The sky above Dominion wore a color it was never meant to wear.
Not blue. Not gray. But an ashen, iron-drenched hue—as if smoke had risen from the bones of the gods and settled over the Institute like a shroud. Even the towers, tall and blade-etched, seemed quieter than usual, as though they too were watching.
In the Courtyard of Spires, the morning assembly unfolded like it always did: clean lines of students standing in rank, backs straight, mouths shut, each row a perfect arrangement of ambition and anxiety. Uniforms were crisp, enchanted to resist weather and blood alike. The air stank of ozone and whispers.
But today… it parted.
Not for authority. Not for instructors. Not even for royalty.
It parted for them.
The Obsidian Four.
No title had been assigned. No ceremony had marked the shift. But the Dominion Institute—cruel, calculating, unrelenting—had already decided.
They were no longer just students.
They were anomalies.
Weapons Dominion didn't forge—but could not ignore.
Nyra walked first.
As always.
Her chains didn't rattle. They sang—a low, metallic hum in rhythm with the sway of her hips and the weight of her steps. She didn't look at anyone. She didn't need to. Eyes found her anyway.
Her silver gaze was forward. Focused. But not blank. There was fire under the frost—a tension in the line of her spine, a flex of muscle beneath the deep violet fabric hugging her frame, armor-slit at her ribs, hands bare but poised to burn.
Smoke didn't move like this.
This was fire walking in the shape of a girl.
And behind her, always a step behind—Kierian Voss.
He didn't walk like a protector. He walked like a threat. Still. Controlled. Every step light but laced with the kind of weight that made gravity whisper. His boots left no sound, but the air trembled near his shoulders.
He didn't speak. Not to her. Not to anyone.
But his eyes never left her.
And she knew it.
She could feel it like a brand on the nape of her neck—like the heat she'd left on his lips hadn't cooled, like her kiss had marked not just him, but herself. She hated that.
She hated that he hadn't said a word since.
Just watched.
Just stayed behind her.
Always behind.
"Still not talking?" Riven's voice cut into the hush like a knife through silk, dry and amused, barely audible. "What was it, Hellcat? Did the kiss knock the words out of him… or just your patience?"
Nyra didn't respond.
Didn't blink.
Didn't stop.
She moved through the students like a blade through soft flesh.
Seraph's voice—softer, but laced with that quiet, unbending clarity—rose from her other side. "They're not talking."
Nyx emerged right after, smirking. "They're setting each other on fire with glances. I've seen less heat during blood trials."
Riven chuckled under his breath. "They could at least throw hands. Would be more productive than this tension."
No one laughed.
Because it was true.
There was no need for a duel.
They were already at war.
Voss remained silent behind them, but Riven glanced over his shoulder to catch the flicker of gold in the other boy's eyes—the slight pull in his jaw, the twitch in his fingers as if he was resisting the urge to reach out.
But he didn't.
He never did.
And maybe that was the problem.
As they reached the central platform, instructors stepped forward. Not for words. Just presence. Just surveillance. Kael Veyne, arms crossed. Mistress Sylva, expression unreadable. Grand Magister Kaldros with a too-wide smile that spoke of fascination, not approval.
Kael's voice dropped low, sharp as steel against whetstone. "You four are due in the Obsidian Gardens by midday."
No elaboration.
No instruction.
No permission.
Just expectation.
Dominion never asked.
It commanded.
Nyra didn't nod. Didn't answer. She simply turned on her heel, chains whispering, fire curling at her fingertips for the briefest breath of a second.
And then she was gone.
Voss followed.
No one had to ask if he would.
Beneath the courtyard, where the arc-lights could not reach and the sound of murmuring students faded into whispers of dust and power, the air grew thick.
Kael Veyne watched them go with a furrow of his brow.
"They're shifting," he muttered.
Sylva, silent at his side, blinked once—her violet eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.
"No," she whispered. "They're aligning."
Riven, lingering last, rolled his shoulders as if the weight of watching had settled too long. He turned to Seraph beside him.
"You feel that?"
She nodded once. "The air's listening."
He raised a brow. "And what's it hearing?"
Seraph's voice dropped to a whisper. "Cracks."
Then she turned and followed.
Riven hesitated only a second longer, eyes drifting to the sky.
Ash still drifted there.
From a fire that hadn't started yet.
But would.
Soon.
And when it did—
Dominion wouldn't survive the heat.
The Advanced Restoration Lab was shaped like a heart.
Not a symbolic one—romantic, open, soft.
A real one.
Chambered. Pulsing. Alive with threads of magic that curled through rune-lit glass and veins of hovering light. The walls whispered with healing incantations etched in multiple languages—ancient tongues no one dared speak aloud.
Today's assignment wasn't human.
It wasn't even mortal.
In the center of the lab hovered a containment sphere—glowing, reinforced with lunarsteel bindings and runic clamps. Suspended within it, chest open, eyes shut, was a partially bound Dravennal—a rare mythical beast known for its aura-core heart and six-limbed, serpent-dragon form.
Its mana node—the pulsating engine within its chest—was cracked.
Worse, it was corrupted.
Corrupted leylines didn't just resist healing. They tried to break the ones doing the healing.
Most students stared. Some stepped back.
Nyra stepped forward.
Seraph followed.
The instructor, Healer Vess Aurellan, stood calmly behind a floating panel of enchanted parchment, one eye tracking every magical fluctuation.
"You will stabilize the node," she said. "Do not cleanse the corruption—that will kill the host. You must seal the fractures. Thread your aura through what remains. Fire first. Moonlight to reinforce."
The others didn't volunteer.
Vess looked at Nyra. "Begin."
Nyra didn't hesitate.
She raised both hands. Flame sparked into her palms, but it wasn't wild. It curved like silk unrolling from her fingers—streamlined, controlled, elegant. Her breath slowed.
And her fire moved.
It slid across the air like molten thread, finding the leyline fractures in the Dravennal's exposed core. The beast twitched once. Growled in its sleep.
The fire didn't recoil.
It leaned in.
Threaded through the cracks like a lover.
One line, then another.
Tight curves. Fragile bends. It wasn't a spell—it was surgery.
Vess murmured under his breath.
"Flawless."
Seraph's turn.
She extended her fingers, palms downward. Moonlight spilled from her skin, ribbons of cool silver that glided beneath Nyra's fire like scaffolding beneath silk. Where Nyra's magic burned, Seraph's stabilized. Each movement was in counterpoint—like an echo turned into support.
"You kissed him," Seraph said quietly.
Nyra's fire flickered—but only once.
"This time," Seraph continued, "you were the storm."
Nyra exhaled through her nose. "I didn't plan to."
The fire shifted again—deeper into the crack. The beast groaned, but Nyra held it steady. Her fingers twitched. Magic rippled.
"But something in me…" she continued, "just moved. Like claiming territory. Like daring him to forget me."
Nyx's voice came sharp from within Seraph's frame.
"So you branded him. With your mouth. Bold choice, Hellcat."
Nyra said nothing.
But her next flame-thread curled tighter, harder—sealing a difficult bend without error.
Seraph smiled faintly. "You didn't do it for the win. You did it because it felt right."
Nyra's mouth twisted—half sneer, half surrender.
"It wasn't about the win. It was about making sure he didn't walk away thinking I was afraid of him."
Another fracture sealed.
She paused.
Then:
"I wanted him to feel it every time he touched someone else… that I got there first."
The room was quiet except for the hum of the beast's slowing pulse. Their combined magic still circled the core—spiraling tighter.
Seraph's hands didn't falter.
"You're not afraid of him," she said gently. "You're afraid of what he makes you feel when he looks at you like you matter."
Nyra's breath hitched—so soft it could've been nothing.
But her fire burned just a little too bright for a second.
Then dimmed again.
"Don't read me," she whispered.
"I don't have to," Seraph said. "You glow louder than you speak."
The final thread sealed.
The mana node pulsed once—steady. Stable.
The beast exhaled.
Nyra pulled her hands back. Her fire retreated like a silk scarf caught by the wind.
Seraph followed.
Their eyes met—briefly.
No judgment. No pity.
Just understanding.
They turned away together, magic cooling between them.
And behind them, Vess said nothing.
Because he knew what perfection looked like.
And she had just watched two girls stitch life back into a myth—while dissecting their own.
The Shadow Execution Hall didn't echo.
It absorbed.
Sound. Aura. Breath.
The space was cloaked in a low violet haze, shifting in waves across pressure-rune tiles and cursed obsidian walls. There were no torches—only blacklight strips that cast everything in twilight.
Instructors didn't give lectures here.
They watched from shadowed balconies—unseen, unmoving.
The rules were clear: no talking. No magic flares. No unnecessary steps.
Just targets.
And silence.
Riven stood at the threshold, twin daggers already in hand. The venom glistened along the edges, faintly iridescent, like moonlight caught in blood.
Voss appeared beside him without a word. No footstep. No breath.
Riven didn't look over.
"You always this dramatic before killing someone?" he muttered under his breath.
Voss didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Because the simulation began.
The room blinked. Glitched.
And they were elsewhere.
A projection of an underground fortress unfolded around them—sharp shadows, long corridors, rune-shielded sentries. The targets were marked with soft crimson auras visible only to the assigned assassins. Three nobles. Two armed guards. One mage.
They had ten minutes.
No alarms.
No mistakes.
Riven vanished.
Voss moved.
They split on instinct.
Voss slid left—his gravity pulse thinning the air in his wake, making the shadows warp behind him. He didn't run. He slid, letting his presence fold into the pressure seams of the projection. His breathing was slow, but his pulse—it pulsed differently now.
His magic was listening.
Ahead, a guard crossed the hallway.
Voss didn't stop.
He crushed the floor beneath the man's step—silent compression. The target's ankle snapped at a perfect angle, forcing him to stumble into an altered gravity field.
He never made a sound.
Voss was on him before the guard realized he'd fallen.
One hand on the back of the neck. One pressure spike.
The man dropped like a puppet cut from its strings.
Riven moved with chaos in his bones.
He danced through flickering torchlight, blades reversed in his grip, eyes glinting with something unhinged. Where Voss was a whisper, Riven was a dare.
He approached his first noble target from above—literally.
Scaled a pipe, hung upside down, and dropped behind the man without so much as rustling the wind.
His blade kissed the base of the noble's spine.
The poison did the rest.
The body fell forward mid-step, eyes still open in surprise.
Riven rolled his shoulders and vanished again.
They met in the central corridor—three kills deep.
Neither spoke.
Voss's jaw was clenched, sweat dripping along the curve of his neck.
His gravitational field was misbehaving—warping the illusion slightly around him. Tiles dipped beneath his steps, the very air bending closer to his skin as if magnetized.
Riven tilted his head.
"You're off."
Voss didn't look at him.
"Your field's leaking. You feel it?"
"I'm aware."
They paused behind a stone column.
Riven raised a brow.
"Still thinking about that kiss?"
Voss said nothing.
"She kissed you like she owned you."
Still nothing.
"Not gonna lie," Riven said, eyes flicking forward. "I thought she was going to snap your spine or strip you. Maybe both."
"She's faster than before," Voss murmured.
Riven turned to him fully.
"That wasn't a dodge."
"It was an answer."
The last three targets appeared.
The illusion shifted—walls sliding, shadows elongating.
Riven flicked one of his daggers between his fingers. "Left?"
Voss nodded.
They moved.
Riven went high.
Voss dropped low.
The mage turned at the last second—but Voss crushed the arcane glyph mid-cast, bending the spell into itself until it detonated inside the caster's aura. The man dropped, glowing from the inside out.
Riven took the final noble mid-breath—blade between ribs, twisting just enough to make it look like a dance.
Simulation cleared.
They stood in darkness for a moment.
Then the illusion faded.
Back to the Shadow Hall.
No applause.
Just breathing.
Their breathing.
Voss leaned against the wall, sweat slick on his chest, hair damp at the edges. His magic still hadn't stabilized. The pressure was curling, watching him, as if his power had become self-aware.
Riven sheathed both blades.
"You know you're not going to be able to pretend that didn't happen, right?" he said.
Voss didn't respond.
Riven walked a few steps, paused, then spoke again.
"She kissed you like she meant it. Then walked away like it was a warning."
A long pause.
"That kind of thing doesn't go away. It just waits."
Voss straightened.
"I'm not afraid of her."
"No," Riven said. "You're afraid of what happens when you're not."
And then he left.
Voss stood alone in the dim chamber, his breath slowing, his pressure field finally retreating.
But the warmth on his lips?
That hadn't faded.
The arch into the Echo Halls breathed.
That was the only way to describe it. With every step closer, the air grew tighter—denser. Like the shadows were exhaling against their skin. There was no light inside, only ripples of memory stitched into the walls, and a heartbeat so low it made bones ache.
This time, the Obsidian Four entered together.
No isolation.
No separation.
What you saw, they would see.
What broke you, they would witness.
There was no comfort in unity—only exposure.
Nyra's Vision – "The Fire That Fails"
It started with silence.
Then the ground cracked open, and she was standing in the Obsidian Gardens—alone. The sky was red. The air tasted like blood and salt. She could smell ash before she saw it.
Seraph lay sprawled against a tree, her fan snapped in half, blood dripping from her mouth in slow arcs. Riven was kneeling, daggers stuck into his own hands, eyes unfocused. And Voss—Voss was in pieces.
His body shattered across blackstone. No limbs. No breath.
Just fragments.
And her name carved into his skin.
She screamed—but her voice didn't come.
She ran to him—but her legs wouldn't move.
Her chains lay limp at her sides. Her flames stuttered at her fingertips, guttering like candles in wind.
"No," she whispered, voice cracking. "No, no, no—"
Her magic fought her. The fire sparked, surged—then recoiled.
It didn't want to ignite.
Because it felt what she did.
Useless.
And the illusion whispered back:
"You survived everything. But you couldn't save them."
The words circled her like ash caught in a spiral.
Her chest heaved. Her aura—usually pulsing in tight, rhythmic swells—fractured. Her sigils flared without control. A pulse of heat blasted outward and fizzled before it hit the air.
"Stop it," she gasped. "Stop—"
A hand grabbed her wrist.
Seraph.
Eyes glowing.
"This isn't real."
Nyra blinked. Her body trembled. Her flame flickered—
Then roared.
The illusion cracked, then shattered into sparks of scorched red light.
Nyra exhaled raggedly.
But her hands still shook.
Voss's Vision – "Gravity Breaks"
He was alone in the throne room.
That was the first thing he noticed. No warmth. No flame. Just stone.
Nyra stood at the far end of the hall—backlit by gold, wrapped in violet silk. Her chains were gone. Her posture was regal, untouchable.
And the King stood beside her.
Hand on her shoulder.
A crown hovering above her head.
Voss tried to move forward. He couldn't.
Tried to call her name. His throat locked.
The King smiled.
"She made her choice."
Nyra turned, eyes colder than he'd ever seen.
"You were always just gravity. You pull. But I rise."
The words slammed into him like a collapsing star.
His aura flared out in self-defense—uncontrolled gravitational bursts rippling off his body, collapsing pillars, warping floor tiles. The pressure built so fast his knees buckled.
"No," he rasped. "No, you wouldn't—"
The illusion surged.
He dropped to the ground, forehead pressed to the floor as if gravity itself had betrayed him.
Until—
Riven's voice, sharp as a thrown blade:
"Get the hell up, Ghost."
A hand grabbed his collar.
Voss's field pulsed—wild, unstable—until it caught on Nyra's echo. Not the illusion. The memory of her fire.
It grounded him.
And the illusion split in half.
Voss rolled to his feet.
Breathing hard.
But upright.
Seraph and Nyx's Vision – "One or None"
Mirrors.
Endless.
Their body stood in the center of a kaleidoscope of versions—Seraph alone, Nyx alone, neither smiling, neither whole.
In one reflection, Seraph cradled a corpse made of shadow.
In another, Nyx stared into a pool of blood with no reflection.
"Which of you is real?" the mirrors hissed.
"You share one body. Why pretend you have two minds?"
The reflection of Dominion instructors appeared, mocking:
"You're unstable."
"Split."
"One is enough."
"Merge or disappear."
The shadows in the glass grew teeth.
Their aura flickered—silver moonlight clashing with chaotic black-red sparks. Their aura fields began to tear down the middle. Seraph's calm bent backward, and Nyx's rage boiled through cracks.
Their hands trembled.
Weapons flickered—scythe and fan switching without command.
"I'm not her shadow," Nyx hissed.
"And I'm not her leash," Seraph growled.
They turned to each other inside the reflection. Looked directly. Without fear.
Seraph reached out.
Nyx didn't hesitate.
They pressed their palms together.
Their magic pulsed—not in opposition, but resonance.
The mirrors exploded outward in a starburst of silver and black.
Only one remained.
And it reflected both of them.
Together.
Riven's Vision – "Thrones of Dust"
A courtyard paved in bones.
At the center—a throne.
And on it, the Queen.
She was dressed in his mother's robes. Her smile was soft. Warm. Cruel.
"Come now," she said. "Did you really think rebellion made you clean?"
At her feet—Nyra, dead. Voss, impaled. Seraph, still and breathless.
"You're already mine," the Queen whispered. "Stop pretending you aren't."
Behind her, a door opened.
Inside, everything he'd ever wanted: silence. Freedom. Power.
A crown with his name on it.
He stepped forward.
Then looked down.
The blade in his hand was his own.
"I don't need a throne," he muttered.
He raised the dagger.
And cut the vision across its chest.
It bled shadow.
Then shattered.
He turned his back on the Queen's voice.
Even though it whispered after him.
"You'll come back. They always do."
But he didn't.
The Echo Halls faded.
One by one, the four of them stepped into the light again—sweat-slick, pulse-heavy, but standing.
They didn't speak.
No one asked what they saw.
No one had to.
Because now they knew each other's cracks.
They'd seen the worst—the loss, the betrayal, the fear of fading.
And they'd stayed.
Nyra looked at Voss.
Voss met her eyes.
Seraph and Nyx leaned into each other's rhythm.
Riven didn't smile.
But he stayed close.
Their bond wasn't spoken.
It was etched into every step as they walked out in silence.
Together.
The Private Training Hall beneath the House of Shadows was too quiet.
It always was.
Sound didn't echo here—it coiled. Slid across blackstone. Vanished beneath the runes carved into the floor. Every flame-lamp on the wall burned behind mirrored glass, casting arcs of gold and silver across the obsidian, as if the light itself was trying not to breathe too loudly.
Nyra stood at the edge of the ring, shoulders back, chains humming against her thighs like patient serpents. Her flames were dormant—but only barely. They curled around her wrists like silk woven from heat.
She hadn't spoken since they arrived.
Voss stood opposite her.
Silent.
Taller in shadow.
The way he looked at her—it wasn't hostile.
It was focused.
Possessive, almost.
But not cruel.
Just undone.
He didn't stand like he meant to fight her.
He stood like he didn't know how not to.
Between them, the room vibrated. Magic. Memory. Want.
And something else neither of them dared name.
Seraph vs. Riven – "The Dance of Knives and Moonlight"
Off to the side, Seraph moved like wind wrapped in grace.
Riven grinned and twirled a dagger between his fingers, eyes dancing with mischief.
"Ready when you are, ghost-glow."
"You never are," Seraph replied.
They clashed.
Softly at first. Then sharper. Riven's movements were erratic but calculated—feints within feints. Seraph parried with her war fan, deflecting his speed with measured control.
Nyx bled through now and again—catching a slip, slapping his wrist mid-spin, sweeping low to trip him.
"Charming," Riven said as he hit the floor, coughing.
"Deadly," Nyx replied, hair glowing faintly silver-black in the arc-light.
They circled.
Fought.
But smiled too much for it to mean hate.
Still, beneath the flirtation—
They were learning each other.
And that was more intimate than the banter.
Nyra vs. Voss – "Gravity & Flame"
They didn't smile.
They didn't circle.
They didn't speak.
They launched.
Voss moved first—closing the space between them with a pressure burst so sudden it cracked the stone beneath his boot. He dropped low, sweeping the air beneath Nyra's knees with a gravity spike.
She didn't leap.
She soared.
Her body flipped backward over his pulse, landing in a crouch three feet away. Her chains unraveled with a metallic purr.
Then she came for him.
Whip-fast.
Spin into a double-kick—hips twisting, chest following.
He blocked with both arms. Her boots slammed into his forearm and shoulder.
He grunted. Stumbled.
She didn't let up.
Chain lashed around his wrist—caught.
He pulled her forward.
She used the momentum, swinging beneath his arm and climbing him.
One leg hooked over his shoulder—her thigh grazing his neck, bare skin sliding against his jaw.
He froze.
Just a second.
But enough.
She flipped behind him, landed with a smirk.
"Distracted?"
"Observing," he rasped, eyes burning.
He collapsed gravity under her next step, pulling her off her stance.
She dropped.
But she turned the fall into a slide—flames igniting along her spine as she kicked upward into his ribs.
He caught her leg.
Twisted.
Flipped her.
She crashed into the ground with a gasp, chain rewrapping around her wrist like it missed her.
She didn't stay down.
She twisted up on one hand, back arched, legs sweeping beneath her like a flame curling under wind.
He leapt.
She met him mid-air.
Their bodies collided—chest to chest.
Their faces inches apart.
Her breasts pressed against him—through fabric, through armor, through restraint.
Their breath mingled.
His aura bent.
Her fire flared.
"You're not fighting fair," he breathed.
"Neither are you."
They fell together.
She landed first—barely.
He pinned her—one hand at her wrist, the other at her waist.
But not harshly.
Like he was holding something fragile and deadly at once.
His face hovered above hers—close enough to feel her breath.
Their magic swirled in sync—gravity pulsing, flame dancing along the air between them.
Her eyes narrowed.
But not in anger.
"You're stronger," she whispered.
"You're beautiful," he said without hesitation.
She blinked.
Stunned—for half a second.
Then she moved—fast.
Twisting out from beneath him, dragging him down by the collar, flipping them until he hit the floor beneath her.
Now she was the one hovering.
Her thighs straddled his hips.
Her palms on his chest.
Her hair fell over his cheek.
"Say it again," she murmured.
He did.
"You're beautiful."
She stared at him.
Then leaned in.
Close.
So close their lips brushed without touching.
"You taste like silence," she whispered.
"And you?" he asked.
She kissed him.
Just once.
Brief.
But breath-stealing.
She pulled away and whispered:
"I taste like fire. Don't forget it."
She stood slowly, her chain rewrapping around her like a sigh. Her body glistened in sweat, magic, defiance.
He didn't rise right away.
Just watched her.
Watched her walk away.
And smiled.
A rare one.
A real one.
Seraph and Riven had stopped.
Neither interrupted.
Both had felt it.
Nyx whistled low.
"That's not sparring. That's foreplay."
"That's war," Riven corrected. "With better choreography."
They didn't need to kiss again.
The way they fought said everything.
And when they did meet again in silence—
The world would burn around them just to listen.