Sign Of The Infernal Root

The morning bell of the Wardens' Academy rang out like a call from another world, yet to Aren it sounded hollow, distant. His sleep had been broken again, plagued by the same memories—Lyra reaching out to him with terror in her eyes, Finn's last scream, Marin collapsing beneath the burning glow of demon fire. When he opened his eyes, it was the dormitory ceiling that greeted him, not the blood-stained church of Lynden, but the ache in his chest remained the same.

He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his temples. The Silent Mark on his left hand throbbed faintly, as if mocking him.

"Why now?" he asked himself for what felt like the hundredth time. "Why did this awaken only when they were already gone?"

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Aren, you up? Breakfast's about to end!"

It was Kael Draven, the boy with untidy brown hair who had made it his mission to pester him since his arrival. Aren didn't reply. After a pause, Kael sighed.

"Fine, but don't blame me when the good bread's gone!"

Later that morning, the Novitiate class gathered in the lecture hall—a circular room with vines of living wood arching across the ceiling. Serin Elthrae stood at the front, arms crossed, her dark hair tied in a high braid.

"Today, you'll have a new classmate," she announced curtly. "Elira Vaelith."

From the doorway stepped a slender elf girl, her long silver-haired flowing like liquid moonlight, her emerald eyes sharp and proud. The emblem of House Vaelith gleamed on her collar—a name that even humans recognized, one of the Canopy's most prestigious noble families.

A murmur rippled through the cadets.

Elira inclined her head slightly, her tone cool: "Elira Vaelith. I expect to find adequate competition here."

Her gaze swept the room and landed on Aren, lingering just long enough for her brows to knit imperceptibly.

That's him? The so-called prodigy they rescued from the Middle Trunk? He doesn't look like much…

Aren didn't react. He'd grown numb to stares and whispers.

The first lesson of the day was Arcana Theory. A pale-skinned dwarf instructor named Hadrik explained the fundamentals, his deep voice rumbling through the room.

"Arcana is the lifeblood of Yggraeth," he said, drawing glowing sigils in the air. "It flows through all living beings, shaping magic and fueling combat. Control is everything. Without discipline, Arcana consumes the wielder."

The cadets practiced basic channeling exercises—drawing small motes of light between their palms. Most produced steady glows; Elira conjured a graceful emerald flame that danced effortlessly on her fingertips.

When it was Aren's turn, the Silent Mark burned against his skin. He tried to separate his own Arcana from the seething power of the demon souls he carried, but the lines blurred. A pulse of uncontrolled energy burst forth, shattering the practice crystal before him.

A sharp crack echoed through the hall. Cadets yelped and staggered back.

Hadrik scowled. "Careless, boy! You could've burned half the class!"

Aren clenched his fist, his breathing ragged. The whispers began almost immediately.

Elira, seated across from him, studied the faint glow fading from his Mark. "So that's the source of his power… dangerous, uncontrolled. Pathetic, yet… curious."

The afternoon brought close combat training. Varrik, the burly beastkin instructor, herded the cadets into the sparring arena.

"Pair up," he barked. "You learn by fighting."

Elira's gaze flicked toward Aren. "You," she said, voice carrying an imperious edge. "I'll test whether the rumors of Lynden are exaggerated."

Kael whispered urgently to Aren, "You don't have to accept—she's a Vaelith! She's been training since before we could walk."

Aren stepped forward without a word. Something in Elira's tone—prideful, dismissive—ignited a spark deep within him. Perhaps a part of him wanted to prove, if only to himself, that he was still alive.

The duel began. Elira moved first, her wooden practice blade flashing in a blur of graceful strikes. She pressed Aren hard, her Arcana-enhanced footwork flawless. Aren barely parried, his body moving on instinct.

A thrust grazed his shoulder; pain flared.

Too fast…

Then, unbidden, the strength of the demon souls welled up within him. His movements sharpened, his muscles surging with unnatural power. He pivoted, catching Elira's blade with his own and forcing her back several paces.

The murmurs in the crowd grew louder. For the first time, Elira's cool composure faltered.

"Impossible… he's faster than me?"

She thought.

Driven by instinct, Aren advanced. Each clash of their blades rang like a bell, his raw strength overwhelming her refined technique. But as his momentum built, the Silent Mark on his hand throbbed violently, demon whispers flooding his mind.

More… give me more…

The power surged, wild and hungry. Dark sigils flared faintly across Aren's skin. The air around him trembled with restrained energy.

"Stop!" Serin's voice cracked through the haze.

Aren froze, chest heaving. He'd stopped the Mark just short of overwhelming him, but the arena reeked of raw, oppressive Arcana. Murmurs of fear swept the cadets.

Varrik growled. "That's enough. Match over."

Elira lowered her blade, her breathing controlled but her mind whirling. "That… wasn't him fighting. Something else was there, clawing to get out… and he stopped it." For the first time, she found herself genuinely intrigued.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Aren barely tasted his dinner, barely registered Kael's endless chatter.

That night, long after lights-out, he sat alone on the dormitory balcony. The Canopy's night breeze carried the resin-sweet scent of the World Tree.

"I almost lost control today…"

He raised his left hand. The Silent Mark pulsed with an eerie glow. Whispers seeped into his thoughts—temptations of unrestrained power, promises of invincibility.

Just let go… we can make sure you'll never be powerless again…

He gritted his teeth. "No. Not again. I won't let you control me."

The Mark's glow dimmed reluctantly, the whispers fading back into silence.

Behind him, the door creaked open. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"

Elira leaned against the frame, arms crossed, her usual haughty expression in place.

"I came to tell you," she said coolly, "we're in the same team for tomorrow's group drill. Try not to lose control and embarrass me."

Aren didn't answer. Elira turned to leave, then hesitated. "That… thing inside you. You fought it back. Not many could."

For a heartbeat, her emerald eyes softened, curiosity mingling with something unspoken, before the wall of pride returned.

"Get some sleep, commoner," she said, and quickly left him.

Aren stared after her, unsettled. For the first time since Lynden, someone had looked at him without fear—or pity.

He glanced once more at the Silent Mark. Its glow was faint now, but the burden remained.

"Each soul makes me stronger… and less myself."

Aren tightened his grip on his pendant.