The world fell silent.
Not the silence of peace, nor the hush of fear. This was something else—a vacuum, a stillness in the bones of the world where sound and motion ceased to belong.
At the center of the courtyard, the Weave scar churned in midair, a jagged mouth stitched from colorless lightning and fractured wind. Spellshapers screamed orders. Aether casters surrounded it with containment runes, but nothing held. Glyphs shattered on impact. One spell-slinger's hand combusted into white fire when his chant turned against him.
It was eating magic.
And at the center of that storm, stood Caelum.
His eyes were closed, but the light around him trembled. Not from his power, but from something older—something echoing through him.
Inside, the voice whispered.
"Then make it. Shape yourself."
And his scar bloomed.
To the students watching, it looked like a slow collapse.
Caelum stood motionless as the scar at his chest—the strange mark shaped like a veined star—peeled open, not with blood, but with vital resonance. Ribbons of aether curled from it, not violet like mageflame, nor blue like Vitae's strength. This color couldn't be described. It changed with every blink—like morning heat rising from ruins.
His feet lifted from the ground.
The world held its breath.
Then a tremor shook the tower.
And the Weave scar roared.
Rheia sprinted toward him, runeblade in hand, lungs burning. A containment dome cracked and exploded in front of her, hurling sparks across the courtyard. A wall of null-energy swept toward her—unmaking as it touched.
She whispered a glyph mid-air and blinked sideways, landing on a pillar.
"Caelum!" she shouted.
But he didn't respond.
He was glowing now. Radiating waves of… possibility.
Rheia recognized the signs. She'd read of it, once, in an old rebellion text. A moment where a soul touches something beyond system, beyond the split of Vita or Aetherion.
A Naming Point.
"You idiot," she hissed. "Don't you dare implode now."
In his mind, Caelum stood on shifting terrain.
A corridor formed of memories and futures. He could see himself as a child, hiding from the storm under that shattered church roof. He saw Serapha whispering something into a broken window. He saw Rheia watching him die beneath the vines.
And then—he saw none of it.
A blank slate. A mirror with no reflection.
"You are unmade," the voice said. "That is your blessing. And your curse."
Caelum turned toward the sound. "Then what am I?"
"You are the answer to a question not yet asked."
The world convulsed.
"Take the name. Or be consumed."
Caelum opened his mouth.
And for a moment, he remembered Serapha's words.
"Names are not just things we carry. They are prisons. Gifts. Curses."
Then he whispered:
"I'll name myself."
His scar flared.
A sound echoed across the courtyard—not a cry, not a roar.
A tone. Pure, resonant, and terrible. The sound of something realigning.
The Weave scar shuddered.
And in one blinding instant—collapsed inward.
When the dust cleared, Caelum stood alone in the ruins of the east courtyard.
The scar was gone. The runes were scattered. Mages and knights alike stared at him like he was a myth given shape.
He took one step—and nearly fell. Rheia caught him.
"What did you do?" she asked.
"I said no."
"To what?"
"To whatever was trying to take me."
He looked down at his chest. The scar was still there, but changed—now etched with sigils that hadn't been there before, glowing faintly gold and obsidian.
A pulse echoed from deep within.
He was not the same.
Hours passed. The school locked itself down. Classes suspended. Dormitories sealed.
A council of instructors met in the Hall of Judgment. Caelum sat outside, guarded by a pair of silent sentinels in black armor. They didn't speak to him. He didn't speak to them.
He could still feel it—that thread of resonance, that moment where he'd nearly lost himself and found something instead.
He hadn't gained a class.
He hadn't gained a subtype.
He hadn't even gained control.
But something had begun.
Inside the chamber, Headmaster Verrian paced.
"He should be dead," said Professor Alin, folding her arms. "Even a highborn core would've cracked under that stress."
"And yet he's breathing," Verrian replied, grimly.
Another councilor, this one from the Crown's liaison office, spoke: "You said his signature doesn't match any current class tree?"
"Not even close," Verrian replied. "He bears markers of both internal and external channels. But they're bound by something I've never seen. A null-lattice, maybe. Or a forgotten path."
"A new type?"
"Or an old one. One we erased."
The room went quiet.
Then the liaison said, "We watch him. Closely. If he stabilizes—he might be our answer."
Later, Caelum sat in the infirmary, aether monitors strapped to his wrists. Rheia sat nearby, reading a book upside down, clearly not paying attention to it.
"You're not going to say anything smug?" he asked.
"No point," she said. "You already know how stupid that was."
He chuckled. "Yeah."
Silence again.
Then she said, quietly, "But… thank you. For not breaking."
Caelum glanced at her. "You're worried."
"I'm furious," she muttered. "But I'm also terrified. Whatever you're turning into—it's not going to be safe."
"For me, or for others?"
"Both."
He nodded. "I'll handle it."
She looked up.
"No. We will."
At night, Caelum dreamed again.
This time, the corridor was gone.
Instead, he stood before a field of stars.
A figure stood opposite him—robed, faceless, shimmering like an echo. Not the silver-haired girl. Not the voice. Just a presence.
"You spoke," it said.
"I did," Caelum replied.
"You called yourself."
"I did."
The figure leaned forward. "Then we are watching."
"Who are you?"
"We are the ones who forgot the sky. We are what lies between system and soul. And now, so are you."
A pause.
"Beware the Hollow Choir. Beware the Echo Crown. And beware the girl who gave up her name."
Caelum stepped forward.
"Serapha?" he asked.
But the dream ended.