The Last Star-Bearer: Heir of the Shattered Light

CHAPTER 10: HIS-STORY

The walk from the Grand Coliseum to the administration spire was the longest of Tristan’s life. It wasn’t the distance, but the quality of the silence that followed them... a dense, suffocating quiet that pressed in on his ears and made every footstep sound too loud in his own head. Stone pathways stretched ahead in orderly lines, banners hanging limp in the air as if even the wind had chosen to hold its breath.

“Don’t look back,” Archon murmured quietly, just loud enough for Tristan alone.

Tristan swallowed, his throat dry, his shoulders tight beneath the invisible weight of thousands of eyes. “I’m trying not to,” Tristan whispered back, his voice tight. “But I can feel them.”

Students and faculty parted before the Headmaster like the sea before a prophet, robes rustling as bodies shifted aside in instinctive deference. Faces turned... some openly, some in furtive glances, each expression a different blend of awe, fear, and naked curiosity.

“Hush,” a professor snapped sharply at a cluster of students edging too close, the sharp click of their ring against a staff punctuating the command.

“That’s him,” someone whispered too loudly, the words slipping free before caution could catch them.

“Enough,” came an immediate rebuke from a faculty member. “Eyes forward.”

“He broke it,” a third voice hissed, reverent and afraid, as though speaking of a natural disaster given human form.

“Silence,” a professor said coldly. “Show some respect.”

They didn’t look at Archon; they looked at the boy beside him, the quiet, unassuming freshman who had just unmade a priceless artifact with a flick of his wrist. Tristan felt those stares like physical things, scraping against his skin, weighing down his spine.

“He doesn’t look like a monster,” one student whispered, confusion bleeding into their tone.

“That’s how it always starts,” another replied darkly, fear curdling into suspicion.

A faculty member stepped subtly sideways, placing themselves between Tristan and the students. “That language ends now,” they said quietly, but with unmistakable authority, their posture making it clear the conversation was over.

Whispers flitted in the air around him, fragile and sharp as glass shards, catching on his thoughts whether he wanted them to or not.

“Move along,” a professor ordered. ”Disperse, This corridor is closed.”

Tristan kept his eyes fixed on the cobblestones, each step feeling heavy, unreal, as if the ground itself might give way beneath him.

“Keep walking,” Archon said calmly.

“I am,” Tristan whispered. “I just... my legs don’t feel real.”

“You’re doing well,” Archon said softly. “Stay with me.”

The emptiness inside him was a physical ache, a cold, hollow cavern where the vortex of gold and silver had dwelled. Each breath felt shallow, scraped thin by exhaustion he didn’t know how to name.

”It hurts,” Tristan admitted under his breath.

“I know,” Archon replied quietly. “And it will pass. The fear won’t... but the pain will.”

“Did I lose something?” Tristan asked suddenly, panic flaring despite himself.

“No,” Archon said without hesitation.

Archon seemed less a man escorting a student and more a warden leading a rare, dangerous specimen to a more secure containment.

“If you wanted to imprison me,” Tristan said bitterly, “you wouldn’t need to pretend.”

Archon’s grip tightened slightly. “If that were my intent, you would already be contained.”

Behind them, a raised hand from a professor brought the entire corridor to a halt. No one spoke. No one moved. His hand remained a steady, warm weight on Tristan’s shoulder, a silent anchor in the storm of public scrutiny.

“Don’t let go,” Tristan said suddenly.

“I won’t,” Archon replied.

He did not speak until the great oak doors of the spire swung shut behind them, cutting off the world with a resonant thud that echoed through Tristan’s chest. Outside, a professor’s voice echoed faintly through the stone halls. “Disperse. Classes resume immediately.”

The silence deepened, thick and absolute.

“Good,” Archon said. “Now we can speak honestly. They will talk for weeks,” Archon added, his voice echoing softly in the marble foyer. “They will weave legends and nightmares around you. It is what beings do to make sense of the incomprehensible.”

“They’re already doing it,” Tristan muttered. His hand trembled. The memory of people from Thorndike hunts him again.

“Yes,” Archon agreed. “And none of them are correct.”

He led Tristan not to a conventional office, but up a spiraling staircase that seemed to go on forever, the walls shifting from marble to star-flecked obsidian as they climbed higher and higher.

“How far does this go?” Tristan asked breathlessly.

“Far enough to remind you how small you are,” Archon said. “And how large you may become.”

Tristan swallowed. “I don’t think I want the truth. I just want to survive. I want to go back in the mortal realm. I'm not the one in the prophecy.”

“No one ever wants the truth,” Archon replied. “But it comes regardless.”

The staircase opened into a circular chamber at the very pinnacle of the spire. There was no desk, no chair, only a floor that seemed to be made of solidified night sky, constellations twinkling faintly under their feet.

“This place…” Tristan whispered.

“Is warded against lies,” Archon said. “Choose your words carefully.”

The walls were transparent, offering a panoramic view of the world below, the academy grounds, the distant cities, and beyond them, the curling edges of continents under a twilight sky that felt impossibly vast.

“If I fall…” Tristan began.

“You won’t,” Archon said immediately. “The ward won’t let you.” It felt less like an office and more like the command deck of reality itself.

“Where are we?” Tristan breathed, his fear momentarily supplanted by sheer wonder.

“A place where perspective is easier to find,” Archon said.

He gestured, and an image shimmered into existence between them: a perfect, three-dimensional rendering of the sigil of sun and moon in eclipse form.

Tristan recoiled. “Don’t... don’t show me that.”

“You must look,” Archon said firmly. “Running from it will not save you. Running from your fears makes it more dangerous. This is the Mark of the eclipse. It is not a symbol of destruction, but of nullification.”

“The gauge did not explode, Tristan. It was erased out of the world. And for a fleeting moment, you were its catalyst.”

Tristan shook his head violently. “No. I’m not— I can’t be. If I can do that…” he whispered, “what happens if I lose control?” Tristan stared at the symbol, a cold dread coiling tighter in his gut.

Archon met his gaze. “Then the world loses more than a gauge.”

“I don’t understand. How? My power… I don't know that it even exists. I don't mean to destroy. I want a simple life.”

“Simple life is out of the picture now. You say you don't mean to destroy that is because you were never meant to erase,” Archon said. “You were meant to connect. Because you have been thinking of it as your power,” Archon corrected gently.

“So it’s not mine?” Tristan asked.

“It never was,” Archon said softly. “A river in a bucket…”

“I thought I was learning control,” Tristan whispered.

“You were learning restraint,” Archon replied. “There is a difference. You kicked a hole in the dam and let the ocean in.”

Tristan’s voice shook. “What if I drown next time?”

”Then,” Archon said, “we teach you how to breathe underwater. That is why you will be studying in the university so we can guide you to control your power step-by-step.” He began to pace, his bare feet silent on the starry floor.

“There are others like me?” Tristan asked.

“There were, before the Necrolord was sealed... they were beings capable of using sun and moon magic but separately.” Archon replied. “ Your case is different. You can use both.”

The word echoed.

“A bridge,” Tristan whispered.

“A fault line,” Archon corrected gently.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tristan asked, a flicker of betrayal sparking amidst his fear.

Archon stopped pacing. “Because knowing too early breaks people. Would you have been ready? Would any child?”

Tristan clenched his fists. “You decided for me.”

“Yes,” Archon said evenly. “And I would do it again.”

“I have a suspicion of your origin but I won't say it unless I'm sure of it.”

Tristan’s breath hitched.

“I didn’t mean to break the Arcum,” Tristan said desperately.

“I know,” Archon replied.

Tristan’s voice was barely sound. “I don’t want this.”

“I know,” Archon said. “But the world does not ask permission. And it's always unapologetic to those who were given the gift they don't want.”

The enormity of it crashed down on Tristan, stealing his breath.

Headmaster Archon placed a hand on his shoulder again, his gaze firm but not unkind.

“Don't be afraid to use your magic and you need to undergo lessons on how to do so just like anyone else” he said.

“So what am I now?” Tristan asked.

“From this moment forward,” Archon said, “a normal child of the Lumen. You don't count as a mere mortal anymore. You are now one of the children of light. Your training begins tomorrow so rest well.”

Tristan nodded slowly.

Archon’s voice was calm. “We must teach you not how to wield power, but how to survive it. It will be a long tedious process so better ready yourself.”