Atlas’ POV

*****

Male Dormitory building, 8:30 Am

"By the spirits," he let out a frustrated grunt, breaking concentration for what might be the hundredth time. "This can’t be natural. Communing with the dead has never felt so difficult."

Since last night, he’s been busy.

Studying a book on advanced Necromancy to get extra points and then preparing to cast the ritual.

Candles surrounded him, as well as a magic circle drawn with black chalk. In front of him was some hair he plucked from the dead cleaner’s head before they left the Dean’s office.

It was the perfect set-up for a spell to summon the dead. To ask her questions about her killer and hopefully get the truth from arguably the most reliable source.

The other side.

Yet no matter how much he tried or how much magic energy he spent, he couldn’t connect with the afterlife. It was as if something in the dead woman’s soul was interfering with his attempts. Blocking his calls.

"I’ve used every approach imaginable." He sighed, sitting more comfortably on the floor. "And I’m late for Mixed Combat Lab... pfft. That should reflect on this semester’s grades."

He squinted hard as his mind trailed.

What other way could he use to get around this? Direct summoning wasn’t working—as proven by hours of fruitless attempts. Any more energy he uses would leave him drained.

So... what if...?

"Wait," his eyes lit up with hope. "There’s one more way."

Sure enough, it was a risky one. Very risky in fact.

But at this point, it was worth a shot if he didn’t want all his effort to be for nothing.

So the method in question? Partial astral projection.

Projecting just enough of his soul out of his body to increase his connection to the afterlife. Making the boundaries between the mortal world and the other side easier for him to break.

In theory.

Drawing in a lengthy exhale, Atlas’s eyes fluttered shut. He let his magic touch the deepest part of his soul, pulling it out slowly.

One mistake could leave his soul out of his body permanently. Essentially killing him.

Soon, a white light surrounded him like fire. Calm. Soft enough to seem peaceful.

He opened his eyes, yelling the ancient spell words at the top of his voice. One of his windows shattered but he ignored that, his mouth instead curving into a grin.

"It’s working."

A pressuring presence thickened the air until it felt like he was submerged under water. He held his breath, clutching the hair strands and chanting the cleaner’s name.

"Mirabel Herondale. I, Atlas Stormwood, heir of the Stormwood coven. Summon you. Come forth!"

The lights in the room all tripped off at once, the candles turning off as well. A deafening silence settled in the air.

Then—a tear in the space before him appeared, blinding white light spilling out of it. A spectral hand clawed out of it, reaching around before a head pushed out as well.

Atlas’s eyes widened.

It worked!

However, he could tell that something was wrong. The spirit’s face was distorted with fear, as if she had just escaped something dreadful.

"It... it was dark..." she stuttered, words glitching like static. "Darkness. So much darkness. As far as my eyes could see."

Without thinking, Atlas stretched his hand forward, trying to calm her. "You’re safe for now. Just tell me... who killed you?"

He paused before adding. "Did they have sharp front canines? Control shadows? Or—"

"No!" She shook her head, struggling to pull out her other arm and the rest of her spectral form. But the tear wasn’t big enough. "P–Please. She... she’ll come for me again..."

Those words gave Atlas pause.

Not Azrael. Not a vampire. Not even the Dean.

But... she?

"Who’s coming for you?" He held himself from grabbing her hand. "For me to help you, you need to be specific."

Suddenly, ghastly howls resounded from the spatial tear. The woman’s eyes bulged while Atlas’ hair stood on end.

"They’re here," the woman shook her head, managing to bring out her other arm. She grabbed Atlas’s shoulder, his half astral state allowing physical touch. "P–Please. She has us all fooled. You... you need to stop—"

Before she could complete that sentence, something pulled her from the other end of the tear. She let out a bone-rattling cry, her touch lingering like frostbite on Atlas’ shoulders.

He panicked, flicking his wrist when an invisible force tugged at his soul. Attempting to take it too.

Fortunately, his quick thinking spell sealed the spatial tear and slammed his soul fully back into his body. Sweat clung to every orifice as he grabbed his chest, rasping for breath.

Atlas remained hunched over the circle for a long moment, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls. The room had fallen deathly quiet again. The candles were dead, the chalk circle cracked in places where the backlash had struck it.

Only the shattered window whispered with the wind.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

His mind replayed the woman’s words over and over.

She.

Not he.

Not they.

She.

Atlas dragged a shaking hand across his face, trying to steady his thoughts.

"A woman..." he murmured hoarsely.

The cleaner had been terrified. Not confused or delirious.

And she’d said something else:

She has us all fooled.

His brows slowly knitted together. "Fooled... how?"

The academy had plenty of powerful figures. Professors. Students from ancient bloodlines.

Too many possibilities.

Yet none of them explained the darkness the spirit had described. The way something from the other side had dragged her back like prey being reclaimed.

Atlas leaned back against the cold floor, staring at the ceiling.

"Who are you...?" he whispered into the silence.

The question lingered unanswered.

For a few seconds longer, the world stayed still.

Then—

The bond burned.

Atlas jerked upright with a sharp inhale.

Pain flared across his chest where the invisible thread between him and Celeste suddenly ignited like wildfire.

His eyes widened as the surge slammed into his senses.

Magic.

Celeste’s magic.

But it wasn’t the steady warmth he had grown used to feeling from her.

This was different.

This was a storm ripping through the Vein itself.

The air around him crackled faintly. The broken chalk lines of the ritual circle flared silver as if reacting to the distant outburst.

Atlas pushed himself to his feet instantly.

"... Celeste."

The name left his mouth in a breath.

Something had happened. Something bad.

The surge grew stronger for a split second before stabilising into a violent pulse that echoed through the bond like thunder. And Atlas suddenly knew exactly where it was coming from.

The Combat Wing.

Without wasting another second, he lifted his hand, making space fold.

Atlas vanished in a flash of golden light—teleporting straight toward the source of the chaos.