Murmurs broke out across the yard, rising into a frantic drone. Stares darted between Vaylek and the steaming remains of the Abomination. No mere fledgling could do that. Not even a senior Scour-Knight could achieve such a clean, surgical strike. Vondric found his voice, a guttural, furious bellow that sliced through the din. “Impossible! He cheated! He must have used a forbidden relic, a Loom-Shard! Guards! Seize him! He’s a rogue, a threat to the Shroudspire!” His face was contorted, a mask of pure, unadulterated rage and humiliation. His carefully constructed dominance had just crumbled into dust. Cadets recoiled from Vondric’s outburst, unsettled by how thoroughly the strike defied ordinary martial form. A few of Vondric’s loyalists, emboldened by his fury, started to move, hands reaching for their sidearms. Then, the air thrummed. Not a sound, but a vibration that seemed to ripple through the very fabric of Ghavis. Every Awakener felt it, a profound, chilling resonance. All around the Collegium, spectral silver text shimmered into existence, not just on individual Loom interfaces, but projected onto the very walls of the training grounds, visible to the entire arena. [GLOBAL ALERT: AWAKENER RECORD UPDATE] [IDENT: VAYLEK. CODE: ANOMALY] [RANK: ANOMALY. CLASS: UNCLASSIFIED] [THREAT ASSESSMENT: UNKNOWN] The characters flared, an immediate update from the Loom overriding standard protocol. Vondric’s arm, halfway to pointing, stiffened. His jaw locked shut. The guards hesitated, their pupils reflecting the silver script. Anomaly. Unclassified. The Loom had bypassed every known rank, every traditional classification. Two hulking figures in cloaks of deep charcoal, their faces obscured by shadowed hoods, materialized from the arena perimeter. They were Enforcers, the masked wardens of Collegium decree, rarely dispatched unless an incident outstripped senior instructors. Their arrival spurred fresh tension through the crowd. They moved with an unsettling fluidity, their gazes fixed solely on Vaylek. No weapons were drawn, no threats issued. Just an unequivocal summons. Vaylek met their gaze, his own eyes flat and emotionless. He gave a curt nod. The practice sword clattered to the gravel as he let it fall. The Enforcers flanked him, their gait measured and unhurried. Without a word, they escorted him away, through the stunned crowds, towards the monolithic heart of the Collegium. The interrogation cells were not cells in the conventional sense. They were more like hollowed-out abyssal cavities, carved deep into the Shroudspire’s foundations, designed to hold not prisoners, but anomalies. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, like old blood. Within three separate alcoves, slumped figures were shackled, their masked faces eerily still. They were the infiltrators captured during the orientation ambush, their obsidian daggers confiscated, their hoods torn. Vaylek’s gaze swept over them. He noted the bluish tinge to their lips, the slackness of their forms. Not unconscious. Poisoned. A quick, lethal dose, administered internally. Someone had silenced them before they could utter a single word. The mastermind didn’t want answers extracted, didn’t want their pawns talking. His Loom flickered with private text: [DETECTING RESIDUE: ABYSSAL POISON. SOURCE: UNKNOWN] Just as Vaylek clenched his fists, a soft patter of footsteps echoed from the curving corridor. Salythe. Her face was pale, streaked with worry, her breathing quick. “Vaylek! Are you alright? I saw… I saw the Loom, the ‘Anomaly’ status. What happened?” She clutched a small, gnarled pot in her hands, its contents a vibrant, unnaturally dark violet stalk radiating a faint inner light. The dark-mana flora she had been cultivating. “They silenced them,” Vaylek said, his voice a low growl, gesturing to the prisoners. “Poisoned.” Salythe’s brow tightened. She stepped forward, her gaze locking onto the slumped captives. “Let me try,” she said under her breath. She tilted the pot, guiding a thin, luminescent filament from its deepest bloom toward the nearest prisoner. The strand brushed the captive's bare forearm above the iron shackle. A faint violet vapor leaked from the skin and spiraled into the stalk, which flared brighter with every draft. [RESIDUE EXTRACTION: SUCCESSFUL] [TRACE SIGNATURE: ‘SOUL-BINDER’S MIASMA’ DETECTED. LINKAGE: ACADEMY INITIATE] Soul-Binder’s Miasma. A rare abyssal toxin capable of bypassing standard purging wards without leaving obvious trace. And the Loom's linkage designated an academy novice. Not an outside agitator. The conspirator orchestrating the Bleeds was embedded within the fortress walls. The hunt had shifted from an exterior faction to a viper breathing Collegium air. He stepped out into the damp hallway, Salythe at his heel, stone arches swallowing their footfalls. He had assumed the conspiracy operated exclusively from the dark alleys of Ghavis, but the thread led directly to a student collar. Narlo, surprisingly, was waiting outside the antechamber, wringing his hands, a clean, folded towel clutched in one of them. He looked utterly bewildered, his eyes red from what looked like fresh tears. “Vaylek! Gods, I thought they’d… I thought they’d put you in the Gloom-vaults for sure! Here, you need this. You’re still covered in… that goo.” He thrust the towel forward, his usual bumbling energy returning, albeit tempered by genuine fear. Vaylek took the towel, his gaze distant, his mind already racing through every face he’d seen in the Shroudspire, scrutinizing every suspect within the collegiate rosters. As his fingers brushed the soft fabric, he felt a faint, gritty texture. His eyes dropped to Narlo’s sleeve, a dark grey uniform. A microscopic, almost invisible speck shimmered on the fabric, catching the dim light. It was a shard. A tiny, obsidian splinter. The exact same material as the zealots' ritual daggers. The same material as the blade that had killed Salythe in his past life. Narlo, his bumbling, cowardly roommate, who always managed to accidentally trigger the most catastrophic events, and who had been right there during the ambush… Narlo was holding a towel for him, and on his sleeve, was the dust of a nightmare.

Dust and Paranoia