Kael didn't dream of storms that night.
He became one.
In his sleep, he drifted through memories that weren't quite his—visions of cities reduced to ash, skies torn by thunder, and a circle of mages kneeling before a throne of lightning.
When he woke, the room was dim and quiet. But the air around him buzzed.
Not with noise.
With energy.
Classes began with Meditation and Mana Control, a course Kael had originally dismissed as boring. Sit, breathe, concentrate. The instructors made it sound like napping with posture.
But today felt different.
As he sat cross-legged on the rune-inscribed mat, breathing slowly through his nose, he noticed something he hadn't before.
The mana around him wasn't still. It moved.
Not random, like leaves on the wind.
Rhythmic. Patterned.
Like music, or tides.
Professor Harnel's voice floated nearby. "Mana isn't merely fuel. It's language. Intention. Life. Most of you will only ever command it."
He walked past Kael and paused. "A few of you… it will speak to."
Kael opened his eyes.
The professor didn't say another word. But for a heartbeat, their eyes met.
And Kael knew Harnel had seen something.
At lunch, the chatter of the dining hall washed over him—students debating spells, complaining about instructors, nobles bragging about whose family funded which tower.
Annie plopped down across from him, her tray piled high with fruit and bread. "Why do you always look like you've just been told you're the Chosen One and then immediately denied breakfast?"
Kael blinked. "That's… oddly specific."
"Seriously. Something's up. You've been distant since the duel."
He hesitated. "I'm just thinking. About… the way magic feels lately. It's different."
"Different how?"
"Like it's not outside me anymore. Like I'm remembering how to breathe it."
She frowned. "That sounds both poetic and deeply concerning."
"I don't know how else to describe it."
"Maybe you should stop poking into things that make you sound like a haunted riddle," she said, though her tone was gentle.
Kael managed a smile. "No promises."
Later that day, he returned to the Grand Athenaeum—less out of curiosity, more out of instinct.
He walked deeper than before. Past the public reading rooms. Past the old marble stairwells. Into the restricted wing.
Not technically forbidden, but rarely used by first-years. The walls here were older. The silence, heavier.
He ran a hand along the shelves.
Most were covered in dust. Forgotten volumes. Arcane histories. War journals. Ritual scripts in dead tongues.
One book pulsed faintly beneath his fingers.
It was bound in cracked leather, with no title. As he opened it, a familiar glyph shimmered on the first page.
The same glyph he'd drawn without thinking during Varra's class.
A storm rune.
But not the modern one.
This was older. Wilder. Etched in a style that hadn't been used in centuries.
Kael sat down.
And began to read.
By the time Lyria found him, the candle at his table had nearly burned out.
"Found something dangerous?" she asked, setting a fresh candle beside him.
Kael didn't look up. "Not dangerous. Familiar."
She glanced at the page. "You're reading Pre-Dissolution Glyph Theory. That's fourth-year curriculum."
"I think I've seen some of these glyphs before. In dreams."
She folded her arms. "Most people dream of falling or turning up to class naked. You dream in forgotten magical dialects."
Kael finally looked up, searching her expression. "You believe me?"
"I've seen too much not to."
She sat down across from him. "Listen. There are records—hidden ones. Of casters who were born with inherent resonance. Magic they didn't learn, but remembered. The old mages called them 'Echoed Souls.'"
Kael's mouth went dry. "You think that's what I am?"
"I think you're walking very old ground," she said quietly. "And old ground tends to be unstable."
Back in his dorm, Kael stared at his palm, remembering the glyphs, the duel, the silent crackle of mana that answered without command.
He whispered a word he didn't remember learning.
The air shimmered.
A symbol sparked to life—raw and incomplete, but unmistakable.
It hovered in the space above his hand for just a breath before fading.
He didn't feel tired.
He felt hungry.
Far below the academy, in a chamber wrapped in ancient wards, Lady Sylas opened another tome.
Not one of spells—but of names.
She ran a gloved finger down the list until she found the one she feared.
"Arvandor," she whispered. "The storm returns to the sky."
Chapter End