The Vigil

**[NARRATION]** There was no official funeral. There was no body to bury, no rites to perform. The next midday at Von Queef University was different from the last. A time usually alive with chatter, music, and spellbound mischief had been replaced by something quieter. Heavier. A crater, still blackened and pulsing faintly with residual void energy, marked the center of the courtyard. Around it shimmered a soft halo of magical light—delicate, but impenetrable. Even the wind seemed reluctant to pass through the tall archways. The birds and wyverns had altered their flight paths, as if the air itself no longer consented to linger. Beyond the crater, another circle had formed—this one made of students and professors, standing in shared, unsettled silence. No one dared cross the boundary. The space where Orlandus Spokovich once danced had become a wound in the world. An absence so clean and deliberate, it felt direct. Precise. Like a character had been edited out of the script. That's what many wanted to believe. That Orlandus' death was meaningful, but most had a void deep down in their heart reminding them that it was likely just a consequence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. **[NARRATION]** Nick Kremp stood near the edge of the glow, hands twisting together, restless and raw. His throat bobbed with effort. His voice, when it emerged, was the sound of someone trying to lead but failing to outrun their own fear. **NICK** _(tentative, shaken)_: "I didn’t… I mean—I think we should—" **[NARRATION]** He never finished. A voice from the crowd cut through the hush—low, dry, and dismissive. **DOMINION STUDENT** _(under breath)_: "Guess Albert won’t be teaching Dance Appreciation." **[NARRATION]** A few sharp laughs cracked the silence like glass underfoot. Then came the recoil. **BALANCE STUDENT** _(furious)_: "What the hell do you think is funny?" **DOMINION STUDENT**: "He got in Albert’s way. That’s on him." **BALANCE STUDENT**: "He was just dancing!" **DOMINION STUDENT**: "And Albert was just being badass." **[NARRATION]** It didn’t take long for the volume to outpace the intellect. Sides formed, fast and fierce. The Dominion. The Balance. The air thickened with tension—not grief, not reverence, but raw, unresolved charge. A lightning bolt fizzled mid-air. A shoe burst into flame, and was stomped out with a curse. A protective charm snapped over someone’s brow like a halo in distress. Words became weapons. A book was thrown. And then— a different kind of punctuation. The imposed silence of the third most Powerful staff in Jericha pounding into the ground. **TITIAN** _(level, thunderous)_: "Enough." **[NARRATION]** Roots emerged from the ground like the hand of death. In rhythm with old ritual—graceful, certain. They shackled ankles and wrists, firmly restraining anyone that acted out. Held students mid-gesture. Mid-insult. Mid-regret. Silence settled again, heavier this time. It was almost peaceful in how undeniable it was. **TITIAN** _(coldly)_: "You should be ashamed." **[NARRATION]** At the edge of the circle, the Martinique Twins clung to each other. One's mascara ran in streaks. The other watched the crowd like a stagehand during a failed illusion—aware it had all gone too far, and too fast. **[NARRATION]** Titian turned his back to them all. He didn’t release the roots. He walked toward the commons, voice low but final. **TITIAN** _(softer now, but sharper)_: "We should all be ashamed."