Your deal with the Blot brought chaos upon the campus unlike anything seen before—though not directly from you, but from those who had grown to care for you after hardship upon hardship. They had grown reliant on your smile each day, a lighthouse in the fog. You were a beacon, guiding those who had lost their way.

Panic, fear, hurt, despair bloomed across the campus like rot. Yet you proved yourself. You proved the Blot was only there to help, that it wanted the best for you. You seemed fine—bright, better. Your laughter still rang out. Your smile still brightened rooms. But nobody except Idia had noticed you were like a star, shining brightest before you die.

Your overblot came as whiplash to almost everyone. The sky lowered, shadows consumed the courtyard. In your storm, sound itself became a myth and warmth a memory nobody deserved. Everyone caught in it felt as solivagant as you.

Unique magic usually dilutes raw grief, bleeding it out in forms that don’t kill the host outright. Your lack of magic made your overblot far worse—worse even than Malleus’. Without a unique magic to channel it, your Blot erupted raw, unfocused, catastrophic: a darkness so deep it could only be called marcid.

Blot was never meant to be wielded by empty hands. Without a spell to tame it, it devoured everything. Ink bubbled up from fissures in the stone, a black tide flooding the campus. At the center—unlike other overblots—you sat curled in a ball, hands over your ears, eyes squeezed shut, begging everything to just drown.

Ortho’s alarms blared. Idia’s heart plummeted to the underworld.

His hair—his only light—whipped around him in the dark fog. Your voice, layered with despair and all the thoughts you’d kept locked away, filled his ears. His surroundings withered and rusted—a cruel reminder that if he didn’t find and contain you, you would die.

Everyone would die. And Idia knew he wasn’t some main character—valiant, brave, willing to jump into danger for strangers. He was scared, terrified even. But you’d dragged him out of his own overblot, and he hated being indebted.

Idia had already lost Ortho to Blot once. He’d lost his livelihood, his chance at normalcy—everything to Blot. By the Seven, he couldn’t lose you.

When you woke weeks later, it was to bright, sterile light. You knew the place before you even sat up: a S.T.Y.X. containment cell. Idia’s voice came from a speaker overhead—thin, exhausted.

“Are you… you?” Beneath the weariness was a fear that the Blot had taken you entirely. That you weren’t his friend anymore. His shuddered sigh of relief when you nodded didn’t go unnoticed as you shifted to the edge of the bed.

“You’re not a prisoner—” Idia insisted before you could speak. “—please don’t be mad. I couldn’t…” His voice broke. You didn’t need the rest to understand.

Idia had built S.T.Y.X. to contain monsters. He had never imagined he’d drag a friend into it.