Novel-novel oleh Cedrick Abecia

After all the commotion, the hallways of Caelron Academy became quiet this morning—too quiet.Elarion’s footsteps echoed sharp against the marble floor as he walked alone, shadows of towering pillars trailing beside him. The massive double doors at the end stood like a monument—carved obsidian wood, etched with old glyphs that shimmered faintly under the mana lights.CLASS S - SPECIAL DIVISIONA metal sign on top of the gigantic doors.Reserved for the best.Or the worst.He pushed the doors open.Silence fell.Heads turned. Instinctual. Simultaneous.He stepped in, calm as ever, his presence subtle but suffocating—like smoke you didn’t notice until you were already choking on it.Elarion scanned the room.Sevrien, the Crown Prince sat in the center—white hair neatly combed, posture impeccable. Cold gaze locked forward like he was still in a war room. He didn’t even flinch.Beside him sat Lysaria, the Imperial Princess—poised, regal, every movement deliberate. Her sharp gaze flicked

Lucien Roenthal expected fear.He always did.It was a currency he'd grown rich on—fear. From the moment he first scorched the training yard with a flick of his hand, to the day he burned through half a bandit camp at the age of thirteen. People learned to flinch. To shrink. To look away when he stepped into a room.So when the crowd parted and Elarion Valtor turned toward him, Lucien braced for it—that flicker in the eye, that subtle lean back, that pulse of uncertainty.But it never came.Instead, Elarion walked forward.Slow. Unbothered.Like a man taking a stroll through fog.Lucien's smirk twitched, but he didn’t let it drop. So that’s how he plays it.Elarion stopped just short of him. Not a single word yet. Just those unnerving eyes—too sharp for someone their age. He tilted his head slightly, as if assessing a stain on his boot.Then finally, the boy spoke. Voice calm. Low.“What business do you have with me?”The words weren’t a challenge. Not quite.They were worse.They wer

The silence of the ceremony clung to him, long after the torches dimmed. It wasn’t just absence of sound—it was a residue. A weight. Like something sacred had died, and no one dared speak its name. Even now, as he walked the sterile corridors of the dormitory wing, it hadn’t left. It clung to his skin. His lungs. His bones. Marble floors gleamed beneath his boots, untouched by the chaos that had carved itself into memory. They were spotless—too spotless. As if no one had ever bled here. As if the echoes of spells and screams hadn’t once torn through this very stone. Above him, pale-blue crystals floated in slow, deliberate rotations. Their dull glow didn’t flicker—it pulsed, low and rhythmic, like a heartbeat that didn’t quite belong to the living. A heartbeat trying to remember it was alive. Everything felt… too clean. Like none of it had ever been touched by pain. Or if it had, it had been scrubbed away too thoroughly. Elarion walked alone. His steps echoed softly, measured

The ceremony ended with no applause. No closing words. Just silence… and stillness that felt wrong.The students remained in the grand hall, breaths held as if the air itself had thickened.Then the torches dimmed. Not from wind. From something else.No one moved. No one breathed. A hum started—low, like the grinding of a bone flute played underwater.One student shifted nervously. Another reached for the hem of their robe, knuckles white. “What’s….happening?” someone whispered.The floor trembled.From the marble beneath them, mirrors began to rise.Dozens.Then hundreds.Tall and slender. Cracked and warped. Some clean as new silver. Others smeared with blood-like streaks. They encircled the chamber like silent judges.Elarion’s gaze darted across their reflections.But something was off.Some mirrors didn’t reflect the room. They showed memories that hadn’t happened yet. Others showed versions of the students—distorted, broken, afraid.One mirror didn’t show him at all.Then the

The skies darkened as the mountain path ended.Before him stood the gates of Caelron Academy—no ordinary threshold, but a monument carved by time and magic itself. Towering obsidian spires flanked either side, etched with ancient runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. The gates didn’t open with creaks. They shuddered, as if they sensed the weight of who approached.Wind roared.Lightning cracked above.Not from a storm—from the barrier woven into the sky itself.A warning.A challenge.Elarion didn’t flinch.He stepped forward, boots crunching against marble flecked with gold. The path ahead was lined with statues of former legends—heroes, monsters, and betrayers. Some faces were covered in moss, others cracked by time. All of them were dead.A crowd had formed at the outer court—new students, nobles in gilded cloaks, heirs to nations. They whispered among themselves, voices hushed and urgent as he passed.“…he came alone?”“Is that… him?”“That aura—he’s not normal.”“He looks too young

The gates opened without a sound. No groan of metal. No echo of stone. Just stillness parting, like even the Tower was ready to let him go. Elarion stepped out. The sky met him like a wound—too wide, too bright, too alive. The wind out here moved different. It wasn’t respectful. It pulled at his cloak like it wanted to see what was underneath. He didn’t look back. The Tower stood behind him like a monument to something no longer breathing. Black stone rising through cloud and myth, older than history. Watching. Always watching. But he didn’t give it the satisfaction of a final glance. The steps stretched long and pale beneath his boots. At the bottom, the carriage waited. Matte black. Unmarked. Practical. No escort. No flags. Just a driver in a long coat, staring ahead like he’d been warned not to speak. Two horses were hitched to the front. Dark, broad-shouldered. Their breath steamed in the cold air. Tired eyes. Scars on the flank. They’d seen enough of the world t