Damp air clung to Isaac's skin like a second uniform as he slipped deeper into the darkness.
Every step he took felt like a march toward his own execution, yet he couldn't force himself to stop.
If he flunked the magical evaluation on Friday, the academy board would cast him out onto the streets without a single thought.
Being an outcast in the magic-soaked realm of Tivati was a death sentence.
Without a family to back him, without resources, and with an unpredictable magical affinity that refused to obey, he had absolutely nothing else.
This was his final, desperate gamble.
Cold sweat pooled in the small of his back, making his thin linen shirt stick to his skin.
He had spent the last three hours dodging the high-sentinel gargoyles that patrolled the courtyard, slips of shadows keeping him hidden from their stony gazes.
Tivati Academy was built like a fortress, designed to keep secrets in and outcasts out.
For someone like Isaac, who had spent his childhood dodging city watchmen in the muddy alleys of the capital, the security was just another puzzle to solve.
His hand trembled as he pulled a small glass vial from his pocket, containing a rare grounding herb he had stolen from the alchemy greenhouse.
He didn't have the luxury of failing.
Magic in Tivati was an absolute measure of worth.
Those with minor sparks became laborers; those with powerful sparks became lords.
Isaac’s spark was a chaotic, destructive force that refused to channel through standard wands.
Every time he tried to cast a simple light spell, the glass shattered.
Necromancy, the ancient texts whispered, was the only way to anchor a wild core.
Heavy stone walls pressed in from both sides, smelling of centuries of rot, wet earth, and stagnant water.
Cobwebs brushed against his cheeks like ghostly fingers, but he didn't dare raise a hand to wipe them away.
His boots made no sound on the wet gravel, a skill he had perfected from a lifetime of hiding in the slums.
Ahead of him, the forbidden catacombs of the academy stretched out like an endless, yawning mouth.
Students were strictly forbidden from entering this subterranean labyrinth under any circumstances.
Breaking this rule meant instant expulsion and a lifetime ban from practicing magic.
But Isaac was long past the point of caring about rules.
Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, cold and irritating.
He clutched a stolen parchment tightly to his chest, the edges crinkling under his white-knuckled grip.
Written on the worn paper was a forbidden ritual, a dark method to bind a powerful spirit to one's soul.
Most mages at the academy summoned harmless wind spirits or glowing wisps to pass their mid-year exams.
Isaac needed something infinitely stronger, something that could force his chaotic, volatile magic to submit.
He needed an anchor, a force of pure will to stabilize his failing core.
---
Rounding a sharp corner, he finally found the chamber described in the stolen notes.
An immense circular room opened up before him, dark and silent as a tomb.
Right in the center of the room sat a massive obsidian seal, embedded deep into the stone floor.
Intricate runes were carved into its glassy surface, catching the faint light of the bioluminescent moss on the walls.
Isaac swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust.
His heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed in his ears.
Thick layers of grey ash covered the floor, rising in tiny clouds around his boots.
Cold and dark, the ancient obsidian seal was larger than he had anticipated, spanning at least ten feet across.
Its dark, polished surface reflected the green glow of the moss above like a mirror of black water.
Isaac knelt on the frigid stone, his knees instantly aching from the cold.
He stared at the intricate carvings.
They weren't just decorative; they were binding runes designed to lock away things that should never see the light of day.
A small voice in his head, the voice of his childhood self who had learned to run at the first sign of danger, screamed at him to turn back.
But his pride, hot and stubborn, pushed the fear aside.
He had spent his entire life being discarded, treated like trash because of his unpredictable magic.
He would rather die down here than give them the satisfaction of watching him fail.
Walking slowly toward the seal, he knelt on the cold stone.
His hands shook as he set down the parchment and pulled a silver dagger from his boot.
"Just a small sacrifice," he whispered to himself, his voice shaking in the vast emptiness.
"Just enough to draw a spirit."
He pressed the sharp edge of the blade against his left palm.
Sharp pain flared through his hand as he sliced open his flesh.
Gasps of pain escaped his lips, but he forced himself to hold his hand directly over the center of the obsidian seal.
Thick, dark blood welled up from the cut, dripping steadily onto the ancient carvings.
One drop. Two drops. Three.
For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened.
Isaac held his breath, a wave of crushing disappointment washing over him.
Suddenly, the ground beneath his knees began to vibrate.
Violent purple sparks flew from the cracks in the obsidian, hissing like angry serpents.
Before he could scramble backward, an explosion of violet flames erupted from the seal.
Fierce, unnatural heat blasted his face, forcing him to shield his eyes with his forearm.
Swirling violet light illuminated the dark chamber, driving back the shadows.
A heavy, suffocating pressure dropped onto the room, making it nearly impossible to breathe.
---
From the heart of the violet fire, a tall silhouette began to take shape.
It stepped forward, defying the flames that licked at its heels.
Isaac stared, his eyes wide with absolute horror as the entity fully materialized.
Standing before him was a man of terrifying beauty, draped in the spectral, glowing robes of a long-dead king.
A dark crown sat atop his thick, messy hair, and his eyes burned with an intense, icy blue light.
This was no minor spirit.
He was King Alistair, the ancient, bloodthirsty tyrant of legend.
Cold air rushed through the chamber, instantly freezing the sweat on Isaac's forehead.
"Who dares disturb my slumber?" Alistair’s voice boomed, a deep, resonant growl that seemed to shake the very foundations of the academy.
Isaac couldn't speak, his jaw locked in sheer terror.
He had committed a capital magical crime—necromancy of the highest order.
If anyone found out he had summoned a dead king, he wouldn't just be expelled; he would be executed on the spot.
Slowly, the spectral king drifted closer, his feet hovering just above the stone floor.
His glowing blue eyes locked onto Isaac, scanning him from head to toe with a predatory intensity.
Anger faded from his aristocratic features, replaced by a dark, plotting curiosity.
"A boy," Alistair murmured, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous purr.
"A fiercely beautiful, hot-headed little thief."
Isaac tried to crawl backward, but his limbs refused to obey.
His body was paralyzed by the sheer weight of the king’s magical aura.
Alistair leaned down, his face stopping mere inches from Isaac's.
With agonizing slowness, the king raised a pale, translucent hand.
He reached out and traced Isaac’s collarbone with a freezing finger.
It felt like a piece of solid ice sliding across his bare skin, sending a violent shudder down his spine.
"You belong to me now, little spark," Alistair whispered, his voice a possessive promise.
"Our souls have touched, and I have no intention of letting you go."
Isaac's temper flared through his fear, his jaw clenching tightly.
"Get your hands off me," he hissed, trying to find his voice.
"I didn't mean to summon you."
---
Heavy footsteps suddenly echoed from the dark corridor, shattering the tension in the room.
"Who is down here?" a stern, familiar voice demanded.
Isaac's blood ran cold.
Professor Vance, the academy's notoriously strict head of discipline, marched into the chamber.
His eyes immediately landed on the glowing purple runes, the bloody dagger, and Isaac kneeling on the floor.
"Dark magic!" Vance bellowed, his face twisting with rage as he raised his wooden staff. "You wretched boy, you will hang for this!"
Panic seized Isaac's throat, choking out any chance of an explanation.
Before Vance could cast a spell, Alistair let out a low, amused laugh.
"How incredibly tedious," the king muttered.
With a sudden, violent burst of speed, the spectral king lunged forward.
He dived straight into Professor Vance's chest, disappearing into the older man's body.
Vance stiffened instantly, his staff slipping from his fingers and clattering to the ground.
His eyes rolled back, glowing with the same icy blue light as Alistair's.
When he looked up, the professor's stern, wrinkled face was warped into a wicked, arrogant smirk.
Alistair was now in complete control of the teacher's body.
Walking with a slow, predatory grace, the possessed professor closed the distance between them.
He pinned Isaac against the rough stone wall, his hands slamming on either side of Isaac's head.
Touching him through the possessed teacher, Alistair felt solid, warm, and utterly overwhelming.
"Now, where were we?" Alistair drawled, using Vance's deep, gravelly voice to whisper in Isaac's ear.
Isaac squirmed, his face burning with a mixture of intense fury and deep embarrassment.
"Let me go! Get out of his body!"
"Why should I?" Alistair chuckled, his eyes dark with amusement as he leaned closer.
"You summoned me, Isaac. But this physical vessel is weak, and our bond is incomplete."
"I don't want a bond with you!" Isaac yelled, clenching his fists against the teacher's chest.
"Oh, but you need me to survive," Alistair murmured, his hand sliding up to grip Isaac's jaw, forcing him to look up.
"To bind our souls permanently, we must do something far more... pleasurable."
He pressed his body closer to Isaac's, his gaze dropping to Isaac's lips.
"You need to have fun with me in bed, little spark. Only then will our pact be sealed."
Isaac’s mind went completely blank, his cheeks flushing a bright, furious crimson.
"Are you insane?" he spat, his voice cracking with outrage.
"I would rather face the executioner!"
"We shall see about that," Alistair whispered, his thumb brushing over Isaac's trembling lower lip.
---
Loud, metallic clanging echoed from the main entrance of the catacombs, breaking the spell.
Shouting voices of the academy night guards drifted down the long, winding corridor.
"Guard patrol," Alistair muttered, his expression souring with intense annoyance.
He let go of Isaac, stepping back as his spectral form slid out of Professor Vance's body like a shadow retreating from the light.
Vance immediately collapsed to the floor, unconscious and snoring softly.
Isaac leaps back, only for Alistair's ghost to vanish into thin air as the heavy iron doors of the catacombs begin to rattle under the fists of the academy night guards.