The first thing Drake registered was pain—a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed through every muscle in his body. His vision swam as he forced his eyes open, the sterile white ceiling of the medical bay coming into focus. The sharp scent of antiseptic burned his nostrils.
Alive. Somehow.
He tried to sit up, but his arms trembled violently, refusing to bear his weight. His ribs screamed in protest, and his head pounded as if split open.
"Don't move."
The voice was calm but firm. Sir Duron appeared at the side of his bed like a phantom, his golden eyes unreadable. The usual disdain was gone, replaced by something colder—assessment.
Drake swallowed, his throat raw. "Connor?"
"Alive," Duron said flatly. "Barely."
A weight settled in Drake's chest. He remembered flashes—Connor's fists, the taste of blood, then... red. A presence. A voice that wasn't his.
"Die."
He flexed his fingers, half-expecting them to glow crimson again. But his skin was pale, unmarked. No trace of the power that had erupted from him.
Duron stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "What happened in that arena wasn't Aether. It wasn't you. What was it?"
Drake met his gaze. "I don't know."
For the first time, Duron hesitated. He had never felt anything like that before. The pressure he had felt from Drake was powerful, but he had faced worse. What differentiated it from any other form of pressure he had experienced was the bloodlust—it was intense, too intense. In that moment, he had felt as though his body was wrapped in something inhuman, like a knife pressed against his throat, ready to butcher him at any second.
The door hissed open before Duron could press further. Principal Winston strode in, his expression unreadable. Behind him, Vanessa lingered, her gaze flickering toward Jackson's retreating form before locking onto Drake.
"Leave us," Winston ordered.
Duron didn't argue. He cast Drake one last look before slipping out.
Winston waited until the door sealed. "The official report states Connor Frey lost control of his Aether during the duel. An accident."
Drake's jaw tightened. "That's a lie."
"A necessary one," Vanessa cut in. "Unless you'd like people to find out an unawakened with an inhibitor took out an entire class of students while also putting a Count-rank lecturer in the hospital. I assure you, it won't take long before the Houses dissect you to find out what you really are."
The threat hung in the air.
Winston exhaled. "You will return to your dorm. You will attend classes. And you will not speak of this incident. Are we clear?"
Drake's fingers twitched. He wanted answers. But arguing now would be suicide.
Vanessa stepped forward, her voice low. "Whatever that power was, it's dormant now." Her eyes bore into his. "And when it resurfaces, you'd better be ready."
---
Jackson hadn't passed out like the others.
While the shockwave had sent students crumpling to the ground, Jackson had torn off his own Aether inhibitor mid-fall—the damn thing was only dulling his senses when he needed them most. He'd clung to consciousness through sheer will, his now-unrestrained Aether flaring just enough to keep him upright as the wave of force crashed over him. And so, through the haze of dust and swirling energy, he'd seen it all—the moment Drake's fingers closed around Connor's wrist, the way bone splintered like dry wood under impossible force, the way Connor's face twisted in shock before his body went limp.
And that voice.
It hadn't been Drake's.
Now, hours later, Jackson sat cross-legged in his dorm, eyes closed, replaying the scene in his mind. The official story was already spreading—Connor lost control. An accident.
Bullshit.
By nightfall, he returned to the training grounds. The wreckage of the arena loomed under the moonlight, workers moving like shadows as they filled the crater and repaired the shattered floor. Jackson lingered at the edge, watching. His boot scuffed against something metallic.
He crouched, fingers closing around a twisted piece of alloy—scorched runes, shattered circuitry.
Drake's Aether inhibitor.
The device had exploded during the incident, its components scattered like shrapnel. Jackson turned the fragment over in his palm. If the inhibitor had been active, Drake shouldn't have been able to access any power—let alone whatever that was.
A whisper of movement.
Vanessa Blaze stood at the edge of the light, her crimson eyes gleaming.
"Curiosity is dangerous, Jackson," she murmured.
He didn't flinch. "So are lies."
She smiled, slow and knowing. "Then I suggest you be very careful where you step."
Jackson pocketed the fragment and turned away.
The truth burned hotter than any Aether.
---
Drake lay in the dark, his body still aching. The inhuman power was gone. The foreign consciousness that had invaded his mind had also disappeared, but its absence felt like a missing limb.
He closed his eyes, and the crimson gaze from his dreams stared back.
"You are not deserving."
A knock at the door shattered the silence.
Alexis stood outside, his usual composure frayed. "We need to talk."
Behind him, Xian leaned against the wall, her smirk absent. For once, she looked deadly serious.
Drake exhaled.
The fallout had only just begun