Chapter 63 Cold Soup

Chapter 63 Cold Soup
The walk to the dining hall didn't do anything to calm the violent twisting in Ravelyn's stomach. If anything, the smell of roasted meat and heavy spices wafting through the corridors only made her more aggressive.

"Step aside," Ravelyn muttered, shoving past a group of lingering freshmen who were blocking the double doors of the mess hall.

"Ravelyn! Wait up!" Nina’s voice cut through the midday chatter. She sprinted down the hallway, her shadow lynx trailing closely behind, looking just as stressed as its master. "I've been looking all over for you. Are you okay? I saw the seating charts floating on the main board. Everyone is talking about it."

"If one more person mentions that seating chart, I'm going to start biting," Ravelyn said, grabbing a tray with a bit more force than necessary. "I haven't eaten in eight hours, Nina. My brain is operating on pure spite."

"Right, right, food first," Nina said, quickly grabbing her own tray. "But seriously, between the prince and the angel leader? The proctors must be actively trying to get you killed. And Nyra look like she was ready to summon a localized apocalypse."

"Let her try," Ravelyn grumbled, dumping a bowl of thick stew onto her tray. "I'm more worried about whatever is happening in the outer perimeter. The proctor said the cells deploy at dawn. That means I have less than twelve hours to figure out how to navigate the woods without Kieran trying to trigger our bond every five minutes, or Lucius trying to exorcise him right next to me."

"Speak of the devil," Nina whispered suddenly, her posture going rigid.

Ravelyn looked up from her plate.

Standing right at the edge of the high-table walkway, completely blocking the path to the booths, was Seraphine. Her pristine white uniform didn't have a single crease, and her expression was a perfect picture of rigid, celestial disapproval.

"Ravelyn," Seraphine said, her voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous purr that didn't carry to the rest of the room. "We need to talk about your assignment."

\----

Deep within the restricted south catacombs, the air was heavy with the smell of old stone and burnt copper. The golden light from the wall crystals gave a sickly glow to the chamber where Elder Vane and three other elders stood, their heavy robes rustling in the damp chill.

"It makes no sense," one of the elders muttered, crossing his arms. "The perimeter wards are inspected every dawn. How were the Vorath packs able to infiltrate the academy grounds without triggering a single alarm? A pack of that size doesn't just slip through a crack in the cloud barrier."

"The wards didn't fail from the outside," a second elder suggested, his eyes narrow. "Ravelyn Hawethorn’s presence must have triggered a rift to tear. The raw, unrefined energy of a new student often causes spatial fluctuations. It is entirely possible her arrival caused the tear that let the Vorath packs come to the academy."

Elder Vane frowned, turning a cold scowl toward the man. "And how would a shadow wraith be capable of such a thing? A wraith commands shadows, not spatial fabric. They manipulate what is already there. They do not tear holes between realms."

The elder snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound. "A wraith? How are we even sure that she is actually just a wraith? The energy spikes recorded during her evaluation were completely off the charts for a standard shadow bearer. Shadows do not dent steel lockers or manipulate heat. There is something fundamentally wrong with her records."

Before Elder Vane could fire back a defense, the heavy iron doors of the catacombs slammed open. A senior academy guard rushed into the chamber, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. His armor was smeared with soot, and his hands were shaking as he gripped his spear hilt.

"Elders!" the guard gasped, dropping to one knee. "We have a critical breach. We just found a dead servant behind the grand library. His eyes had been completely gouged out."

Elder Vane took a sharp step forward, his voice dropping. "Bring him in. Now."

The guard nodded frantically and gestured to the hallway. Two lower-ranking sentries quickly hurried into the room, carrying the servant's body on a blood-stained canvas stretcher. They laid it heavily across the central stone table.

The moment the cloth was pulled back, the elders collectively gasped in utter terror and shock. The room went entirely rigid. The servant's face was a horrific mess, his eyes completely gone, leaving empty, shadowed sockets.

But it was the dead man's neck that made the room turn ice cold.

While the other elders shrank back in horror, Elder Vane didn't move. He stepped closer, his jaw clenching tightly as he stared at the fresh, smoking burn sigil seared directly into the flesh. The lines were jagged, pulsing with a faint, residual dark magic that felt entirely ancient.

Elder Vane frowned deeply, his brow furrowing as he recognized the sigil. "This is the mark of the Hollowed."

The panic in the room spiked instantly. One of the high-ranking angel elders stepped forward, his face completely pale as his hands began to tremble against his robes. "If this is really the Hollowed... if they have breached our sanctuary, then we are completely out of time. We need to prepare for war."

"They are already inside the walls," Elder Vane whispered, his voice grim. "The enemy is sitting in our classrooms."