing had fallen silent to listen.

Aston stepped onto the suspended stone bridge that stretched across a shallow chasm within the tunnel. The floor wasn't natural—it floated, tethered by taut spiritsteel chains anchored into the cavern walls. Each slab swayed with the tiniest motion, creaking softly under his footfalls.

Halfway across, he paused.

There. A subtle shimmer—so faint it could've been dismissed as heat haze or reflection—rippled just beneath his foot.

He drew his foot back instinctively. The resonance glyph was hidden expertly, layered into the cracks of the stone. If he had stepped forward fully, the glyph would have triggered.

And the entire slab?

Likely a decoy. A trigger point meant to lure the reckless.

"Mirage," he whispered, barely above a breath.

Above, perched on the arched wall to his right, Mirage stirred. Her feathers glowed faintly, translucent in the gloom, and she understood instantly.

With a gentle flap of her wings, Mirage conjured a short, focused gust—nothing loud or sharp, just enough to dislodge a loose pebble near Aston's boot. The stone clattered forward, bouncing once, twice—then rolled across the glyph-etched slab.

The moment it passed the midpoint, the glyph flared with a faint violet flash.

Thunk.

With a hiss of released pressure, the slab dropped cleanly downward into the void below, chains snapping free with a jarring snap before the entire platform vanished into the darkness.

Aston remained frozen for a moment, watching the chasm swallow the stone.

Then the chains shifted.

Creaaaaak.

The remaining bridge sections adjusted, tension balancing, counterweights clicking softly behind the walls.

His eyes narrowed. That wasn't a single-use trap—it was adaptive. It was watching him, testing him.

Aston exhaled once. Calm, steady.

He crouched low, scanning the edges of the remaining stones. No visible glyphs, but that didn't mean much. The second trap might not be visible. Or it might activate only under certain weights, gaits, or even temperature thresholds.

He pressed his palm to the stone beneath him. It was cool. Faint spirit pressure hummed through it—not from the slab, but from somewhere beneath, embedded deeper into the infrastructure.

He adjusted his weight slowly and moved forward. Heel to toe. Each step was deliberate. He placed his feet near the bolts where the spiritsteel chains met the slabs—those were likely the most reinforced points. Between each step, he paused, letting the structure settle. Letting it learn his rhythm, and then betray it.

The chains clanked again. Slightly.

Another trap somewhere?

He slowed further, letting Mirage hover beside him, her form nearly invisible in the dim. If anything shifted, she'd respond before he could.

Three more steps. The final slab was just ahead. No glyphs. No shimmer. But Aston didn't trust it.

Instead of stepping directly, he reached into his satchel, pulled a shard of broken chalkstone from earlier, and tossed it gently toward the final slab.

It hit.

Nothing.

Then a click.

Pssssh.

A burst of faint mist jetted up from the side of the slab, the kind used to temporarily blur vision or coat clothes with essence markers. A tracking mist. Nonlethal—this time.

He waited.

No reaction followed. No hidden darts, no floor drop.

A warning, then. A marker, if he'd been careless.

He stepped to the edge, gathered himself—and crossed in a smooth, measured motion.

The glyph beneath his boot remained inert.

And then he was across.

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