CHAPTER 164: CHAPTER 164: THE WRITING THAT SHOULDN’T BE

The instructor moved so quickly that Cassian flinched.

One moment she was staring, and the next her hand shot out and snatched the parchment from his desk. The rustle of paper was sharp, almost violent in the silence.

Her eyes were wide now as she stared down at his writing; her fingers clutched the page with a grip too tight for someone who had only moments ago been calmly lecturing about formal pronouns.

Cassian’s heart began to hammer.

"I... I just copied it," he said, voice unsteady. "That’s all. I wasn’t trying to..."

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at him.

He turned desperately to Veyce, but the other boy only lifted a brow and gave a subtle shrug, mouthing, "No idea." His usual sarcasm was nowhere to be found.

Cassian’s panic deepened as countless thoughts raced through his mind.

Across the room, the other two students had stopped writing. Enira, the demon noblewoman, stared at him, a stare that could freeze rivers. She was already watching him with narrowed eyes.

Sylen, the fae boy with ink-stained fingers and an ever-curious gaze, leaned forward as if he could somehow see past the parchment she held so protectively against her chest.

But the instructor wasn’t letting anyone see it.

"Where did you learn to write like this?" She asked again, her voice brittle and low, like it might crack completely with the wrong answer.

Cassian’s mouth went dry. "I—I didn’t learn. I mean—I just copied what you were writing. On the board. It’s my first time doing it, I swear."

The instructor’s expression shifted strangely—shock giving way to something harder to define. Horror? No, not quite. Recognition, maybe. But what could she recognize in his clumsy writing?

Then, without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and stormed out of the etiquette hall.

The doors slammed shut behind her, the echo lingering like a thunderclap.

Cassian sat frozen, mouth slightly open. "Did... Did I do something wrong?"

Veyce blinked, then leaned back on his cushion. "What in the nine hells is that old witch up to now?"

Cassian could only look at him, speechless.

The four of them sat there, waiting. Five minutes. Ten.

Nothing.

No footsteps returning. No instructions. Not even the sound of a servant trailing down the hall.

"Is this class over, then?" Veyce finally asked, clearly growing bored.

"I don’t know," Cassian muttered, glancing toward the shut doors. "Maybe?"

They both looked at the other two students. Enira still hadn’t said a word, but her eyes were sharp, watching Cassian like a hawk would a mouse. Sylen was quiet too, but there was an uneasy curiosity in his posture, like he wanted to ask something and didn’t dare.

After another long stretch of silence, Enira stood and dusted off her elegant robes. "This is a waste of time," she said flatly, and strode toward the exit.

Sylen hesitated only a moment before following her, casting a brief glance back at Cassian before slipping through the doors.

Then it was just Cassian and Veyce alone in the vast hall.

"So..." Veyce drawled, pushing himself to his feet. "What, you’re secretly some demon prince from a hundred thousand years ago? Is that what this is?"

Cassian gave him a withering look. "Shut up."

Veyce smirked but didn’t press it. "Guess we’ll find out soon enough."

Cassian slowly got up, still dazed, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. He glanced at the board again—the strange writing somewhat making sense to him, like he could understand what was written.

But he shook his head; maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. How could he understand it?

Right?

on the other side, The heavy doors of the etiquette hall slammed behind her, but the sound barely registered.

She moved faster than any decorum would allow...her robes a blur as she strode through the echoing corridors of the academy.

She didn’t stop until she reached the old library annex, tucked behind the west wing, where the dust was thick and not many people have access to this place.

Suddenly she made a sharp turn and headed in a direction, already knowing where it was located. She didn’t bother lighting the rest of the room. She knew exactly what she needed.

Across the cramped space, she yanked open a drawer lined with velvet and iron clasps. Inside were scrolls and sealed letters, thick volumes bound in leather, their covers etched in demon language.

She shoved some aside until her fingers found the right one.

She laid it on her desk and, with shaking hands, pulled out the parchment she had taken from Cassian. She placed it side by side with the old text, careful not to smudge the ink.

The match was instant. Line for line. Stroke for stroke.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"No..." she whispered, disbelieving. "This isn’t possible."

She leaned closer, her eyes darting between the two pages, her heart hammering in her chest. It wasn’t just the words—it was the style, the form. Demon language wasn’t like human or fae lettering—it was a living thing, shaped by the caster’s essence. No two people ever wrote it the same way.

But this... this was identical.

She knew who the old parchment belonged to, but how could a mere boy copy it so easily? But he had copied it flawlessly without knowing what it was.

Her hand trembled as she touched the edge of the preserved parchment. She had studied demonology for centuries. She had trained to read this. And even now, she could not write it with such exactitude.

"Who are you, Cassian?" she breathed.

Then, slowly, a thought began to take shape in her mind, making her face pale.

"That’s not possible," she whispered, a hollow echo in the room.

But the truth had already sunk in. Because there was only one possibility that made sense.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, staring at the parchment.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.

But the writing didn’t lie.