Blue fire danced in the night sky like a furious god come to collect old debts.
Elira stood beneath the statue of Saint Virell, half-hidden by ivy and shadow, her breath shallow. Her fingers clutched the forbidden book so tightly, she hadn't realized her nails had cut into the leather. She didn't feel pain—only the pulse of something ancient and awake, beating through the pages.
The Tower of Summoning was burning.
It should have been impossible.
Layered with a dozen seals, watched night and day, protected by the Grand Circle of Instructors. But still—it burned. Its upper windows had shattered outward, raining enchanted glass across the cobblestones. Sigils of containment flickered, broken. Lightning had cracked the night in three places when the initial shockwave struck.
And atop the tower...
A figure.
Tall. Hooded. Arms raised to the heavens like a conductor calling for thunder.
And then—
Gone.
Aetherhold Lockdown
The academy's response was immediate.
A shimmering blue wall surged upward around the outer perimeter of the school—the Aetherhold Lockdown, a magical quarantine so old, it predated the kingdoms the students came from.
Dozens of professors appeared in a blink—teleported or summoned. Their robes fluttered as they began casting countermeasures: wind dispersal, memory wards, trauma-calming enchantments.
Students were pushed back into buildings, some dragged by sentient armor. Others frozen in place by safety spells. Screams turned into hushed murmurs under the weight of a thousand rules suddenly activated at once.
Elira ducked behind the Saint's statue, heartbeat pounding in her ears.
She had seconds, maybe less, before they noticed someone missing from the student return count.
Move. Now.
She dashed along the eastern edge of the courtyard, past a hedge, and slid behind the alchemical fountain. From there, a maintenance tunnel led back toward Thorne Hall.
She slipped in.
Behind her, heavy footsteps passed. Voices spoke in code: coordinates, report times, threat levels.
They weren't looking for her—yet.
The Room That Waited
Back in her chamber, she slammed the door shut and placed the book down on her desk.
It didn't look like a book anymore.
The leather had softened, curled slightly like petals. The sigil of the five arcs had changed—now outlined in golden flame, as if it remembered fire too well.
She didn't dare sit.
Instead, she paced.
Her hands trembled.
"What just happened?"
She whispered aloud, as if naming it would make it less real.
But the book heard.
It opened itself.
Not by a gust of wind. But by intention.
Pages turned.
The Book That Breathes
New words formed—shimmering, molten gold ink across midnight-dark parchment.
"The First Flame is not found. It is remembered."
"The Seal breaks. The Eye opens. The Crown bleeds."
"Seek the Vault of Ash beneath the oldest fire."
A sketch formed beneath the final line—a map.
Not drawn like a modern cartographer would, but like a dream. Landmarks curved like ink spilled from memory. At the center: the Tower of Summoning. Beneath it, a spiral passage.
The words glowed once more.
"The Crown of Thorns awaits the girl who did not burn."
Elira touched the page.
It was warm.
Then she realized—
This book wasn't telling her.It was responding to her.
Elsewhere: Beneath the Tower
Far beneath the burning remains of the Summoning Tower, three masked figures stood inside a room not marked on any map.
The first wore robes of cobalt silk and a mask carved from volcanic glass. A long braid hung down her spine.
The second's mask was made of broken mirrors, his robes heavy with chains of memory tokens—fragments of names, stitched into his sleeves.
The third was smaller—cloaked in smoke, their face ever-shifting behind a veil of spell-forged illusion.
"She has touched the Vault," the first said.
"She was meant to," the second replied. "But not yet."
"Fate doesn't wait," the third whispered.
They turned toward a large circular door—sealed shut with thirteen rings of silver runes.
Inside, something pulsed.
Not light.
Not magic.
But remembrance.
"She is the heir we failed to erase," the first said.
"The one who lit her mother's fire," the second answered.
"Then we must decide," the third murmured, "if we kill the flame—Or feed it."
Return of the Raven
Just before dawn, Elira was still awake, staring at the ceiling as the first light crept past the curtains.
Then—a knock.
No. Not even that.
A flutter. A tap of claw on glass.
She rose slowly and opened her window.
Nothing outside.
Until she looked down.
A small piece of parchment lay on the stone sill, sealed with black wax in the shape of a raven's claw.
Her blood chilled.
She hadn't heard footsteps. No courier owl. No magic trail.
Whoever left this—knew exactly where to find her.
She broke the seal.
Inside, a single line in thin silver ink:
"The Vault listens. Come before it speaks to others."
Signed only with one letter:
–V.
Elira stared at the message long after the ink faded into stillness.
"The Vault listens. Come before it speaks to others."
She read the words again, and again, tracing the curves of the silver ink with her fingertip. Who was "V"? What did it mean for the Vault to speak?
And what if she was already too late?
A sudden knock at the outer door of her dormitory made her flinch.
Three knocks. Then silence.
Not the rhythm of the faculty. Not a fellow student.
Her hand tightened around the message.
She blew out the single candle on her desk and crossed the room in darkness, heart thudding. She placed her ear to the door.
Nothing.
Then—
A quiet whisper, from the other side:
"Ashborne…"
Her breath caught in her throat.
No one should know that name. Not unless—
A soft slip of paper slid under the door. Elira picked it up with trembling fingers.
It was blank.
Until—
Ink began to bleed across it, like veins branching in water:
"She was not the only one marked."
"You are being watched, Elira Vellaria Caelis."
Her full name.
The name she hadn't spoken aloud in ten years.
She looked back toward the sealed book on her desk.
Suddenly—every candle in the room flickered out.
The shadows pressed closer.
And the Vault... whispered again.
This time—not just in her mind.
But from beneath the floor.