Chapter VI: The Holographic Principle
The first week back at the university felt like a fever dream.
Nathaniel could still feel the walls of Gravenholt Manor pressing on his lungs whenever the lecture hall grew too quiet. The silence of that house—crimson, suffocating—had followed him across the veil. It clung to him like smoke no matter how many layers of reality he put between himself and Eris.
He sat in the front row of his differential equations class, his pen poised above the blank page of his notebook. Professor Alden scrawled across the whiteboard, symbols flowing in quick succession:
dydx+P(x)y=Q(x)\frac{dy}{dx} + P(x)y = Q(x)dxdy+P(x)y=Q(x) or dy/dx+P(x)y=Q(x)
The symbols should have been familiar. He'd seen them before, wrestled with them countless nights. Yet now they seemed like incantations, as though each letter carried some secret language Nathaniel had forgotten how to speak.
His classmates scribbled diligently. Nathaniel's eyes blurred. The scar on his chest pulsed faintly.
"Pay attention, Cross." Alden's voice snapped him out of the haze. "Differential equations aren't forgiving. You either solve the system or it collapses."
The words hit too hard. Collapses. Breaks. He could almost hear Eris's whisper echoing through the professor's tone. You will break, or you will rise.
Nathaniel blinked rapidly, gripping his pen so tightly his knuckles whitened. "Yes, sir."
But the page before him remained nearly blank.
By the time class ended, his head throbbed. Students poured into the corridor, laughter echoing. The sunlight through the tall windows felt alien, too bright after nights of velvet dark.
"Oi, Cross!" A familiar voice pulled him back. It was Theo, one of his classmates—short, sharp-eyed, always wearing a hoodie even indoors. He grinned as he slapped Nathaniel's shoulder. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Nathaniel forced a smile. "Just tired."
"Tired? Mate, that was the easiest lecture Alden's given us all term. Wait until engineering economics this afternoon. You'll be begging for the sweet release of death."
The joke landed too close to the truth. Nathaniel chuckled weakly. "Yeah. Can't wait."
As Theo melted into the crowd, Nathaniel caught sight of someone further down the hall. A girl he didn't recognize.
She leaned casually against the wall, her dark hair tied back, eyes fixed on him—not with curiosity, not with friendliness, but something sharper. Calculating. For a split second, crimson flashed in her gaze. Or maybe it was just the sunlight.
Nathaniel blinked. She was gone. Swallowed by the tide of students.
His scar burned faintly.
Engineering economics felt less like a class and more like combat.
Professor Hargrave's voice carried the weight of a battlefield general as he paced the lecture hall, chalk snapping against the board. "Understand this, ladies and gentlemen: numbers are not abstract. They are the foundation of survival. If your project overruns cost, you fail. If your estimates falter, you fail. In this world, economics is war."
The class groaned softly. Nathaniel's pen hovered. Equations sprawled across the board—cash flows, net present values, depreciation formulas.
Each symbol seemed heavier than it should have been.
Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. Every line of math felt like a duel. A missed sign, a forgotten discount rate—it was no different than letting a blade slip through your guard.
He whispered the formula under his breath like a mantra.
"NPV equals cash inflow over one plus r, raised to the power t..."
His heart raced. His hand trembled as he wrote.
Halfway through the lecture, Hargrave suddenly slammed the chalk down, sending dust scattering like sparks.
"You, Cross." His gaze pierced Nathaniel. "You've been quiet. Tell me—why does a negative NPV project fail before it begins?"
Dozens of eyes turned to him. Nathaniel's chest tightened. For a split second, he saw not a professor but Donovan—the pale vampire with mocking eyes—waiting for him to stumble.
He swallowed hard. "Because... it destroys value. Even if it looks profitable, it drains more than it gives. It's unsustainable."
Hargrave's silence stretched. Then he nodded once, sharply. "Correct. Remember that, all of you. In engineering, as in life, anything that drains more than it gives will end in collapse."
Nathaniel's pen stilled. His scar throbbed. He couldn't help but feel the words weren't meant for the class at all. They were meant for him.
That night, he sat hunched over his desk. Differential equations sprawled across pages, messy attempts at integrating factors. His lamp buzzed faintly, shadows crowding the corners of the room.
He pressed his hands against his temples. Focus. Focus.
But each time he tried, he saw flashes of the Manor. Painted eyes watching him. Eris's hand outstretched.
He slammed the book shut. "Damn it!"
The room fell silent.
And then—soft. A whisper against the glass of his window.
Nathaniel froze. Slowly, he turned.
Nothing. Just rain trailing down the pane.
He stood, stepping closer. His own reflection stared back at him—tired, pale, eyes shadowed.
And then the reflection smiled.
Nathaniel staggered back, his chair toppling. "No..."
But this time, the reflection didn't vanish. It lingered, lips curved upward, as if mocking him. Slowly, deliberately, it raised its hand—pointing past him.
Nathaniel spun around.
Nothing. Just his room. His notes. His books.
When he turned back, the reflection was normal. His face, blank and weary, staring at himself.
His scar pulsed once, sharp as a blade.
He sank to the floor, breath ragged. "They're watching me..."
The days bled together. Nathaniel forced himself into routine: classes, labs, endless equations. To anyone else, he looked like just another stressed student. Only he knew every formula carried hidden meaning, every silence whispered with crimson voices.
Theo noticed once, catching him staring too long at an empty hallway. "Mate, you okay? You've been... off lately."
Nathaniel forced a grin. "Just... tired of math."
Theo snorted. "Aren't we all?"
But the unease never left.
Sometimes he caught that same dark-haired girl watching him across the lecture hall. Sometimes it was a tall boy he didn't know, lingering too long in the library's shadows. Always gone before he could confirm.
Were they spies? Vampires? Or just paranoia feeding on sleepless nights?
He didn't know.
But he remembered his vow.
He would come back stronger.
And so, every night, after hours of grinding through equations and economic models, he trained. Push-ups until his arms shook. Runs through the rain-slick streets until his lungs burned. Not just his body—his mind, too. He treated every problem set like combat, every number like a weapon.
Because he knew, sooner or later, the silence of Gravenholt would return for him.
And when it did, he would be ready.