Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ACT I: HEAVEN'S CAMPUS

1.1: THE FIRST BELL

The first bell of the semester didn’t ring - it resonated.

A thousand-year-old bronze chime set into the spire of the Seraphim Institute boomed once, and the entire structure responded like a living thing. Light bent toward the sound.

Shadows scattered. The halls exhaled with old magic — the kind that remembered when angels carried swords and devils didn’t take electives in Ethics of Intervention.

Max Verstappen, age nineteen, hated this place.

He walked through the eastern corridor with his hands in his pockets, boots echoing too loudly on polished floors that shimmered with enchanted candlelight.

His robe was regulation but rumpled - he refused to starch anything.

His halo - still faint, still crooked - hovered behind his head like it didn’t want to be associated with him.

He had started ten minutes early and still managed to be late.

“Running behind again, Verstappen?” said a smooth voice.

Professor Lewis Hamilton - Lioren to those who took divine protocol seriously - stood in the doorway of the main lecture hall, arms folded, one immaculate eyebrow arched.

Silver-etched robes fell in clean lines, the sigil of the Watcher’s Circle gleaming faintly at his collar. He looked like judgment wrapped in silk.

Max shrugged. “I’m allergic to punctuality.”

Hamilton didn’t blink. “Try Claritin. Now get in before I let Rosberg start without you.”

From inside came the unmistakable sound of a chalkboard exploding.

Max entered the lecture hall just in time to see Professor Nico Rosberg - Nyren on official documents and walking chaos in real life - grinning at the scorched remains of a lesson diagram on “cosmic authority gradients.”

“I swear it was the chalk,” Nico said, tossing a still-smoking nub aside. “Not me. Mostly.”

Max dropped into a seat at the back. The amphitheater-style room adjusted its glow slightly, sensing a shift in dynamic.

Because he had arrived.

Charles Leclerc. Also, nineteen. Also, insufferably perfect.

He stepped in like the room had been waiting for him. His robes were crisp white trimmed in gold. His pale curls were neatly pushed back beneath a circlet of light. His wings shimmered behind him like they’d never known gravity.

If Max hadn’t known better, he’d have suspected an enchantment.

But he did know better.

This was just Charles.

Charles passed without looking Max’s way and slid into the front-center seat like being the best was both habit and obligation. The seat to his right was, as always, left empty.

Hamilton began the lecture - something about celestial ethics and the morality of dream walking - but Max wasn’t listening.

He was watching the back of Charles’s head.

Not out of jealousy. Or not just out of jealousy.

They weren’t enemies. Too simple.

They were competing for the same light. Always.

Charles was always one step ahead. One breath faster. One smile brighter.

It was infuriating.

It was intoxicating.

It meant something.

And Max hadn’t figured out what.

Yet.

Later - The Courtyard

“You know,”

said George Russell, sipping something steaming from a mug labeled: ETHICS? NEVER HEARD OF HER,

“it’s actually impressive how often you and Charles nearly incinerate each other before lunch.”

Max didn’t look up. “We do not.”

“You do,” said Alex Albon, leaning against a marble column like he was posing for a divine fragrance ad.

“You and Charles are always five seconds from either kissing or dueling to the death.”

“Holy war is a love language,” Yuki said from nearby. “Especially here.”

“Can you people not?” Max muttered, hurling a grape at Yuki. He caught it in his mouth without blinking.

Alex - perched on the fountain ledge with his hood up like a bored oracle - sighed. “You’re going to break something. Probably yourself.”

Max opened his mouth to snap back - but stopped.

Across the courtyard, Charles stood speaking with Professor "Sebris" Sebastian Vettel - the Institute’s quietest and most unnervingly perceptive scholar.

He wore robes shaded like dusk and carried authority without ever raising his voice.

Charles said something that made the professor smile and clap him on the shoulder.

Warm. Proud.

Then Charles looked over.

Not a greeting - an acknowledgment. Like a rival nodding before a duel.

Max stared back. Flat. Calculating.

Evening - The Training Hall

Mandatory sparring. Fantastic.

Max was already annoyed. His opponent was late, the arena still reeked faintly of burned runes, and the class had gathered around the edges with thinly veiled anticipation.

Professor Hamilton stood in one corner; arms crossed. Professor Rosberg stood in the opposite, now peeling grapes with magic.

“This’ll be fun,” Nico murmured.

The doors opened.

Charles entered.

Max didn’t move.

Charles smiled. Not smug. Not kind. Just… deliberate.

“Oh stars,” Nico whispered, delighted.

Hamilton exhaled like someone preparing for battle. “Try not to bring down the ceiling.”

The circle lit beneath their feet.

“Ready?” Hamilton asked, gaze sweeping across the room.

Max stepped forward. “Always.”

Charles raised his hand. “Let’s begin.”

“Then begin,” Hamilton said grimly.

Light surged. Air fractured.

And just like that - everything ignited.

Chapter Text

1.2

The moment the match began, Charles moved first.

Always first.

He stepped with liquid precision, hand carving an arc that shimmered with golden sigils too old for the textbooks. The runes snapped into existence midair, swirling around him like orbiting thoughts. They pulsed once, and the arena floor glowed.

Max didn’t dazzle.

He collided.

Boot forward, he shattered the outer ring of Charles’s spell with a single forceful step, scattering glyphs like leaves. His fingers flicked upward - no elegance, just precision - and a pulse of kinetic force launched straight at Charles’s center mass.

Most students would’ve eaten floor tiles.

But not Charles.

He sidestepped, spun - spun, smiling - and sent a shimmer of counterforce straight at Max’s chest.

Max caught it midair. Held it there. Let it hover like a weightless pulse between his palms.

“Cute,” he said, before hurling it back, harder.

Gasps rippled around the arena. The air snapped cold with displaced energy.

Professor Hamilton looked like he was aging in real time.

“I said don’t destroy the building.”

“Sorry,” Charles called sweetly, not sorry at all.

Max snarled under his breath. “You do know we’re supposed to be training, not auditioning for celestial Broadway, right?”

Charles’s smirk didn’t falter. “And yet you’re throwing tantrums with gravity. How dramatic.”

“You love when I get mad.”

Charles didn’t reply.

But the gleam in his eyes said: Yes.

They moved like dual stormfronts, circling each other in perfect balance - light and force, control and instinct, the precision of a fencer against the momentum of a brawler. Max’s power was blunt and physical, carved out of pure will. Charles’s was exacting, woven with centuries-old language and dangerous grace.

It wasn’t hatred.

It was something worse.

Fascination.

And under it all, in Max’s chest, a whisper stirred - quiet, chilling:

He’s not what he seems.

Not just the golden boy. Not just top of the class. Not just light.

There was something underneath all that beauty.

Something wrong.

Afterward - The Infirmary

“You’re lucky you didn’t rupture a leyline,” Professor Hamilton said, pacing with the energy of a man who’d seen this exact disaster coming and been ignored anyway. “Or start an actual war. Between your egos, I could power half the underworld for a decade.”

Max winced as a healer pressed a glowing salve to his shoulder. “He started it.”

“Oh good,” Hamilton said flatly. “We’ve regressed to toddler logic.”

“Nineteen-year-old’s logic,” said Rosberg from his perch on the windowsill, grinning as he popped another grape in his mouth. “And madly in love.”

Max nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

Nico waved his hand lazily. “Oh please. The mutual obsession? The duel-as-foreplay energy? I’ve seen actual soul-bonding rituals with less tension.”

“I’m not - He’s not - It’s not like that,” Max snapped.

Nico’s smirk only deepened. “Sure. It isn’t.”

Hamilton didn’t even look up. “Just keep the building intact. And maybe stop lighting each other on fire.”

Elsewhere - The Library

Charles stood in front of a tall bookshelf, running his fingers across leather-bound volumes older than some continents. He wasn’t reading. Just… thinking.

A shadow fell over him.

Professor Vettel, master of elemental theory and quiet insight - joined him without sound, hands folded behind his back.

“You held back.”

Charles said nothing.

Sebastian tilted his head. “Why?”

Still silence.

“You could’ve ended that match in thirty seconds.”

Charles finally turned. His eyes - soft, innocent, endlessly unreadable - locked onto Sebastian’s with something like sorrow.

“I didn’t want to win.”

Sebastian studied him carefully. “And what did you want?”

Charles’s smile was gentle.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I wanted to see if he’d fight like he meant it.”

Chapter Text

1.3

The first time Max saw the crack, he wasn’t even looking.

It was three days after the duel.

He was halfway through a conjuration drill in Professor Alonso’s class – technically: “Fundamentals of Light Refraction and Emotional Intent,” though most just called it Advanced Boredom.

Max, as usual, had finished early. His light spell looped around itself in a figure-eight pattern, just to see if he could make it spiral. It shimmered blue-white in his palm, cold and clean.

“Show off,” Pierre muttered from two seats over.

Max didn’t respond.

Alex tossed a paper charm at him. “Take a break, Vaylorn. You’re gonna overheat your halo.”

Max twitched at the name. “Don’t call me that.”

Alex blinked. “Touchy.”

But Max wasn’t listening anymore.

Because across the room, Charles - Kaelis to the faculty, golden boy to everyone else - had faltered.

Just for a second.

His sigil stuttered. The light dimmed.

And then, it flickered dark.

Not dim.

Dark.

A vein of black light shimmered under the golden surface of Charles’s conjuration, like oil bleeding into water. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a blinding burst of gold so beautiful the whole class clapped instinctively.

But Max didn’t clap.

He just stared.

Later - The Garden Steps

“Stop pacing. You’ll ruin the grass,” George said, lounging on the stone bench beside the fountain.

“I’m not pacing,” Max muttered.

“You’ve been tracing the same figure-eight around the cherub statue for ten minutes. Even the cherub looks dizzy.”

Max sat down beside him; arms crossed tight. His mind was racing.

“Something’s wrong with Charles,” he said quietly.

George snorted. “Besides being annoying, brilliant, infuriatingly symmetrical, and his pathological need to win at everything? No. Pretty standard.”

“No, it’s different.” Max paused. “I saw -”

He cut himself off. Shook his head.

“You saw what?” George asked, genuinely curious now.

“Nothing. Probably. Forget it.”

“You have a history of assuming the worst.”

“I have a history of being right.”

George sighed. “Or you just hate him.”

Max shook his head. “That’s the thing. I don’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable.

George looked at him sideways. “You’ve been weird since Monday.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Yeah,” George agreed. “But this is different. It’s like... you’re trying to solve a riddle that only exists in your own head. Again.”

Max looked down at his hands, flexed them once. They still glowed faintly from earlier spell work. But the light felt... off. Unsettled.

Alex nudged him lightly. “You don’t have to keep proving yourself to everyone, you know.”

Max stiffened. “I’m not.”

“Mhm,” George said, unconvinced. “You’ve only re-written half the syllabus and won four duels in a week. Not overcompensating at all.”

Max looked away; jaw tight.

From the far end of the garden, laughter echoed - light and honey-warm. Charles, walking with Professor Vettel again, both radiant like a Renaissance painting.

Max didn’t realize he was staring until George added softly, “You really think he’s hiding something?”

Max answered before he could think too hard.

“I know he is.”

Evening – The Dormitories

Max didn’t visit the mirror often.

He didn’t like what it said.

He stood in front of it now, arms bare, wings half-folded in the dim light of his room. His reflection looked... wrong.

Not because of the way his halo still flickered instead of glowing steady. Not because of the faint lines on his back where his wings sometimes glitched, like they were waiting to be something else.

It was the echo in his head. A voice he hadn’t heard all day - but felt.

“You still think light makes you less of a disgrace?”

His father had said it over breakfast once, back when Max was four and first sprouted feathers instead of fire.

He’d smiled when he said it.

Like a joke.

Max hadn’t laughed.

He touched the mirror now, and whispered, “They’ll see.”

He didn’t say who they were.

He didn’t have to.

Elsewhere - The South Tower Library

Charles Leclerc stood alone beneath a mosaic of a burning city.

The book in front of him should’ve been sealed. It was.

But the spell had undone itself the moment he touched it.

The script inside writhed, resisting translation. But he didn’t need to read it. He already knew what it said.

T he inheritance is not Light.

The child will wear gold, but his bones remember flame.

A whisper curled up from the shadows behind him.

“You let him see.”

Charles didn’t move. “It was an accident.”

The voice didn’t care. “You’re slipping.”

His reflection shimmered in the windowpane.

For one breath, it wasn’t his face looking back.

It was something else.

Then - gone.

Chapter Text

1.4

The Sanctified Sustenance Hall - a name Yuki insisted was made up by monks who had never met real hunger - was loud, blindingly lit, and too early for any of it. Plates floated, drinks hovered politely until summoned, and somewhere in the background, a harp played itself into a nervous breakdown.

Max dropped his tray on the usual table like he wanted to fight it.

Yuki didn’t look up. “You stomp like you have a vendetta against breakfast.”

“Just hungry.”

“Same thing,” George muttered, adjusting his collar like the fabric offended him.

Alex smirked. “He’s hangry because Charles beat him to the Seraphic Alignment answer this morning.”

“He didn’t beat me,” Max snapped. “He just said it louder.”

“And with a smile,” George added. “Which apparently earns bonus points from Sebris.”

“Professor Vettel is biased,” Max said, stabbing his food like it insulted his ancestors.

“Biased toward logic, clarity, and not scowling like a celestial gargoyle,” Pierre offered, sliding into the seat next to Charles at a nearby table. “But please - do go on.”

Charles laughed, quiet and bright.

Carlos, seated beside him, didn’t look up from his book. “Don’t provoke him, Phaeron.”

“Max never scowls,” Pierre said. “It’s just his face.”

Max absolutely didn’t look over.

“Anyway,” Alex said, nudging Max, “how does it feel watching Charles glow his way into another professor’s inner circle?”

Max stabbed his toast. “I’m not keeping score.”

George gave him a flat look. “You have an actual scorebook.”

“It’s color-coded,” Yuki added.

“I’m just not bothered.”

From across the hall, Charles glanced up. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat.

Max looked away first.

Three Tables Over

Lando Norris slumped over his tray like he was narrating a tragedy.

“I swear to the nine celestial planes, if Carlos calls me ‘kid’ one more time, I’m throwing myself into the sun.”

“You are a kid,” Alex said.

“You literally cried at a pigeon last week,” Yuki added.

“That pigeon had presence.” Lando straightened, eyes locking on Carlos. “Look at him. Reading spells like they’re romance novels. With his hands.”

Carlos turned a page. His sleeves were rolled up. His hair was annoyingly perfect.

Lando sighed like he’d been shot.

Pierre raised an eyebrow. “You’re writing another poem, aren’t you?”

“I already did.”

“Oh no,” George muttered.

“Shut up, this one’s good.” Lando cleared his throat theatrically.

“His voice, a blade.

His eyes, a storm.

I dream of him in sacred shades,

I want to die in sacred form.”

“Lando,” Carlos said without looking up, “I can hear you.”

“Good,” Lando said brightly. “I wrote that line for volume.”

Charles snorted. “Subtlety is dead.”

“Subtlety doesn’t have abs like Carlos,” Lando replied, practically glowing. “Subtlety isn’t the captain of every group project. Subtlety doesn’t do sword drills shirtless.”

“That was once,” Carlos muttered.

“It was Christmas.”

Pierre leaned over to Charles. “Should we be stopping this?”

Charles looked mildly amused. “I’m enjoying it.”

Max, from his seat, said nothing.

But the grip on his fork was less-than-divine.

Later - Out by the Pool

The stars were out. The air shimmered faintly, like the ground still remembered spells cast here centuries ago.

Max sat with the usual crew at the stone bench near the scrying pool. The water shimmered calmly. For now.

“You do realize Carlos will never love you,” Yuki said casually.

“I don’t want him to love me,” Lando lied.

“You want him to love you so hard,” Alex said.

“It’s written all over your tragic little mortal face,” Pierre added, lounging nearby.

Carlos, mercifully out of earshot, was meditating under a tree like a pagan statue.

Meanwhile, Max stared into the water.

Not at his reflection.

Not really.

“Still thinking about Charles’s spell flicker?” Alex asked.

Max didn’t respond.

“Or was it the way he smiled at you this morning? Like he knew something you didn’t?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re so mysterious,” Alex said. “It’s adorable.”

Max stood suddenly. “I’m going to the library.”

“At this hour?” George frowned.

“Knowledge doesn’t have office hours,” Max replied, already walking.

“Neither does your obsession,” Yuki called after him.

“Charles isn’t my obsession,” Max muttered.

“Max,” Alex said gently, “you watched Charles stir tea this morning like it was a tactical maneuver.”

Max was already walking.

They let him go.

But the look in his eyes as he left - that quiet, furious focus - said the same thing they were all thinking:

Something was wrong with Charles.

And Max was going to figure it out.

Even if it meant getting far too close to the truth.

Chapter Text

1.5

It happened in the sanctum corridor.

The one lined with whisper glass - long, shimmering panels enchanted to echo only truth. No lies, no illusions. A hallway built for angels.

Max had taken the long way back from the library. He’d read the same page six times without absorbing a word. The truth sat coiled behind his ribs like a second heartbeat:

Something’s wrong with Charles.

But he had nothing solid. Nothing to say out loud.

Not yet.

He turned the corner. And stopped.

Because Charles stood at the far end of the corridor, alone.

No Pierre. No Carlos. No smile.

Just him. Still, silent. Facing the whisper glass.

Max almost called out.

Then he saw it.

Charles’s reflection didn’t match him.

The boy in the mirror wasn’t standing - he was grinning. Not the usual bright, crowd-pleasing smile. Something sharper. Hungrier. Wrong.

And Charles… hadn’t noticed.

Max froze.

The light around Charles’s body was golden, as always. But the mirror behind him showed shadow leaking out around his feet. Black tendrils curling inward like smoke.

Max blinked.

It was gone.

Charles turned.

Too fast.

His expression reset in a heartbeat. Smile perfect. Shoulders relaxed.

“Max,” he said warmly, like nothing was wrong. “Out late?”

Max stared. “What -”

“I was just passing through,” Charles continued, stepping closer. “Couldn't sleep. The stars were loud tonight.”

His voice was normal. Too normal.

Max swallowed. “You were looking in the glass.”

Charles tilted his head. “Was I?”

“You were -” Max started. “It didn’t look like you.”

A beat.

Then Charles laughed. Light, effortless.

“You’re seeing things.”

Max didn’t laugh.

Charles took one step closer. “Maybe you’re spending too much time chasing monsters. Don’t you ever get tired?”

Max’s fists clenched. “Do you ever drop the act?”

A pause.

That golden smile didn’t falter. Not exactly. But something in it... twisted.

For a split second, it looked like Charles wasn’t just playing innocent.

He was enjoying it.

Then -

Footsteps behind them. Pierre and Carlos rounding the corner, mid-conversation, both pausing when they spotted them.

“Am I interrupting a very intense standoff?” Pierre asked, eyes flicking between the two of them.

Charles turned easily, as if nothing had happened. “Just a debate. Max thinks I’m secretly a demon.”

Pierre grinned. “I mean, your skincare routine is unholy.”

Carlos gave Max a look - unreadable, but edged with concern. “You alright?”

Max didn’t answer.

He just nodded once. Too sharp.

Charles clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “Goodnight, Max.”

Max didn’t move.

He stared at the whisper glass.

Where his reflection still stood tall, silver-blue light pouring from his shoulders.

And where Charles’s reflection no longer smiled. It watched.

And winked.

Later - Professor Hamilton’s Office

“You look like you haven’t slept in three days,” Lewis said mildly, pouring tea that glowed faintly at the edges.

Max didn’t sit. “Can I ask you something?”

Lewis raised an eyebrow.

“Has Charles ever… failed a purity scan?”

Lewis gave him a long, slow look. “No. Never.”

“Are you sure?”

“I run them, Max.”

Max paced. “Could someone fake it?”

Lewis didn’t answer immediately.

Behind him, a file cabinet clicked softly shut on its own.

Lewis’s voice was quiet when it came. “Why are you asking?”

Max didn’t know how to answer. Not fully.

“He smiled at me wrong,” was not enough.

So instead, he said, “It felt like a lie. Like he’s not what we think.”

Lewis folded his hands. “Max. You are one of the most gifted students we’ve seen in a generation. But if you start chasing shadows without proof, you’re going to burn yourself out. Or worse - hurt someone innocent.”

Max stared. “You think I’m imagining it.”

“I think,” Lewis said gently, “you’re trying too hard to outrun a name that doesn’t define you.”

Max flinched.

Barely.

But Lewis saw it.

Max turned away. “I’m fine.”

Lewis didn’t stop him from leaving.

But as the door clicked shut, he looked toward a sealed drawer on his desk - ancient, locked with three spells.

And frowned.

Chapter Text

ACT II: ASHES AND WINGS

2.1

The tower ballroom was supposed to be off-limits after dusk. Which, naturally, meant everyone went there after dusk.

It was a relic of some divine age - gold-veined marble, suspended candlelight, a floor that shimmered like moonstone. Usually used for formal rites, graduation ceremonies, or whatever dramatic nonsense Professor Rosberg enjoyed dressing up for.

Tonight? It was a dance party. Sort of.

Pierre had enchanted the lighting spells to mimic starbursts. Yuki had allegedly convinced the drink table to serve celestial cocktails that wouldn't cause minor corruption. Alex charmed the music with something that had once been played at mortal weddings.

Max didn’t know who had invited him.

He stood near the balcony doors, dressed in ink-dark formalwear, jaw sharp, expression unreadable. Watching the revelry. The laughter. The light.

Then Charles walked in.

Not alone. Of course not.

Carlos was at his side, crisp shirt half-unbuttoned, rolling his sleeves like sin didn’t count in soft lighting. Pierre flanked the other side, already drinking, eyes glinting like mischief in glass.

But Charles -

He glowed.

Not literally. But almost. Dressed in midnight blue, collar open, cuffs rolled, steps easy. Like he belonged at the center of gravity.

Max’s first thought was: Of course.

His second: Dangerous.

His third: Don’t stare.

He stared.

Somewhere on the Dance Floor

“Carlos,” Lando hissed. “Dance with me.”

Carlos didn’t even turn. “You’ve had three Ambrosia Fizzes. That’s enough romance for the week.”

“That’s not romance,” Lando said, wounded. “That’s hydration.”

“That’s possession.”

“By love.”

Yuki passed by and muttered, “If you combust, I’m not cleaning it up.”

Pierre raised his drink. “I will.”

Lando didn’t hear any of it.

He only had eyes for Carlos, who, tragically, only had eyes for whatever conversation Charles was having with Max across the room.

Minutes Later, Balcony Doors

“You’re not dancing,” Charles said lightly.

Max didn’t look at him. “Neither are you.”

“I don’t have to. I command the vibe.”

Max snorted. “Modest.”

Charles leaned beside him against the pillar, just far enough not to touch. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been studying.”

“For what? My deepest secret?”

Max glanced sideways. “Would you tell me if I asked?”

Charles smiled. Max stared at him.

Charles tilted his head, the candlelight catching in his eyes.

“What is it you think I’m hiding, Max?”

Max didn’t answer.

Because the answer was: everything. And also: nothing.

Charles tilted his head. “If I were hiding something, would it scare you?”

“Already does,” Max said softly.

Later - The Dance Floor

Someone (Alex, probably) had charmed the music into something with strings. Slower.

Darker.

Max didn’t realize he’d moved until Charles was holding out a hand.

“Dance with me.”

Max blinked. “I don’t dance.”

“You duel in circles. It’s basically choreography.”

“That’s not the same.”

Charles smirked. “Scared you’ll step on my feet?”

“Scared I won’t want to stop.”

Charles paused.

Just for a second.

Then smiled - that smile. The one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll take that risk.”

Max hated how easy it was. How his hands found Charles’s waist like they’d done this before. How Charles’s fingers brushed lightly at the back of his neck, grounding and burning all at once.

Their steps weren’t perfect. But they were close. Too close.

“Why are you really here, Charles?” Max murmured.

Charles’s hand tightened. Barely.

“I belong here,” he said softly.

“No,” Max said. “You perform here.”

A beat.

Charles leaned in; voice velvet-dark. “So do you.”

And gods help Max, it wasn’t wrong.

Then the candles above them flickered. Not gold.

Black.

For a heartbeat.

Neither of them moved.

Observatory - Hours Later

George found Max pacing.

“You gonna tell me why you ghosted half the night?”

Max shook his head. “Something happened. During the dance.”

George waited.

“I saw it again,” Max whispered. “The dark flicker. His magic isn’t pure, George. It’s something else. And he doesn’t care if I see it.”

George frowned. “Then tell Lioren.”

Max looked up sharply. “I can’t.”

George’s voice was steady. “Why not?”

Max’s answer came like smoke. “Because if I’m right, I’ll have to choose. Between stopping him. Or saving him. And I don’t know if I want to be right.”

George was silent for a long time.

Then, “You’re assuming he wants either.”

Elsewhere - A Hidden Hallway

Charles sat alone, back against an old stone wall, chest rising and falling like he was fighting to breathe.

His hands trembled. The reflection in the cracked glass across from him didn’t.

It stood. Still. Calm. Smiling.

"You're losing your grip, Kaelis."

“Stop,” Charles whispered.

"You let him see. Again."

“Shut up.”

"You want him to."

Charles shut his eyes.

And the voice coiled around him like smoke.

"You always did."

And somewhere, far below, in a locked wing of the sanctum archives - Professor Sebris stirred from meditation. His eyes opened.

The whisper glass was humming again.

This time, it was calling his name.