Kael thought the storm inside him would quiet after the demonstration.
It didn't.
If anything, it grew louder.
The days that followed were a blur of classes, lectures, and whispered rumors. Some students had started calling him "Windborn." Others just stared when he passed, unsure if he was a prodigy or a mistake the academy hadn't caught yet.
Kael ignored them all.
Mostly.
"Professor Varra is recommending students for the Field Evaluation," Annie said one morning, sliding a parchment across the breakfast table.
Kael scanned the list. His name wasn't there. Neither was Marcus's.
"She only picked five," Marcus said around a mouthful of toast. "Mostly nobles. Darius, obviously."
"Of course," Kael muttered. "Wouldn't want to risk actual talent."
Annie gave him a look. "You sound bitter."
"I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
It wasn't about recognition. It was the pressure—the sense that he was walking a narrow path between hiding what he was and losing control entirely.
He'd been having dreams again. Not just fragments now, but full scenes. He saw cities of stone rising into the sky, felt magic flow like blood through veins of crystal. He stood on a battlefield, cloaked in stormlight, his enemies burning away in flashes of blue lightning.
He heard his name.
Aric.
Not a whisper this time.
A declaration.
That afternoon, an unexpected summons arrived.
Not from Varra.
From Lady Sylas.
The parchment was sealed with black wax, marked by a rune Kael didn't recognize—but it hummed when he touched it, like it knew him.
The note was brief.
"Come to the lower archives. Midnight. Alone."
Marcus frowned when Kael told him. "You're actually going?"
Kael nodded. "I need to know why she's watching me."
"Or you'll end up dead in a dungeon."
Kael almost smiled. "Wouldn't be the weirdest thing to happen this week."
The lower archives were sealed most of the time. Restricted access. No light, no warmth, just rows of forgotten knowledge.
Kael slipped down the back stairwell, cloak drawn tight against the cold.
At the bottom, the air was different—dense, metallic. Like the pressure before a storm.
He turned a corner and saw her.
Lady Sylas stood before a locked gate, her pale fingers tracing a sigil carved into the stone. Her cloak shimmered like raven feathers, and her eyes caught the lanternlight like polished obsidian.
"You came," she said, not turning.
"I had questions."
"You'll leave with more."
She placed her palm against the sigil. The wall pulsed once, and the gate opened silently.
"Inside."
Kael hesitated only a moment.
The chamber beyond was circular—an old scrying room, long abandoned. The floor was carved with concentric runes, and the air vibrated faintly with power.
Sylas stood in the center.
"You're dreaming again," she said. "Aren't you?"
Kael stiffened. "How do you know that?"
"Because I dreamed them once, too."
He stared at her. "You knew Aric Vaelith?"
Her lips twitched. "Everyone did. He was the Archmage King. Wielder of the storm. Slayer of gods."
Kael's throat dried. "So he was real."
"Oh, very. And very dead."
She circled him slowly, studying him like a living relic.
"But something was left behind. A spark. A thread in the weave. When the world shifted again, it found a vessel."
Kael met her eyes. "You think I'm him."
"I think you're becoming him. Slowly."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"Why are you telling me this?" Kael asked.
"Because it's starting again. The glyphs, the dreams, the magic returning. You are waking up. And when you do, others will come for you. Some to use you. Others to kill you."
Kael exhaled. "And you?"
Sylas turned away.
"I'm still deciding."
He left the archives with more questions than answers, just like she said.
But something had shifted.
He no longer felt like he was losing control—more like he'd been shackled, and the chains were rusting.
The next morning, Professor Varra made an announcement in Arcane Theory class.
"There will be a supplemental trial. A single task beneath the school. Voluntary."
The room stirred.
"The task will not be graded. But it will be remembered."
Marcus leaned over. "What does that mean?"
Annie answered for her. "It means whoever completes it will earn reputation. And probably get killed."
Kael didn't hesitate.
"I'll do it."
The descent into the Underchambers was quiet.
Kael stood before a sealed archway, three instructors watching in silence. Varra among them.
She didn't speak, just nodded once as the door unsealed with a deep grinding sound.
Beyond it was darkness.
And a faint hum.
The trial wasn't about strength. It wasn't even about spellwork.
It was about memory.
Glyphs lined the walls—ancient, half-faded, but familiar.
Kael didn't know how he recognized them. He just did.
He walked the path, tracing the right symbols, avoiding the false ones. At the center of the chamber was a pedestal. A mirror, cracked in the center.
When he looked into it, he didn't see Kael.
He saw a man with silver eyes and a crown of lightning.
Aric Vaelith.
The mirror cracked further, and Kael felt something inside him shift.
Not awaken. Not yet.
But reach.
Like a hand, stretching across time.
He left the chamber with the mirror's reflection burned into his mind.
Professor Varra was still there when the door re-opened. She said nothing, but her eyes narrowed, just slightly.
She knew.
Chapter End