The halls of Ars Haven whispered with history, their walls adorned with an unbroken tapestry of paintings, carvings, and sketches left behind by the countless students who had passed through its doors. Zeik and Inariel walked side by side, their expressions mirroring the same quiet reverence as they absorbed the art. The Ace of Hearts and the Principal, figures rarely seen together, now moved through the academy. To the students in hallways they were like phantoms or rumors made flesh.
Zeik’s voice cut through the hushed murmurs of the students. "This art, no matter how old it appears or how well designed it is… it's the work of chaos."
His words lingered, weaving into the whispers that filled the space around them. It was not every day that the students saw their Principal—many had never seen him at all. For some, he had been little more than a name uttered in cautionary tales, a being of mystery and fear who rarely emerged from the deeper halls of the academy. But now, here he was, standing beside the towering Elv, whose overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.
Inariel moved with deliberate grace, yet his sheer size made the students shrink back against the walls, their eyes wide with awe and trepidation. He was a being out of legend—a monstrous bat, his wings folded tightly against his body, his clawed hands resting lightly at his sides. His fur, dark as a storm-choked sky, seemed to drink in the light, and when his crimson eyes swept over the gathered students, they flinched as if caught in the gaze of a predator.
A group of younger students clung to each other, whispering hurriedly.
"Is that really him?" one breathed.
"He's real," another answered, voice barely above a whisper. "The Principal of Ars Haven…"
Some older students stood frozen, their eyes darting between Zeik and Inariel, as if struggling to reconcile the familiar presence of their Principal with the nightmare of the Ace. A few brave souls tilted their heads in curiosity, trying to see beyond the fearsome exterior, wondering if the stories about him had been exaggerated.
Zeik continued walking, seemingly unfazed by their reactions. "The students here come from all over Muu, most with nothing to return to. Some stay for weeks… others never leave. Yet…" He let out a quiet chuckle. "I’ve heard from Shino that just about every student has added something to these walls. It started as an accident—a scribble here, a vision there, a photo of a lost one. Random acts of creation."
He paused for a moment, taking in the artwork once more before speaking again. His voice now deep and resonant. "And now… it is a rite of passage."
The weight of his words rippled through the students. Few had ever heard him speak. His voice, soft yet commanding, rolled like distant thunder, carrying a gravity that made the floor beneath them pulse with naten.
He gestured to the walls. "Their unplanned, unscripted efforts have turned the work of strangers into tradition, culture, and connection."
A hush fell over the hallway as the students absorbed his words, their gazes shifting from the paintings to Inariel himself. Some who had once been afraid now looked at him with newfound understanding—not just as a towering, frightful creature, but as a guardian of this place, a witness to the same traditions they had unknowingly built.
Then, the silence broke. A single, hesitant movement—a young student, barely past their first year, stepped forward, clutching a small piece of charcoal. Heart pounding, they turned toward the wall, and with slow, deliberate strokes, added their own mark to the endless tapestry.
Zeik reached the door to his office, pulling it open and gesturing for Inariel to enter first. Before stepping inside, he turned back toward the students, offering a warm smile.
–
He leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the glowing screens before him. A dozen different feeds flickered in and out—reports for Ars Haven, student progress logs, security footage, incoming messages. Each one demanded attention, but his mind was split, lingering on the images of his children. A brief flicker of emotion crossed his face before he exhaled and refocused.
Inariel remained by the window, silent, watching. His crimson eyes held no impatience, only an unshaken composure. Zeik processed information like a storm—chaotic at first glance, yet moving with an unseen rhythm only he could truly decipher.
Inariel Myotis wrote: Thu Mar 13, 2025 12:44 pm
“I have felt the scrying of your scrutinous wondering Zeik. And unfortunately even after I speak my next words….I fear they will only lead to more questions than adequate answers … None the less. I feel compelled ... .wanting to share the pieces of these truths I have suffered to gain with someone, other than my familiar.”
-
He sat in his chair, eyes locked onto the shifting glow of his screens, fingers poised and ready. Every motion was precise—taking notes, analyzing clues, deciphering patterns. His screens, unlike traditional monitors, remained invisible until his fingers caressed the keys, illuminating their sleek, glass-like surfaces with cascading data. It was an unusual technology, even by Vescrutia’s standards—an enigma of engineering made possible only through the Sanctus Crystal he had discovered.
A smirk curled at the edge of his lips. "Try me…" he muttered, his tone laced with challenge.
The words had barely left his mouth when his guest, Inariel, seized the moment. His voice, rich with experience, carried an unsettling weight. He spoke of cults, of arcane phenomena that defied logic—even for an elder caster. There was conviction in his tone, a certainty that made it impossible to dismiss outright. Yet, the claims themselves were staggering, bordering on the unfathomable.
Without hesitation, his fingers moved across the keys, summoning screens around him like a great digital cocoon. Pulsing blue appendages—ethereal extensions of his will—manned the auxiliary monitors, transcribing, analyzing, watching. His awareness seemed divided, yet no detail escaped him.
One screen, positioned within Inariel’s line of sight, displayed a real-time transcript of every word spoken. Every movement, every nuance of body language, was captured and cataloged with an eerie precision. And yet, despite this intricate multitasking, his focus sharpened the moment he inariel said :
“That this was my purpose… or rather, the purpose of what is within me. One of three keys that will aid in the kindling—the restart of all life…”
His fingers stilled, mid-keystroke. His piercing gaze locked onto Inariel, the weight of the revelation settling between them like an unspoken force.
“…The Seed of Creation harbors the coding of life itself… crystallized sinew of a myriad dead, given their lives to create that single crystal… I… do not know the other keys, nor the plane we hail from.”
He held his breath, A moment stretched taut. The screens hummed softly in the silence, their glow casting shifting shadows across his face. His mind raced, sifting through endless streams of knowledge, searching for a thread—any thread—that could unravel the mystery now laid before him. The flickering screens casting shifting shadows across his face.
The Seed of Creation. A key to rebirth. The code of all life, past, present and future remnants of countless lives. How could something like that exist? The words echoed in his mind, a revelation too vast to process in mere moments.
His fingers danced across the keys, then stilled. Interdimensional demons, death cult fanatics, and a litany of other details—each more sinister than the last—stacked atop one another like an encroaching tide. It would take weeks to unravel even a fraction of what had just been laid before him.
A long breath. A subtle shift in posture. When he spoke, his voice was soft, tinged with something distant—concern? Sadness? A whisper of betrayal hanging thick in the air.
"It'll take me some time to devise an appropriate countermeasure for The Hand and the Fell One."
His eyes drifted from the screen, summoning the Hands three laws before them. The words glowed, inscribed in golden light, their authority undeniable.
"This doctrine reads like a spell to me, it must hold great significance to the beast within our domain. I don’t imagine it’s energetically easy to maintain itself," he murmured, absently toying with a tiny wooden arrow between his fingers. "Eradicating The Hand would sever its grip, weakening the beast’s hold over us, no? Otherwise…" His gaze flicked toward Inariel, his expression unreadable. "You being a key of creation poses a great security risk."
The arrow rolled between his fingers before he flicked it into the air, twisting it like a coin. The silence between them grew heavier, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down like a vice.
"In fact… if anyone heard the story you just told me—"
He let the arrow fall still in his palm, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, each word laced with warning.
"You'd become the number one target in every hitman's book. The enemy of the state. The apple of their eye. They will hunt you. Not individuals. Not just The Hand. Cities. Kings. Nations.”
The glow of the monitors pulsed, casting an eerie rhythm against his skin. The air itself felt thick, as though the room had become a cage of whispered dangers and unseen threats.
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