He couldn't sleep that night, twisting and turning in bed, his mind racing as he stared at the ceiling. Silas slept soundly across the room, his face half-covered by the blanket, the soft rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life.
But Asli—his bed was empty.
Confused, Ezra slowly pulled himself out of bed, his feet brushing against the cool floor. He glanced over at Asli's side of the room. The bed was perfectly made, as if he had never even slept there. The blankets were tucked in neatly, the pillows fluffed. The space seemed untouched, almost too pristine.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the neatness of it, a strange unease settling in his stomach.
'Why is Asli's bed untouched? How come I didn't see him when I woke up '
Ezra shook his head, his mind still buzzing with questions, and decided to step outside. Maybe a walk would clear his head.
The cool night air greeted him as he left the dorm, the moonlight casting long shadows across the building. He wandered aimlessly around the grounds, glancing at the tall stone walls and the dimly lit corridors he passed. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked.
Eventually, he found himself in front of a row of large, ornate paintings hanging on the walls. The art was grand—landscapes of sweeping fields, historical battles, and mythical creatures that seemed to come to life under the soft lighting. Each painting was meticulously crafted, almost lifelike, but something about them made Ezra feel uneasy.
The figures in the paintings had intense, haunting eyes, as though they were watching him, following his every movement.
He stood there for a while, staring at one particularly large painting of a battlefield. The soldiers in the image seemed frozen in time, caught in the midst of an epic clash. There was something unsettling about their expressions—they looked so real, as if they might step out of the frame at any moment.
The battle took place in a vast, open terrain, with towering mountains in the distance and thick clouds of smoke rising from the earth.
The soldiers, adorned in intricate, mythical armor, stood locked in combat. Some wore shining metal helms with glowing eyes, while others had armor made of something darker, like scales of an ancient creature. Their weapons were unlike anything Ezra had ever seen—elongated swords, spears with blades that seemed to shimmer in the light, and shields that sparkled with strange runes.
They seemed to exude power, their movements captured mid-strike or mid-parry, frozen forever in their fierce struggle.
But what unsettled Ezra the most were the faces—there was a haunted intensity in their eyes, as if they had known the true cost of the battle. Some had expressions of anger, others of sorrow, but all of them seemed far too real, far too alive. It was as if the souls of the warriors were trapped within the frame.
As Ezra leaned in closer to study one of the figures—a woman clad in dark, ornate armor with silver feathers adorning her shoulders—he could almost feel her gaze, as if the warrior's eyes were following him. He blinked, stepping back a bit, but the feeling lingered, heavy on his chest.
He looked at the engraving next to it. The Seige of Emberfall , by the Wanderer .
The room seemed to close in around him, the weight of history pressing against his chest. The strange, eerie feeling continued to build as if the painting itself was alive, watching him, calling to him. The more he stared, the more he felt like he was being pulled into the scene.
Ezra paused, his attention immediately drawn to the sound of the sword slicing through the air. The sharp swish echoed down the empty corridor, followed by the soft thud of metal meeting a target. Curious, he followed the noise, his footsteps slow but steady as he rounded the corner.
Ezra's eyes widened as he watched the figure's graceful movements, completely captivated by the fluidity of their swordplay.
The person, barefoot and dressed in simple, loose-fitting clothes, moved with an almost hypnotic precision. Each strike was deliberate, controlled, yet imbued with a sense of raw power, like they were performing an intricate dance rather than training for battle.
The moonlight filtered through the tall glass windows, casting long shadows across the dojo floor, highlighting the glint of the blade as it sliced through the air. Sweat glistened on their skin, evidence of the intensity they were putting into their movements. With every shift, they seemed to become more in sync with the rhythm of the sword, almost as if the weapon itself was an extension of their body.
Ezra could see the headphones securely in place, but despite the apparent focus on the music, the way they moved suggested that every inch of their being was attuned to the sword's motions. It was mesmerizing, the fluidity of the sword dance giving the room an ethereal quality.
He paused, suddenly aware of Ezra's presence, their eyes locking onto his through the slight opening in the door. The stillness in the room felt heavy, the sword held in perfect repose in their hand as he waited for Ezra to either leave or speak.