Awakening of the Dead

Ashes of warning

The Ashes of Warning

Dawn’s light crept weakly over the ruined academy. The once-proud campus now wore the wounds of battle—scorched grass, shattered flagstones, and the copper tang of blood that magicked the morning air. Elior moved like a ghost through the debris, every footfall heavy with sleepless exhaustion, arms wrapped in bloodied bandages. The world he’d bled to save watched him from behind glass and stone, fear written bold in every shadowed window.

Faces once twisted in mockery now flicked away, cold and silent. Where laughter had cut him, now only whispers and spells of warding trailed in his wake. Elior understood all at once the cruelty of being feared: it was a colder exile than ridicule ever could be.

The Council’s Indifference

Within the Grand Hall, the air was stifled with formality. The Upper Court presided—magisters in velvet, the headmaster stern, wardens grim and silent. Students filed in, a bitter audience hopeful for a scapegoat.

The high magister struck his staff:

“Elior Graves, you allege we are threatened by cultists and demons, yet we see only the ruin left by your presence. Prove your claims before the Court.”

Elior’s hands shook but his voice—tempered by hardship—carried across the marble:

“I have seen them—the Red-Blood Cult. In waking and in dreams. They seek to enslave the kingdom, bleed its magic dry. The demon attack was not of my making, nor my power. It was sabotage, and if you do not listen, they will bring all this to ruin.”

A ripple of derisive laughter. The headmaster’s mouth twisted in a smirk.

“A tortured mind can conjure any nightmare. What the school needs is calm, not fantasy.”

Another magister, voice dripping with contempt:

“We cannot defend a kingdom on ghost stories, boy.”

Students followed, some openly scoffing, others only glad the focus wasn’t upon them. Olivia, once Elior’s chief tormentor, now couldn’t meet his gaze.

Elior’s fists curled so tightly his fingernails drew blood. Their dismissals burned. Fury twisted in his belly, sharp and hot as knives.

Elior’s jaw clenched. He pressed back tears, voice cracking with a wrath laced in grief.

“Your arrogance will be your undoing. You think bravery is in facing what is easy—real courage is believing the warnings of the outcast, the broken. Your pride will drown you while you look for enemies outside these walls and let the rot fester within.”

The silence was a pit. He saw no pity, no understanding—only cold, anxious want for a show. Betrayal’s old warmth returned, black as pitch.

The demon’s whisper coiled in his mind, louder than ever:

Let me answer them, Elior. Let me show them the price of scorn. Let the halls run red with their regret, let your power eclipse the dawn itself…

Into the pause stepped Olivia, shoulders hunched against centuries of pride. His voice quivered:

“I believe you, Elior. I dream the same dreams—blood, cultists, our kingdom bleeding out beneath a scarlet tide.”

Elior stared, unsure what emotion to feel—relief, anger, or something sadder.

“So you hid your fear behind my suffering? Easier to watch me burn than risk your own shame?”

Olivia’s jaw trembled. “I was weak. I’m sorry.”

Elior’s reply was devoid of hope:

“Let the Red-Blood Cult come, then. Let them see how well the kingdom stands without its outcasts.”

Outside, wind lashed the world, carrying echoes of ancient chants. Elior stalked through the ruined field, everything inside him a shattered storm.

The demon’s voice pressed in, furious and seductive:

You’ve no family but us. They would have watched you die. Show them their true lord. Burn their sanctum. Become the monster they always feared.

Elior dropped to his knees, hands shaking, sweat and blood cold against his skin.

“Why do they always hate me?” he whispered.

Because you remind them they are broken too. Let me tear the mask off their faces.

A fire leapt in his veins—a taste of raw destruction, a vision: the school in ruins, the Upper Court kneeling, all of them understanding their folly too late.

A voice as sharp as an icicle in darkness shattered the spiral:

“Will you let pain harden you into what they always wanted? Or will you master who you choose to be?”

Mr. Damon stood, black robes billowing like smoke, his gaze relentless.

“Why should I help them?” Elior’s words shook, fury barely held in check. “They gave me nothing but scorn. Let them suffer as I did.”

Damon’s eyes were twin mirrors:

“Because vengeance sets you in the chains they forged. Saving them breaks their hold forever. Be the hero you never had.”

Elior trembled, war raging within.

They don’t deserve you. They never did…

The Night That Speaks

Olivia lingered near as the last students vanished indoors, regret branded in his eyes.

“If you walk away, Elior, they will all die. I wish I could be braver. I’m sorry for everything.”

Elior only nodded, voice ragged:

“I won’t be the monster they think I am. But I won’t beg for their love again.”

Above them, clouds boiled black. A hellish crimson flame erupted along the high wall, burning strange, tortured glyphs:

“You were warned.

The Blood Harvest begins at midnight.”

Shrieks cut the air; teachers and magisters ran for the gates. The symbols scorched the stone, dripping molten red that sizzled on impact.

Alone, Elior stood beneath the bloody sigil, the demon’s voice finally hushed as if cowering from prophecy.

He looked at his hands—bloody, battered, all too human—and knew power could become justice only by choice.

“My wrath will be the forge for something brave,” he whispered to the coming night, “not a weapon for ruin.”

He drew in a long breath, the icy wind filling him with fire and dread.

“If they want a devil—” he looked up at the flaming sigil, “—I’ll show them one who refuses to become a monster.”