Eternal Vow

Chapter 4:Dormitory Wars

The morning bell of the Soul Academy didn’t clang or chime.

It breathed.

A soft vibration brushed the walls, stirring the air like a whisper of silk.

Elias woke to that hum and, by habit, pressed a hand to his chest.

The hidden “lid” above his heart was still there—quiet, sealed.

He exhaled, relieved.

Muffin perched on the bedpost, black feathers gleaming in the pale light.

“Morning,” Elias muttered. “Lesson one: stay alive, stay unnoticed.”

The raven blinked and let out a dry “Caw,” which sounded suspiciously like, Start by not snoring.

The door banged open.

Baldric swaggered in, a washbasin balanced in one hand, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. His grin had the confidence of someone who’d audited too many tax records.

“Rise and shine, boys. Welcome to Dorm Three—most civilized room in the freshman block. Rule one: by day, we argue with logic; by night, we argue with ghosts.”

Elias blinked. “Meaning?”

“Whoever screams loudest after midnight scrubs the hallway.”

The alchemy addict shuffled out of his corner, clutching a glass kettle filled with bubbling blue liquid. “I screamed twice yesterday,” he said flatly. “Won both rounds.”

The third roommate, a bookworm whose eyes were permanently lost behind thick lenses, flipped open a dusty tome. “According to the First Dean, ‘A soul in a confined space behaves inversely to the student’s rest cycle.’ Ergo—don’t inhale each other’s souls at night.”

Elias frowned. “We can inhale each other’s souls?”

Baldric shrugged. “Theoretically. Practically? Too broke to be worth stealing. Come on, newbie. Let’s eat. The cafeteria’s the real battlefield here.”

“Battlefield?”

“Kid,” Baldric said gravely, handing him the basin. “The stomach is the first gate to enlightenment.”

The cafeteria was alive.

Voices, heat, and a faint glow filled the hall like the inside of a breathing creature.

Elias clutched his tray and stared at the floating cauldrons suspended from the ceiling.

No fire burned beneath them, yet the liquid inside rolled and steamed, shimmering with inner light.

“What is that?” he whispered.

“Soul broth,” Baldric said proudly. “Base of mistflower vapor, memory moss, and regret root. Restores awareness.”

“Sounds like someone boiled remorse for soup.”

“Exactly,” Baldric said, ladling two portions. “Chef’s motto: ‘Good soup makes you want to live. Bad soup makes you drop out.’”

Elias took a cautious sip.

Warm. Thin. Tasteless.

But the sealed spot over his heart pulsed faintly, as if the broth had brushed something dormant.

“Not bad,” he said. “Tastes like untaxed air.”

They found a corner table. Around them, students dined on everything from translucent noodles to glowing dumplings labeled ethereal-friendly.

The alchemist set his blue kettle on the table; nearby students promptly evacuated a full meter away.

“What’s in that?” Elias asked.

“‘Clearbrain Extract.’ Sharpens focus. Side effect: temporary déjà vu toward strangers.”

“Then keep it away from me,” Elias said seriously. “I can’t afford new relatives.”

Before Baldric could laugh, applause burst out from the center of the hall.

A group of upperclassmen in black-trimmed robes marched in, holding small, mirror-like devices.

Each mirror emitted a disciplined gleam of white light.

“Who are they?” Elias whispered.

“The Audit Division,” Baldric murmured. “Half-students, half-inquisitors. Don’t mess with them—they live by the rulebook.”

“Rulebook’s scary?”

“The book’s fine. The people who swing it are terrifying.”

The group stopped beside a cluttered table.

A girl sat there, wild-haired, sleeves uneven, surrounded by glass vials that hissed quietly.

“The alchemy maniac,” Baldric muttered. “Name’s Nola. She once brewed something that made an entire lab applaud. Not intentionally.”

The lead auditor snapped his mirror forward. “Routine inspection. Present your weekly records and samples.”

Nola sighed and handed over a small vial of violet jelly. “Resonance gel. Helps low-level students align breathing rhythms.”

The auditor smirked. “Jelly? You call this research?”

He popped the cork before she could stop him.

“Wait—don’t—”

The vial popped.

A perfect bubble of purple mist hit his face and burst.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the entire table gasped.

The proud auditor’s skin turned violet from hairline to chin.

Someone snorted. Then laughter rippled through the cafeteria like dropped coins.

Even the soup cauldrons seemed to bubble louder.

The auditor’s hand trembled. “Violation—unauthorized volatile—”

Nola shrugged. “You sniffed it. My concoction wasn’t consensual.”

“Seize it!” he snapped, reaching for her table.

Elias didn’t know why he moved.

Maybe it was the sudden flicker under his ribs—the same faint click from the sealed well.

Maybe it was the echo of the word seize, too close to the memory of soul collectors.

He stood. “Wait.”

Every head turned.

Baldric swore softly. “You suicidal saint…”

The auditor’s violet glare locked on him. “Temporary badge? The outer-ring charity case thinks he can lecture me?”

Elias’s mouth went dry, but he forced his tone steady. “Public area, no injuries, minor hazard. According to standard safety procedure, that’s a category-one incident—verbal warning, not arrest. Also…”

He gestured vaguely at the mirror. “Pointing that thing at people’s faces is… rude.”

He had no idea if any of that was true.

But Corren’s words came back to him: ‘When you don’t know the law, say it slower.’

So he did.

“You teaching me my job?” the auditor hissed.

“No,” Elias said softly. “Just reminding you that every disaster begins with a confident man saying, ‘Trust me.’ In my village, that usually meant famine.”

The color in the man’s face—what wasn’t purple—darkened further. He drew breath to retaliate—

—but a voice cut through the noise like a blade dipped in calm water.

“Public area,” said Rina from the doorway, “means public decency.”

Every conversation stopped.

Rina stood framed in the archway, lab coat fluttering, a clipboard under her arm.

The auditors shifted uneasily.

“It’s Wednesday,” she said mildly. “Your inspections are scheduled Tuesdays and Fridays. Where’s your authorization form?”

Silence.

“Provisional check,” the leader tried.

“Then show your provisional sheet,” Rina replied. “Or I’ll escort you to Professor Corren’s office. He loves surprise paperwork.”

The boy froze, jaw tight.

Finally, he turned to Nola, muttered something between a curse and a vow, and stalked off, leaving a faint trail of purple mist behind.

Laughter returned in a tidal wave.

Nola raised her hand in mock salute. “Thanks, teach. Want to try the calmness flavor?”

Rina ignored her. “Submit your experiment log. And no brewing in cafeterias.”

She turned, paused just long enough to give Elias a small nod—approval without warmth—and left.

Baldric exhaled hard. “You’re insane.”

“I noticed.” Elias’s heart was still racing, though the well inside him had gone quiet again—sealed, satisfied.

“But admit it,” he added weakly. “Purple suits him.”

The alchemist choked back a laugh and poured a drop of blue liquid into Elias’s soup. “Reward dose. One drop. Any more and we’ll be related by noon.”

The bookworm adjusted his glasses. “According to the Charter, Audit Division jurisdiction derives from clause seven-point-five of the Student Autonomy Act.”

“Seven-point-five?” Elias echoed.

“Half a clause,” the boy said solemnly. “Printed on the wrong page. No one fixed it.”

Elias sipped his soup and found his hands had stopped shaking.

He realized that “staying unnoticed” didn’t necessarily mean silence—it meant speaking only when it mattered.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d done that right once.

That afternoon brought “Aether Breathing: Foundations.”

The classroom was not a room but an open circular terrace, with a levitating slab of black stone at its center.

Thin blue lines pulsed across its surface, rippling like veins.

Students sat in a ring, each before a small “breathing mirror”—a disk of glass that reflected not faces but mist.

The instructor, a gentle-eyed woman named Veya, stood barefoot in the center.

“Aether,” she began, “is not wind, nor water, nor light. It is the quiet wish to keep living.”

Her voice was soft, steady. “When you inhale, you are not taking in air—you are inviting that wish closer. When you exhale, you are assuring it the world is still safe.”

She smiled faintly. “Like befriending a shy animal. Sometimes, it bites.”

The class chuckled nervously.

Elias stared into his mirror. At first, it showed nothing but dull darkness, like the bottom of a well.

He mimicked her rhythm.

Once. Twice.

On the third breath, he heard it—the faintest click under his ribs.

The black stone at the center gave a low hum, one vein flaring briefly blue.

Veya’s gaze swept the circle. “Whose mirror just sang?”

Elias raised his hand. “Mine.”

Dozens of eyes turned. Baldric mouthed, Don’t draw attention!

But Veya simply nodded. “Good. A sound means it’s aware of you. Continue.”

For the rest of the lesson, his mirror stayed silent. He didn’t mind.

He noticed something instead: when he thought of his mother, the village, the tower’s fire, the mirror cooled.

When he thought of the cafeteria soup, Rina’s nod, Baldric’s terrible jokes—it warmed.

“Maybe wanting to live really does have temperature,” he thought.

When class ended, Veya stopped him. “Temporary badge?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good breathing. Don’t rush. Yours isn’t an empty well—it’s sealed. Come earlier tomorrow. I’ll move you closer to the wind.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes,” she said, smiling, “the wind helps lift the lid.”

Elias bowed awkwardly. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid of that word—lid.

Because someone had seen it, named it, and not called it a sin.

Evening brought the legendary Dormitory Wars.

In truth, it was four broke students and one half-broken lamp.

The dorm’s “study lamp” had two settings—“Academic Yellow” and “Ascension White”—and a mind of its own.

Whoever could turn it white with breathing got to use it first.

“Rules,” Baldric declared, slamming the table. “No tools, no tricks. Pure breathwork.”

The alchemist was already shaking his head. “I’m out. My nerves met too many people today.”

The bookworm flipped pages. “Note: ‘Ascension White’ is not an official classification. Merely a superstition signifying ‘hope of productivity.’”

“Watch and learn.” Baldric drew a deep, theatrical breath. His chest rose, his shoulders squared—the confidence of a man who once argued tax law with a priest.

The lamp brightened, then sputtered and dimmed.

He scowled. “Almost.”

The bookworm tried next, aligning pulse to text rhythm. The lamp flickered politely and went out.

“Your turn, soulless wonder,” Baldric said. “Show us how you flirt with a lid.”

Elias rubbed his neck. He didn’t want to win—winning made people look. He just didn’t want to break the lamp.

He placed a hand on the base, closed his eyes, and whispered silently to the pulse beneath his ribs.

Come closer. Just a little.

The lamp brightened—slow, hesitant.

It’s all right. You can go back now.

The light steadied, soft white, warm as fresh bread.

All three roommates stared.

Baldric groaned. “You literal miracle of cowardice. The lamp likes you.”

The alchemist yawned. “Fine. Twenty-seven minutes and three seconds. Use it or lose it.”

The bookworm made a note. “Observation: lamps prefer consistent fear levels.”

Elias laughed quietly. “I smell like panic. Maybe it’s comforting.”

“Maybe,” Baldric said, tossing him the study notes. “Just… keep your head down. You pulled enough stunts for one day.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Baldric muttered from his bunk. “Just remember—the Tower likes to rename ‘talkative’ as ‘guilty.’”

Elias nodded. He turned the lamp down a little, enough to work without glowing through the window.

Outside, the soul garden shimmered beneath a synthetic moon, a thousand tiny lights drifting like patient stars.

He copied his schedule onto a scrap of parchment:

Aether Breathing – Veya.

Laboratory Assistant – Rina.

Ethics Office Check-in.

Library Tower – Restricted.

Each word felt like a step back toward living.

He caught himself smiling.

Maybe the day hadn’t been safe, or calm, but it had been his.

The lamp flickered once, breathing with him.

Muffin shifted on the bedpost, one amber eye half open—equal parts proud, annoyed, and watchful.

Elias blew out the light.

In the thin seam between wakefulness and sleep, he thought he saw a sliver of radiance far beyond the dorm walls—a line of light stretching from the distant tower to the sealed well inside his chest.

It tapped once, gently.

It was still there.

And so was he.

He sank into rest like sand carried by the tide—finally, briefly, at peace.