The Library of the Academy was a city unto itself.
Vast, endless corridors lined with bookshelves that stretched up into darkness. Bridges of ancient oak spanned yawning gaps. Lanterns floated through the air, casting pools of golden light.
And somewhere, buried deep within, lay the answers Caelen needed.
He stood at the threshold, heart pounding.
Students came and went, clutching scrolls and tomes, their footsteps echoing against the marble floor. No one paid him any mind.
Good.
Caelen pulled his cloak tighter around him and slipped inside.
⸻
The public sections of the library were orderly, welcoming.
Bright banners marked sections: "Introduction to Elemental Forms," "History of the Great Wars," "Basic Spellwork for Apprentices."
But these wouldn't have what he needed.
He found a narrow staircase tucked behind a statue of a weeping scholar. It spiraled down into the shadows.
A small, worn sign hung above it:
"Authorized Personnel Only."
Caelen hesitated for only a moment.
Then he descended.
⸻
The Forbidden Stacks were another world entirely.
Dust thickened the air.
The lanterns here were dimmer, their light sickly.
The books were bound in cracked leather, their titles written in languages Caelen couldn't understand. Some pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
A sign warned:
"Knowledge comes at a price."
He moved quickly but carefully, the ember guiding him like a lodestar.
The deeper he went, the more he felt it—the tug, the calling.
Until finally, he found it.
An ancient tome, resting on a pedestal of black iron.
No title. No markings.
Just a heavy, oppressive presence.
He reached out—and the book opened on its own.
The pages flipped wildly, faster than the eye could follow, then slammed to a stop.
One word blazed across the parchment:
"Veythar."
The ember flared violently against his chest.
Caelen staggered back, clutching it.
Visions flashed through his mind:
• A vast battlefield under a black sky.
• Towering figures wreathed in fire and lightning.
• A broken throne.
• A blade of burning light, buried deep in a heart of darkness.
The visions faded as quickly as they had come, leaving him gasping.
What was "Veythar"? A name? A place? A power?
He needed to know more.
He turned the page—and a hand seized his wrist.
⸻
"Found you," snarled a voice.
Caelen twisted, heart hammering.
It was Sarn.
How had he—
Of course. The Academy watched everything.
"You think you can hide from us?" Sarn growled. "You think you can steal secrets you aren't meant to know?"
Caelen wrenched free and ran.
Lanterns burst overhead as Sarn shouted a spell, sending shards of glass raining down. Caelen ducked and sprinted between the stacks.
The ember was a roaring fire now, flooding his veins with heat and energy.
Not magic—something older. Wilder.
He leapt a fallen shelf, skidded around a corner—and collided with another figure.
Both of them tumbled to the ground.
Caelen scrambled up, ready to fight.
The figure pulled back her hood.
It was a girl—his age, maybe younger, with sharp green eyes and hair like spun silver.
"Come with me if you want to live," she hissed.
Before Caelen could protest, she grabbed his hand and pulled him through a hidden door behind a tapestry.
The door slammed shut behind them.
Darkness swallowed them.
⸻
They emerged in a narrow service tunnel, lit by faintly glowing stones.
"Who are you?" Caelen demanded, struggling to catch his breath.
"No time," the girl said. "They'll track you if you stay still."
She yanked him down the tunnel, moving fast.
"Name's Lys," she said over her shoulder. "You're Caelen, right? The Unsorted boy?"
He nodded warily.
"I've been watching you. You're not like the others."
They reached a fork. Lys chose the left-hand path without hesitation.
"What did you see in the book?" she asked.
Caelen hesitated.
"…'Veythar.'"
She froze.
For a moment, the only sound was their breathing.
Then she turned to him, her face deadly serious.
"If you saw that name," she whispered, "you're already marked."
"Marked?"
"Marked for what?"
"Veythar isn't just a word. It's a door. A prison. A weapon."
Her eyes gleamed in the dim light.
"And if the wrong people find out you touched it—"
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't have to.
Caelen shivered.
⸻
When they finally emerged back into the cold night air, the stars overhead were hard and bright like shards of glass.
Lys pulled him into the shadows of a ruined archway.
"You need to leave the Academy," she said. "Now. Tonight."
"I can't," Caelen said. "I need answers. I need to understand what this ember is—what I am."
"You won't find answers here," Lys said. "Only chains."
She pressed something into his hand—a scrap of parchment with an address scrawled in hurried ink.
"Go there. Ask for Maerik. Tell him you were sent by Lys."
Before Caelen could ask another question, she slipped away into the darkness.
Gone.
He looked down at the parchment.
Then up at the glittering, merciless stars.
He had a choice now.
Stay.
Obey.
Be dismissed—or destroyed.
Or run.
Seek the truth.
And maybe ignite the ember burning in his blood into something more.
Something powerful.
Something unstoppable.