The whispers about Caelum grew louder, evolving from simple curiosity to hushed speculation. Some spoke of divine favor, others of dark omens.
The more superstitious students avoided him entirely, crossing themselves whenever he passed. The more daring ones tried to decipher the mystery behind his blindness and his uncanny senses, their theories ranging from elaborate curses to secret pacts.
The Academy's faculty, too, were increasingly intrigued and concerned.
Headmaster Theron, a man whose wisdom was etched into the lines on his face, observed Caelum from afar with a thoughtful intensity. He had personally approved the transfer, sensing something unique about the quiet youth, but even he hadn't anticipated the ripple of strange occurrences that followed in Caelum's wake.
One crisp autumn afternoon, during a history lecture on the founding of the deity-led cities, the name "Zephyscall" echoed through the hall. Caelum, who had been listening with his usual stillness, suddenly stiffened. A faint tremor ran through his hands, the smooth stone he often held clutched tightly.
The lecturer, a dry scholar named Master Elmsworth, droned on about Zephyscall's celestial mandate and its role in establishing order after the "Age of Whispers." He spoke of the city's unwavering devotion to the Sky Weaver deity and its reputation for righteous judgment.
As Elmsworth recounted a historical event – a "necessary purification" of a village deemed heretical – Caelum's breath hitched. A sharp, discordant note resonated in the silent symphony he perceived. It was a familiar dissonance, a painful echo from the fragmented memories of his past.
The word "purification" hung heavy in the air, triggering a visceral reaction within him. He saw flashes – not with his eyes, but with the raw, untamed memories that clawed at the edges of his awareness. Fire. Screams. The scent of burning wood and something else… something metallic and sharp.
He clenched his fist, the stone digging into his palm. The air around him seemed to thicken, a subtle pressure building that went unnoticed by everyone except Reya, who sat beside him. She glanced at him, her brow furrowed with concern. His usual calm was gone, replaced by a barely suppressed tension.
Master Elmsworth continued, oblivious. "…and thus, through the divine wisdom of Zephyscall, the blight was cleansed, ensuring the continued purity of the faith."
A low, almost guttural sound escaped Caelum's throat. It was not a word, but a raw expression of pain and dawning recognition.
The lecturer paused, startled. "Rivenhart? Is something amiss?"
Caelum remained silent for a long moment, his unseen gaze fixed on some distant point only he could perceive. The discordant note in his senses intensified, resonating with the fragmented images in his mind. Zephyscall… purification… the words echoed like a death knell.
Later that day, Caelum sought out the Academy's archives, a vast repository of ancient texts and historical records. He navigated the labyrinthine shelves with an uncanny precision, his fingers trailing over the spines of aged tomes.
He wasn't looking for specific words, but for a particular resonance, a historical echo that matched the painful dissonance in his senses.
He found it in a heavily bound volume detailing the decrees of the Zephyscall High Council from centuries past. His fingers traced the faded script, his inner senses guiding him to a specific passage. As he "read" the vibrations of the ink, a cold dread washed over him.
The decree spoke of a "blight of memory," a lineage deemed dangerous to the divine order. It described a village, identified by geographical markers that resonated with the fragmented images in his mind, accused of harboring individuals who could "unravel the tapestry of truth."
The decree authorized a "divine purification," signed and sealed by the then High Bishop of Zephyscall.
A name at the bottom of the decree swam into his awareness, not through sight, but through a chillingly familiar resonance in the ancient script. A name that twisted the knife in his already wounded memory: High Bishop Alaric Vayne.
The same Alaric Vayne who was now revered as a hero within the very walls of Aetherveil, his benevolent portrait hanging in the grand hall.
The same Alaric Vayne who, Master Elmsworth had mentioned in passing, had been a close advisor to the Academy's founder.
Caelum's hand clenched into a fist, the ancient parchment crumpling slightly under the pressure. The world around him seemed to dim, the vibrant symphony of the Academy fading into a dull, suffocating silence.
The discordant note in his senses had found its source, a poisoned wellspring of truth buried beneath layers of divine decree and historical revision.
He stood in the silent archives, the weight of a forgotten atrocity pressing down on him.
The faces of his family, the warmth of Elienne's smile, the terror of their final moments – they coalesced into a crushing wave of grief and a cold, simmering rage.
He finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper in the echoing stillness of the archives. "So I'll remember…" The words were a vow, a promise etched in the silence of his grief. "Then… I will act." The fragile peace he had sought, the promise he had made to the dead to live a quiet life, began to crumble under the weight of a truth unearthed from the silent ashes of the past.
( Elienne was Caelums fiance)