The Academy no longer breathed the same way.
Once filled with the rhythmic murmur of study, the laughter of apprentices, and the sharp resonance of training grounds, its air had grown unnervingly still. The corridors whispered instead — not with voices, but with echoes of uncertainty. Even the enchanted torches along the marble walls seemed to burn lower, their light flickering as if resisting the unseen weight pressing against them.
Keran walked slowly through one of those corridors, his boots tracing muted steps across the polished stone. The scent of incense still lingered from the morning rites, but it did little to mask the metallic trace of mana distortion that had begun to haunt the halls. Every few steps, he could feel it — a faint pulse, like the heartbeat of something buried beneath the Academy itself.
Something is wrong, he thought. Something is moving beneath us.
From the other end of the hall, Flora joined him, her steps light yet purposeful. Her gaze swept the hallway before she spoke.
"Security barriers are tighter than usual. They sealed the north courtyard without notice."
Keran nodded. "I felt it too. They're hiding something."
Behind them, Maria and Brittany emerged, whispering softly. Maria's illusions flickered instinctively around her — a habit she developed when tension rose. "The energy flows are… misaligned," she said quietly. "Like someone is tampering with the ley seals."
Brittany's expression remained calm, but her hands glowed faintly as she adjusted the protective runes along her sleeves. "Or something within the Academy is leaking power. Either way, it's being contained — or covered up."
Keran said nothing. His mind wandered back to the recent battle — the Eidolon's words, the echo of the name Lira, and that unbearable familiarity that had begun to stir deep inside him. Each day since, he had trained harder, focused longer, trying to bury the confusion. But tonight, as the air thickened with tension, he felt that same pulse resonate again, faint but unmistakable.
"Let's return to the east wing," he said abruptly. "I need some air."
---
The Garden of Still Waters
The night had cloaked the Academy grounds in mist. Beneath the moonlight, the garden shimmered with silver hues — lilies floating on still ponds, ancient statues reflecting faint runes of protection. It was one of the few quiet places left within the walls.
Flora followed him there, silent for a while. Then, as he leaned against a stone balustrade, she finally spoke.
"You've been… distant since the mission," she said softly. "Even Maria noticed it. That's saying something."
Keran didn't look at her. His eyes followed the ripples in the pond.
"Just fatigue," he said, though his tone betrayed him.
She stepped closer. "No. It's more than that. When that creature — the Eidolon — spoke the name 'Lira,' your aura changed. You froze, Keran. Like something inside you recognized it."
The air between them thickened. The sound of crickets seemed to fade.
Keran's hand clenched around the stone railing. His mind filled with flashes — sunlight on smoke, a girl's laughter, the sound of crackling fire. For a heartbeat, he saw not the Academy but a village engulfed in flame. And in that instant, he heard a voice — faint, innocent — calling a name that wasn't Keran.
"Ethan!"
He gasped, and the air around him warped. The water in the pond rippled violently, reacting to his uncontrolled mana. Threads of energy spiraled from his fingers, forming chaotic sigils before shattering.
"Keran!" Flora grasped his wrist, grounding him with her own mana flow. Her aura, calm and silvery, pressed against his. "Breathe. Focus. You're losing control."
He inhaled sharply. Slowly, the runes faded. The garden grew still once more.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then he said, voice rough:
"Sometimes… I feel like I've lived this before. Like all of this — the power, the loss, even this place — is a repeat of something I can't remember."
Flora studied him carefully. "You think it's memory?"
He nodded slowly. "Or punishment."
The silence that followed was heavier than the mist.
---
The Council in Shadows
Far above them, within the restricted chamber of the Council, several high-ranking instructors stood around a hovering sigil projection. Its light illuminated anxious faces.
"This mark appeared in the western lab," one of them said — a tall man with gray robes and hollow eyes. "We've sealed it, but the energy keeps pulsing. It's the same as the one found after the Sanguine Rift incident."
Another, an older woman with silver hair tied in a severe braid, frowned. "We cannot risk a recurrence. If this 'Void Marker' spreads through the ley lines again, containment will be impossible."
A third voice, sharper, cynical: "You mean we've already lost control and just don't want to admit it."
"Enough," said the Headmaster, his tone cold but steady. "We are not to reveal this to the students. The Academy must remain stable. If the rumors spread—"
"They already have," the silver-haired woman interrupted. "The mana disturbances are visible. Someone will connect it soon."
The Headmaster's gaze turned distant. "Then we prepare. The Void is never dormant for long."
The projection flickered, momentarily revealing the faint outline of a symbol — an eye within a spiral of runes, bleeding shadow. It pulsed once, like a living thing.
---
Threads of the Past
Keran lay awake that night, unable to find rest. The moonlight carved pale lines across his room, touching the floor where his sword rested. His thoughts drifted — not to victory, not to his training, but to that single word: Lira.
He closed his eyes, and in that darkness, he saw again the fragments — a child's hand, reaching through smoke; a woman's voice calling for help; the flash of a sigil drawn in blood. His breath quickened.
Who were they? Who was I before all this?
Then, faintly — a whisper.
"Ethan… you survived."
His eyes flew open. The room was empty, but the voice lingered, soft, feminine, almost tender. He stood, scanning the shadows. His orb — resting on the desk — pulsed faintly, as if resonating with something unseen.
He followed the vibration instinctively, through the silent corridors, down a flight of stairs that led to a wing long sealed off for renovations. The air grew colder with each step, thick with stagnant mana.
At the end of the hall, a single door stood ajar. Behind it, faint luminescence spilled into the dark. Keran pushed it open.
Inside, the walls were lined with ancient carvings. Dust coated the floor, but beneath it, faintly glowing lines formed a sigil — an eye surrounded by spiraling runes, bleeding faint light. The same symbol described in the Council's chamber.
Keran froze.
He knew this mark.
Not from his time at the Academy, but from before.
Images flooded his mind — a night of fire, of running through the woods, of turning back to see his home consumed by red light. The same mark carved into the ground, and above it, a voice chanting words he couldn't forget.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his head as the memory overwhelmed him.
"Stop… please, stop…"
The whisper returned, clearer this time.
"You remember, don't you, Ethan? The night the stars fell… and the promise you failed to keep."
His orb flared violently, filling the room with blinding blue light. The carvings vibrated as if reacting to his energy. Shadows twisted across the walls, forming vague silhouettes — figures cloaked in ritual garb, standing before a burning village.
And in the center — a little girl. Her face hidden by light.
"Lira…" he whispered.
The shadow-figures turned their heads toward him as if they heard.
Keran staggered backward. His mana flared uncontrollably, cracking the walls. The light surged, then collapsed.
When the glow faded, he stood alone. The sigil was gone. The room — empty.
Only his orb remained faintly glowing, whispering in fragmented echoes:
The threads are no longer separate… They converge… and they know your name.
---
Dawn
By morning, the Academy had returned to its fragile rhythm. Students hurried to lectures, unaware that in the depths of the eastern wing, ancient seals had been disturbed.
Keran walked silently toward the training grounds, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. He hadn't spoken a word since that night. Flora watched him from afar, sensing the shift in his aura — not darker, but deeper, threaded with something ancient and unresolved.
When she approached him, he turned slightly, his eyes distant but burning with purpose.
"There's something I need to understand," he said. "Something that ties all of this — the Eidolon, the Void Mark, the name — together. I think it began long before the Academy."
Flora hesitated. "Then you're chasing ghosts."
He met her gaze. "No. I'm chasing myself."
She said nothing, but the wind carried a faint chill, as though the world itself was listening.
Above them, the sun rose, its light fractured through the Academy's wards, shimmering like threads of glass. Each ray felt deliberate, woven — converging toward something unseen.
And in the distance, beneath the foundations of the Academy, a faint pulse answered.