The morning after the royal festival dawned gray and quiet—too quiet for a capital still supposed to be glowing with celebration.
Elias Munter yawned as he trotted up the stairs of the East Magic School with a half-eaten apple in one hand and a smear of toothpaste still on his cheek. His satchel bumped against his hip. Behind him, Revantra—recently taller, sharper-eyed, and more aloof than usual—trailed a few paces behind, arms folded and frowning into the wind.
The bells tolled overhead, deep and slow. Not the usual chime for classes. This was a different tone. Heavier. A sort of low announcement that settled right into your sternum like an anxious cough that wouldn't come up.
Elias paused.
"…That bell sounds judgy."
Revantra sniffed. "Sanctified metal, double-cast in goldleaf. Can't not sound pretentious."
He blinked. "How the hell do you know what a bell is made of by sound?"
She rolled her eyes but didn't answer.
The sound of polished boots echoed sharply off the cobblestones. Down at the campus gates, a column of figures had arrived—hooded at first, until one by one they removed their hoods and revealed white and gold vestments, crisp and untouched by road dust. They moved in a perfect rhythm, robes rippling like synchronized cloth.
And at the center walked a man who didn't need to raise his voice, or even gesture, to command attention.
He was not young, but he wasn't old either—somewhere in that strange middle age that seemed preserved by unnatural will. His white gloves gleamed. His hair was silver, trimmed with military neatness, and his eyes were the color of polished quartz—clear, unreadable.
The High Priest.
Revantra stopped walking.
Elias didn't notice at first. He took another bite of his apple.
Then he glanced sideways, saw her face, and froze.
"What is it?"
She didn't answer. Her gaze was locked on the priest.
He had stopped just inside the school gates, surrounded by twin Inquisitors. He looked around the courtyard as though reading a page only he could see.
Then his head tilted slightly, and his eyes settled on the east wing of the school—the wing where magic manipulation and elemental training took place.
"Something here," he murmured aloud, his voice smooth and rich like old wine, "stinks of ancient flame."
The air shifted. The temperature dropped—not in degrees, but in emotion.
Revantra turned away, swiftly, and marched past Elias without a word.
"Rea?" he called. "Wait—what was that? Do you know that guy?"
"Not now," she said. "Come on."
It was hard to pretend things were normal.
By noon, the commons buzzed with gossip like a hive about to riot.
Elias sat at one of the long tables, attempting to eat a stale sandwich. Revantra sat across from him, jaw clenched.
"He has five Inquisitors," one student whispered nearby. "Five!"
"They say he once healed a dying archbishop with just his touch!"
"I heard his prayers make demons spontaneously combust."
"No, no—he talked a demon into exorcising itself."
Elias leaned over. "These rumors are getting kind of wild."
Revantra glared at her sandwich. "They're all true. Or at least, based on something that was once true."
He blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"The last one is exaggerated. The demon didn't exorcise itself. It just flung itself into a holy lake."
"Comforting."
She finally looked up. Her expression wasn't angry, but it wasn't calm either. Somewhere between hunted and resigned.
"His name is Alzen," she said softly. "High Priest Alzen. And he's not just a spiritual leader. He's a strategist. A manipulator. And possibly the only person who ever outsmarted me in my past life."
Elias lowered his sandwich.
"…That's not great."
"No," she said. "It really isn't."
"Wait. Did he… did he fight you?"
"In a way. He never lifted a weapon. Just orchestrated the world so that my army lost before I even knew there was a battle."
She leaned forward. "He's dangerous because he's calm. And because no one ever suspects calm."
Elias looked toward the stained-glass windows, trying to imagine what a spiritual battle between a demon queen and a priest strategist even looked like.
Then he realized: he didn't want to know.
That night, Elias snuck into the library.
More specifically, into the crawlspace above the headmistress's office, where he could fit just enough to dangle a magical amplification stone down near the air vents. It was a stupid, potentially suspension-worthy idea.
Naturally, he blamed Revantra's bad influence.
The staff meeting was already underway.
"…we've granted him limited access," the Headmistress was saying. "He'll be touring the archive vaults starting tomorrow."
"Limited?" a teacher protested. "He's asking about spell types that haven't been taught since the Empire fell."
Another voice chimed in: "He inspected the east wing. Spent twenty minutes standing in the summoning hall alone."
"He claimed he was 'checking for distortions.'"
Elias squirmed to hear better.
"Distortions in what?"
"Mana. Etheric channels. He said, and I quote, 'The air remembers old magic. Especially fire. Especially wrath.'"
Another voice dropped the temperature further.
"He also asked about a 'seed.'"
There was a pause.
"Seeds?" someone said, quietly. "Those haven't been—"
"—since the Queen of Embers died," the Headmistress finished.
Elias felt his stomach drop.
He fumbled with the stone, nearly dropped it, and bolted out of the crawlspace.
Revantra needed to know.
He found her on the apartment rooftop again, legs swinging over the edge, face buried in her knees.
"You were right," he said, breathless. "He's asking about seeds. And he mentioned the Queen of Embers by name."
She didn't look up. Just exhaled, slowly.
"He'll find me eventually."
"Then we leave."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
She looked at him, and in the dim rooftop light her eyes glowed faintly—not red, not gold, just…warm.
"I'm tired of running."
Elias sat beside her, arms wrapped around his own legs.
After a while, she said, "Do you know what a demon seed really is?"
"I thought it was like…a backup demon?"
She snorted. "Cute. No. A seed is a compressed core. A soul fragment, linked to power. Usually hidden in the mortal world to avoid destruction."
"Like…a horcrux?"
"Do not compare me to cursed jewelry."
"Sorry."
She smiled faintly. "I wasn't a seed. I was the tree. My whole being—memories, power, legacy—all of it was locked into a cycle. When the last version of me died, the seed activated. It searched for a vessel."
"You."
"Me. Reborn. Human-shaped. But still connected to that fire."
Elias was quiet for a long time. Then he whispered, "Do you feel it? That connection?"
"Lately. More each day." She hugged her knees tighter. "And now he's here. He'll sniff me out like he always does."
"Then we fight."
She looked at him sideways. "You'd really try to fight Alzen?"
He shrugged. "I've been hit by you in three different ages now. How bad can he be?"
She laughed softly. Then grew serious.
"I don't want to be feared anymore, Elias. I don't want to be a symbol. I just want to be me."
He nudged her shoulder gently. "Then be you. We'll deal with the rest together."
She didn't answer with words. Just leaned her head on his shoulder.
The city lights sparkled below them. Somewhere far off, a church bell rang again—soft, low, and ominous.
But on the rooftop, two souls sat in silence. One human. One demon. Both afraid. Both stubborn.
And both no longer alone.
To be continued…