The snow hadn't let up.
It sifted over the academy's rooftops like powdered chalk, softening the edges of towers and banisters as Thalia walked the long corridor alone, her boots echoing on polished stone. The prophecy still rang in her ears, though she told herself it was nonsense.
"Empires will crumble… ancient threats… daemons and rulers…" It sounded like something pulled from a bad stage play.
She tugged her cloak tighter. Vidarin was strange—clever, yes, respected, yes—but strange. Even for a wizard.
Still, she didn't tell him to stop.
She could've. But she didn't.
"Thalia Mare," a voice called from the end of the hall. It wasn't Vidarin this time. It was Headmaster Kaldrin, cloak half-draped over one shoulder, ink stains on his gloves. "A word, if I may?"
She turned, startled. "Yes, sir?"
He waved her into step beside him, walking slowly down toward the lower courtyard. "I take it you spoke with our guest?"
"Yes," Thalia replied, cautious. "He… said a lot."
Kaldrin chuckled. "He usually does. But not to everyone."
"I guess I was lucky?"
He glanced sidelong at her. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not."
They passed beneath the frost-tipped archways of the Academy proper, stepping out onto the stone walk that overlooked the eastern road. Beyond it, smoke curled from distant torches—military torches. Troop columns moved in the distance, banners half-furled in the snow-choked wind.
"Do you know why our king is sending troops to the Drenwall Front?" Kaldrin asked suddenly.
Thalia blinked. "Drenwall? I thought Eisenreich—"
"Exactly," he said. "The Crown doesn't usually get involved in their wars. But this one's different. Quiet whispers. Missing patrols. Dead forests. Things that bleed ash instead of blood."
She frowned. "You think it's connected? To what Vidarin said?"
"I don't know." Kaldrin's face darkened. "But when old prophecies start surfacing and soldiers start marching, I get nervous. Especially when students start seeing things."
Thalia's stomach turned. She said nothing.
"You saw something, didn't you?" he asked gently.
"…I don't know what I saw," she admitted. "A vision. Fire. A tower. A… figure."
Kaldrin nodded slowly. "If you see more—tell me."
They stopped at the overlook. The wind tugged at their cloaks. Far off, thunder rolled. Not from the sky, but from the ground. Cannons, maybe. Or something worse.
"War's coming, Miss Mare," the headmaster said quietly. "And it won't ask if you're ready."
The next day, the snow fell heavier.
Thalia yawned as she slid into her seat. The classroom was warm with the smell of parchment and hot tea, the windows steamed slightly from within. Charcoal sketches of ancient ruins and forgotten battlefields lined the walls, and floating chalk traced lazy circles on the blackboard before snapping into position.
Professor Vaelen stood at the front, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp beneath wire spectacles. He was the Academy's history hawk—famous for his memory, infamous for his tests.
"Today," he announced, tapping the blackboard, "we cover the Great Necromancer Extinction—one of the darkest, bloodiest sagas of our recorded past."
A low murmur of interest passed through the room.
Thalia sat up straighter. Even if history wasn't her favorite, this one was always dramatic.
Vaelen drew his wand, and in the air, smoky illusions bloomed—skeletal legions rising over broken cities, banners soaked in rot, towers crumbling as hordes marched through crimson mists.
"Class," he said, "can anyone tell me the year the Necromancer Rising began?"
A few hands shot up. Thalia hesitated, then raised hers.
"Yes, Miss Mare?"
"Uh… 71? No—no, 72 After the Binding Wars?"
"Close," Vaelen said, not unkindly. "70 AB. The Binding Wars had only just ended when the first Necromancer Cabal surfaced near the Morvain Depths. Anyone know how many cabals were eventually uncovered?"
Alden, for once, got it right. "Seven."
"Correct. Seven cabals across the continent. Each formed in secret. Each driven by a single purpose—resurrect and command the dead. Not for healing, or preservation, or remembrance… but for domination."
The smoky illusion grew darker. Black-armored knights clawed their way out of graves. Cities vanished in silence. Ghosts wailed.
"Even a single necromancer," Vaelen continued, voice grim, "could raise ten thousand corpses in a night. Fleshless, tireless, obeying only the will that summoned them."
Gasps. Even Thalia blinked.
He turned back to the board. "And what if four gathered? What could a cabal conjure?"
Thalia said the answer before someone else could. "Two hundred thousand."
"Correct again, Miss Mare," Vaelen said, nodding. "An army without fear. Without pain. Without end."
The image shifted. Four hooded figures stood atop a black altar. Dark energy pooled around them. Symbols scorched into stone. Clouds swirled red.
"But it gets worse," he said, voice low now. "If ever you encounter a necromancer whose eyes are both covered in shadow, turn and run. Do not fight. Do not think."
A tense silence settled over the room.
"It is written," Vaelen said slowly, "in the Aether Codex… that should such a necromancer emerge—truly consumed by ancient darkness—they would gain the power to summon not just armies…"
The illusion above the board rippled—and twisted into a nightmarish dragon.
"…but the Dark Lord of the Ninth Pit himself. And with him, the skeleton dragon, the Death-Wyrm of Evernight."
Gasps broke out again. A few students made warding gestures with their fingers.
Vharzagul had once turned entire cities into graveyards just by flying overhead.
"But," Vaelen said, eyes narrowing behind his lenses, "as you know, they were stopped. All of them."
The black fog turned to bright gold. Eight figures, cloaked in light, descended onto the battlefield. Swords, staves, axes, and wings of radiant fire.
"The Legendary Eight Saviours," he said. "Chosen not by birthright, not by noble blood, but by fate and power. It took all of them to fight back the tide."
One by one, the necromancers were struck down. No more would rise. The last was said to burn from the inside as his own magic turned against him.
"Hence," Vaelen finished, tapping his wand to seal the illusion, "the Great Necromancer Extinction. And the end of that particular evil."
The classroom was silent.
Then, with a wave, papers floated down to every desk.
"Your assessment," Vaelen announced. "Describe the key events that led to the Necromancer threat's rise, and the circumstances of their extinction. Include details on the summoning capabilities, historical records, and the cultural aftermath."
Groans. Pencils scratched.
Thalia sighed and leaned over her page. Her handwriting slanted slightly as she began:
"The rise of the Necromancers began in 70 AB, when the first cabal near Morvain Depths raised an army of fifty thousand…"
Thalia wrote, quickly at first, then slower. Her mind kept skipping over the facts and drifting—back to the vision from yesterday. The red sky. The child of shadow and spark. The sabre in her chest. The voice that whispered her name like it knew her better than she did.
She blinked and stared down at her paper.
Half a sentence repeated itself. Twice.
She scratched it out.
Her hand trembled. The ink bled slightly where her quill pressed too hard.
Across the room, Professor Vaelen strolled between the rows, robes whispering softly with each step. His tone remained level as he spoke.
"Remember, dates matter. The timeline is critical. Miss Irel, you're writing the extinction came before the rise, which… is impressive. Catastrophic, but impressive."
A few students chuckled.
Thalia didn't. Her heart was still racing.
She didn't know why she suddenly felt cold.
Then—
A jolt.
A pulse, like a bell—but there was no bell.
The floor beneath her fingers seemed to hum, low and distant, like a string plucked far away.
She looked up sharply.
No one else noticed. The class scribbled. Vaelen adjusted a book on his shelf.
But the light from the candles had dimmed—just slightly. And the wall-mounted map of the Old Kingdoms now had a single drop of darkness forming near the eastern border of Eisenreich.
It wasn't ink.
It was… burning through the map.
Thalia blinked, rubbed her eyes.
Gone.
The spot was gone.
Her fingers twitched above the parchment. The air no longer smelled like old paper and tea. It smelled faintly of ash.
Vaelen passed behind her.
"Miss Mare?"
She jumped.
"You've rewritten your first paragraph three times," he said, leaning slightly to check. "Are you feeling well?"
Thalia hesitated. "I—yeah. Just tired. Rough night."
He studied her for a moment, as if he knew she was lying, then nodded once. "Get what you can down. Time's almost up."
She nodded.
But her eyes flicked back to the map.
That blackened spot… she knew exactly where it had appeared.
Near Eisenreich's southern mountain.
Near Kestel Hollow.
She swallowed hard, dipped her quill, and began again—but slower this time. Less like a student finishing an exam, and more like someone writing a warning no one would read in time.
Thalia forced her attention back to her assessment. The question was clear:
"Describe the rise and fall of the Necromancer Orders, with particular attention to the role of the Eight Heroes and the events leading to the final extinction."
She exhaled.
Fine. Focus.
She began to write.
"The Necromancer Orders first appeared in the Third Age, following the Collapse of the Twin Moons. Their magic defied the natural order, raising legions of the dead to serve their will. Early accounts describe individual necromancers summoning as many as fifty thousand soldiers from bone and ash…"
She paused. The candlelight flickered again.
Her hand hesitated.
She continued.
"At the height of their power, a coven of four necromancers reportedly summoned an army two hundred thousand strong, using rituals forbidden even by ancient High Magic standards. It was said that if both of a necromancer's eyes were consumed by the Darkness—that ancient, cursed void—they could call forth the Dark Lord of the Beyond and awaken the skeletal dragon… Varkolaz, Wyrm of Endless Graves."
The name spilled from her mind before she even realized she knew it.
She blinked.
Varkolaz?
She hadn't read that name in any of the textbooks.
She glanced around. No one else flinched.
No one else looked like they'd just heard a whisper against their ear.
She swallowed, wrote again.
"Then came with the Summoning of the Eight Saviours. Chosen by fate, and trained by divine beings, and suffered through trial, the Eight Heroes arose from across the known world—united not by nation, but purpose. They laid siege to the Necromancer citadels one by one. The last known necromancer was killed at the Battle of Black Hollow Pass. Since then, necromancy has been considered extinct. No traces of it has been confirmed for over 600 years."
She stopped writing.
The parchment felt warm under her hand.
Too warm.
"Time," Professor Vaelen announced, voice echoing gently through the chamber. "Leave your work where it is. I will collect them."
Chairs creaked. Papers rustled. Quills dropped into ink pots.
But Thalia sat frozen.
She could still feel it. That presence. As if something had brushed past her thoughts and left a shadow behind.
Marra leaned over. "You alright? You look like someone just walked over your grave."
Thalia stood up slowly, rubbing her arms. "Something like that…"
Behind them, the map of the ancient world faded slowly to blank parchment. But in the space where Eisenreich's southern border met the deadlands of old…
…a faint scorch mark remained.
Vaelen's eyes lingered there too long.
Later that evening…
The academy's upper tower windows glowed dim in the snow-choked twilight. Within the headmaster's study, the scent of pipe smoke, dried herbs, and old oak drifted between shelves weighed heavy with tomes too ancient to be touched without gloves.
Professor Vaelen stood, rigid-backed, near the hearth where the fire hissed low. Across from him, was headmaster Kaldrin, stirring honey into his tea with practiced slowness. Vidarin lounged in a leather chair nearby, boots crossed over the corner of an enchanted rug that hadn't stopped floating since the last solstice.
Vaelen cleared his throat. "There was… a minor occurrence during the final history assessment."
"Minor?" Vidarin cocked an eyebrow, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. "You look like you saw a ghost wrapped in final exam sheets."
"I believe Miss Thalia Mare recalled something she should not have known."
Kaldrin set his spoon down. "Go on."
Vaelen folded his hands behind his back. "The question concerned the necromancer extinction. All answers were in order… until she named the dragon."
Vidarin's smile faded.
"She wrote the name Varkolaz," Vaelen continued. "Unprompted. No such name was included in any of the study material. None of the students would've heard it. It's not part of any modern curriculum—frankly, we've avoided including such lore since the Ministry audit after the Red Academy incident."
Kaldrin's eyes narrowed. "And you're certain she didn't cheat?"
"She didn't hesitate. It was instinctual. Automatic." Vaelen's voice dropped. "And when she wrote it… the assessment parchment began to warm. I sensed residual arcane resonance. Something brushed the weave."
"Not impossible," Vidarin said softly, gaze distant now. "Only… very, very dangerous."
Kaldrin rose and crossed to the sealed cabinet in the back of the room. He unlocked it with a whispered incantation and pulled free a single scroll—sealed in old wax and marked with the crest of the Azure Thrones.
"A prophecy," he said. "The one you and I debated for years, Vidarin."
"Yes." Vidarin leaned forward, finally serious. "The child of shadow and spark. The one born to unmake the old order."
Vaelen looked between them. "You think it's her?"
"I don't know," Kaldrin said. "But the world does not need another necromancer. Let alone a dragon of bone and hellfire."
Vidarin exhaled slowly, tapping ash from his pipe.
"I want to speak with her again. Alone, this time. See what else she remembers."
Kaldrin gave a tight nod. "Carefully, Vidarin. If word spreads that one of ours might be touched by necromantic legacy, the Conclave will intervene."
"They'll do more than that," Vaelen muttered. "They'll send Inquisitors."
"Then we'll keep it quiet," Vidarin said. "For now."
Outside, thunder rumbled beyond the snow.
Inside, a name none had uttered in centuries now hovered in the space between them, like breath on glass.
Varkolaz.
The sky above Iridale Academy had long turned dark, dotted with quiet stars behind thin veils of cloud. Thalia's boots crunched softly along the cobbled path as she left the dormitory gardens behind. The lamps flickered low; only a few stragglers lingered under the archways, speaking in whispers.
She barely registered them.
The faint voices in her head continued to echoed. The Visions. The prophecy. The mention of empires falling and ancient daemons. It had all sounded like nonsense—old book talk wrapped in dramatic flair. But something about the way Vidarin had looked at her, just before he turned away, unsettled her more than she liked to admit.
Her room was small but warm, tucked beneath the western tower. Books lined the shelves—mostly unread. A single poster of her favorite skyball team hung above her desk, beside the cracked window. The scent of dried flowers and old parchment lingered faintly in the air.
She tossed her satchel onto the chair and let herself collapse onto the bed, arms spread. Her gaze drifted up to the wooden beams, following the cobweb thread across one corner.
For a while, she just lay there, thinking of nothing.
Then slowly, her eyelids grew heavy. Her breathing softened.
Outside, snow began to fall again—soft, silent, steady.
Inside, Thalia Mare closed her eyes… and did not open them.
Not yet.