They returned to the surface by a different path—an old tunnel that twisted beneath the Academy's foundation like a forgotten vein. The air was stale, thick with sediment and arcane residue, but it was quiet. Safe, for now.
"You alright?" Mira asked, her voice low.
Arin nodded, though his thoughts reeled. The contact with the construct had left a splinter in his mind—not pain, but a pressure. A dissonant presence that hadn't left since the creature's touch.
Lucien walked ahead in silence, the flare in his hand flickering as they ascended. No one spoke until they reached the stone archway that opened into a sealed portion of the south wing. From there, it was only a few turns until they emerged near the outer gardens, where night had already fallen.
The stars above were unusually bright.
They didn't report immediately. Instead, they gathered in the abandoned observatory—a place Mira often used for quiet spellwork. Dust coated the brass instruments and cracked lenses, but the walls were thick, and the magic warded.
"It wasn't just a construct," Arin said finally. "It echoed the warden. And it knew things it shouldn't."
Lucien nodded. "They're connected. Or perhaps fragments of something greater. Left behind to watch. To listen."
Mira turned to Arin. "You still haven't told us everything. That thing didn't go after either of us. It went after you. Twice."
Arin looked down. "I don't know why. I didn't do anything to draw it."
"Maybe not," Lucien said, arms crossed. "But it said you don't belong. That you're not written in the echoes."
The phrase lingered.
Mira sat down heavily on the edge of a broken telescope. "And that map... seven points, seven fragments? Someone's collecting them. And that vault wasn't the first."
"No," Lucien said. "It was the third."
Arin blinked. "Third?"
Lucien finally met his gaze. "Two others have been breached. One in the Ashen Heights. Another beneath the drowned ruins of Soltair. Both had similar projections. Both were found empty."
Mira stood again, suddenly tense. "Why didn't you say anything before?"
"Because until now, we didn't have proof it was the same force," Lucien said. "But now we do."
Arin leaned forward. "Do the Archives know?"
Lucien hesitated. "Parts of it. The Headmaster suspects, but the full pattern hasn't been acknowledged. Not yet."
Mira narrowed her eyes. "So let me get this straight. Three vaults have been opened. All had similar magical constructs or echoes. All were missing something. And now we have a map showing seven total locations?"
Lucien nodded. "Each of those seven locations seems to be a convergence point—either for energy or sealed knowledge. The vault we found today had signs of both."
"And someone's been opening them in sequence," Mira said. "They're after something big."
"Fragments," Lucien added. "We think they're after fragments of an ancient containment. Possibly something once sealed away for a reason."
"And that phrase—'Remember the Unmaking'—what does that mean?" Mira asked.
Lucien's voice was quiet. "It's surfaced in each breached vault, inscribed in different ways. Sometimes a whisper in the magic field. Sometimes carved into stone. It's a warning, or a directive. Whatever force is behind this, it isn't building something. It's trying to dismantle something. Something old. Maybe even a part of reality itself."
"Like unraveling a spell woven into the foundation of the world," Mira said, more to herself.
"Exactly," Lucien confirmed. "And if the vaults are being opened deliberately, it means whoever's behind it knows what they're doing."
Silence followed.
Arin stood and looked out the observatory window.
Below, the Academy's towers flickered with lantern light. Students unaware. Instructors oblivious. The stars above shimmered like cracks in a great glass dome.
Something was coming undone.
And whatever Arin had touched, whatever had touched him back, was only a fragment of the whole.
He placed a hand against the cold glass.
Mira approached behind him. "You okay?"
He nodded. "Just thinking."
But in the space behind his thoughts, something else stirred.
A voice. Not spoken aloud, but imprinted like a scar:
The fracture has begun.
And Arin, unknowingly, was at its center.