Morning light poured through the arched dormitory windows as Arin stumbled into his room, his robes scorched and his hands still shaking from the trial beneath the library. Every muscle in his body throbbed, and each step felt like dragging chains behind him. Yet despite the pain, there was something sharp in his eyes something new. Clarity.
The book he'd taken from the Vault of Blood and Flame now rested inside a satchel bound with concealment enchantments. Its leathery cover was etched with odd symbols that pulsed faintly whenever his bloodline seal sparked to life. He hadn't dared open it. Not properly. Just touching the cover had stirred voices in his head whispers that felt older than anything he knew. Older than the Academy itself.
He collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to kick off his boots. Sleep refused to come. Not after what he'd awakened.
That day in class, the whispers came fast and slippery, trailing him down the marble halls of Duskmoor like smoke.
"He redrew a Level Three rune in ten seconds."
"I saw it. Professor Darrin dropped his chalk."
"No way. He's low-blood. He couldn't possibly…"
Arin didn't respond.
In Advanced Runes, he took a seat at the back, quietly scribbling into a clean, new journal. Not because he needed to take notes he already understood the material but because his fingertips sometimes flickered with a glow when he wrote. He didn't need anyone noticing that.
The magic was changing him.
He didn't fully understand it, but he could feel it humming just beneath his skin raw, unsettled power, waiting.
Lyra dropped into the seat beside him and tossed a lemon fruit onto his desk without a word.
"You're attracting attention," she said, not looking at him.
He arched a brow. "Bribing me with citrus now?"
She shrugged. "You skipped breakfast again. And you looked like you fought a drake."
He turned the fruit over in his hand, a half-smile tugging at his face. "Have you been watching me?"
"I watch everything," she replied flatly, eyes flicking across the room. "Also, your mana signature dropped off the grid last night. That only happens if someone enters a cloaked zone. And there's only one near the west wing—the Vault."
Arin's jaw tightened. "So you know."
"I make a habit of knowing things we're not supposed to," she said, meeting his eyes at last. Her silver gaze was sharp, unreadable but there was a trace of concern there too.
He sighed, leaned back. "Then you know I'm in over my head."
"You're not drowning yet," she said. "But you're holding something dangerous. I can feel it. What you awakened wasn't just some old spellbook. It was memory. It was legacy."
He nodded slowly.
"I don't know what it wants."
Lyra frowned. "Then figure it out. Fast. Because once word spreads, people won't just be curious. They'll be hunting. And not all of them wear different robes."
Later that night, Arin sat at his desk in the dim candlelight, fingers tracing the book's edge. It felt heavier now, as though it had fed on something inside him during the trial.
He opened it—carefully.
The pages turned on their own, as if stirred by an unseen hand. Incantations, runes, elemental constructs… until they stopped on a single page. An elaborate symbol in blood-red ink.
It resembled a flame—but within it were eyes. Watching.
Beneath the mark, a phrase appeared:
"If the Vault is opened, the Marked will awaken."
The candle sputtered. Then blew out entirely.
A sudden cold swept through the room.
Arin sat still, spine straightening.
The air shimmered.
And a voice, soft and close, breathed beside his ear:
"Heir… They come for your blood. And the Key."
He jolted upright, fists igniting with faint, flickering fire.
Nothing. No one.
The room was empty.
The spellbook had closed itself.
Then: three slow knocks at the door.
He held his breath.
Wrapped the book quickly in cloth, tucked it inside his robe, and stepped toward the door.
Another knock. Slower.
He opened it a crack.
No one.
Only a single crimson feather on the floor.
He picked it up. The texture was strange—warm, slightly pulsing, as if it were still alive.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Heavy.
Measured.
He shut the door quietly and pressed his ear to the wood.
A tall man passed. Instructor robes. But his shadow moved… wrong. It lagged behind him by a beat, like it wasn't quite attached.
Then, just before the corner, the shadow vanished altogether. Arin backed away.
He didn't sleep much.
By dawn, he'd made three decisions:
One, he wouldn't go to the professors. Not yet. Not until he had answers.
Two, he would study the book. Translate its secrets. Understand the mark.
Three, he needed someone he could trust. And right now, like it or not, Lyra might be his only option.
As the morning sun crept over the towers of Duskmoor, Arin opened his window. Down below, a student shrieked as a dueling spell went sideways.
Just another day at the Academy.
But for Arin?
The war had already begun.