The door to the Headmaster's office slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing out the murmurs of the outer sanctum. Inside, the air smelled of ozone and ancient parchment. Headmaster Elara Vane stood behind her desk, her knuckles white as she gripped the obsidian surface. She wasn't looking at a student; she was looking at a ghost.
"Sephorae," she breathed, the composure of the most powerful woman in the academy fracturing for a brief second. Her eyes, usually swirling with cosmic indifference, widened as they swept over the silver mask and the heavy white cloak that draped his frame. "The reports... your father... we were told you were dead. Erased."
Sephorae stood like a statue in the center of the room. He offered no bow, no greeting. He simply existed, a spectral figure in white standing against the dark decor of the office.
Elara stepped around her desk, stopping just short of touching him. "What happened out there, Sephorae? Your energy signature is... mutilated. Where have you been for these past months?"
Silence.
Sephorae stared through the eye slits of his mask, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere behind her. He could hear her heartbeat, the rush of mana in her veins, but he refused to let the words out. To speak of the torture was to relive it.
"Speak to me," Elara commanded, her voice hardening, regaining its authority. "If you are to return to this academy, I need to know if you are a liability. Did you desert? Were you captured?"
Nothing. He was an impenetrable wall of white fabric and cold metal.
Elara sighed, a sound of frustration and pity. She realized she would get nothing from him today. The boy she remembered—arrogant, loud, full of life—was gone. "Very well. If you wish to play the mute, so be it. But you are still a student of Lucem Fermius. Go to your scheduled lecture. We will discuss your placement later."
The Gauntlet
The bell for the passing period rang, a melodious chime that grated against Sephorae's nerves like a jagged knife. He turned, the hem of his white cloak sweeping the floor, and stepped out of the administration wing into the main corridor.
It began instantly.
Like sharks scenting blood in the water, the students turned. The sea of pristine uniforms parted, creating a wide berth around the white-clad figure. Whispers erupted, no longer hiding behind hands.
"Is that him?"
"Why is he wearing that cloak? Is he hiding a burn?"
"I heard his father threw him to the wolves."
Nathaniel Brightmore leaned against a marble pillar, his arms crossed, his sleek black uniform a sharp contrast to Sephorae's attire. Surrounded by his sycophants, he pushed off the pillar as Sephorae walked past, falling into step beside him.
"Well, well," Nathaniel sneered, his voice carrying over the crowd. "The Vespera Prince returns. Or should I say, the Vespera beggar? You look ridiculous, Sephorae. Hiding under a blanket? Did you forget how to dress yourself in that hole you crawled out of?"
Sephorae didn't break stride. His boots clicked rhythmically against the floor, a steady metronome amidst the chaos. He didn't look at Nathaniel. He didn't clinch his remaining fist. He felt nothing but the phantom itch of a limb that was no longer there.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Nathaniel snapped, stepping in front of him to block his path.
Sephorae simply sidestepped him, fluid and water-like, the white cloak fluttering slightly as he continued his march toward the lecture hall.
Further back, leaning against the lockers, Lila watched. Unlike the others, she didn't jeer. She didn't whisper. Her eyes narrowed, analyzing the way he moved. She saw the lack of tension in his shoulders, the utter lack of ego. He isn't ignoring them because he thinks he's better, she realized with a chill. He's ignoring them because to him, they don't even exist.
A Digital Nightmare
The school day dragged on, a blur of lectures Sephorae didn't listen to and stares he didn't acknowledge. As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the day, the hallways filled to bursting once more.
Sephorae moved toward the exit, intent on returning to the silence of the Wraith.
Suddenly, a sound rippled through the crowd. It wasn't a voice, but a digital synchronization. Every datapad, every holowatch, and every wall screen in the corridor chimed at the exact same second.
Ping.
A mass notification. An anonymous drop.
Curiosity halted the students. One by one, they looked at their screens. The chatter died instantly, replaced by a collective gasp that sucked the air out of the hallway.
On the screens, shaky, high-definition footage played. It was a dungeon. Dark, wet, and smelling of blood even through the digital feed. In the center of the frame, a boy was chained to a rack.
It was Sephorae. But not the silent, masked figure standing in their midst. This was a Sephorae screaming, his voice raw and broken, begging for death. The camera zoomed in as a shadowed, demonic figure raised a serrated cleaver.
Sephorae stopped walking. He didn't look at the screens, but he heard the audio. He heard his own screams echoing from a hundred different devices.
"Oh my god," a girl whispered, her hand covering her mouth.
Nathaniel, who had been laughing a moment before, looked down at his datapad, his face paling. "Is that... is that real?"
But the harassment didn't stop completely. A few older students, emboldened by the gruesome display, jeered. "Look at him cry!" one shouted, though his voice wavered. "Weakling! Look at how he broke!"
Sephorae stood in the center of the hallway, a pillar of white amidst the digital echoes of his torture. He remained perfectly still, a statue of tragedy.
On the screen, the blade came down. The scream cut out, replaced by the wet sound of bone shearing and blood splashing the lens. The camera panned down to the floor, where a severed arm lay in a pool of crimson.
In the hallway, the eyes of the students snapped from the horrific video to the real Sephorae. They looked at the white cloak. They looked at the left side, where the fabric hung loose and flat against his body.
The wind went out of Nathaniel's sails. He looked at the empty sleeve, then back at the video, then at the sleeve again. The reality of it crashed into them. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and filled with a sudden, terrified realization of what exactly had walked back into their school.
Sephorae didn't explain. He didn't defend himself. He simply started walking again, his lone hand adjusting the collar of his white cloak, leaving them alone with the horror on their screens.