The wind howled through the towers of Crescent Academy, brushing past windows like whispers from the past. In the hidden sanctum beneath the eastern tower, Lucien Thorne held the crimson-lettered note in gloved hands.
"We see you, Thorned Prince."
The words etched deeper than ink ever could. Not because of their message—but because of the truth behind them.
They knew.
Not just his name.
Not just his skill.
But who he really was.
Lucien was no commoner, no orphaned talent who'd clawed his way into the Academy like the records claimed. His true bloodline was buried behind a conspiracy of fire and betrayal—a secret kept under royal command.
He was the bastard son of the last true heir of the Blackthorn Dynasty.
The rebels calling themselves the Rose of Knives… they were remnants of that shattered legacy. Survivors. Zealots. Madmen. And now, they were watching him.
---
Elsewhere, in the Royal Tower of Discipline:
Dean Vaelryn stood by the flame-crystal window, arms crossed beneath her shimmering black-and-silver robes. Her thoughts were not on the stacks of duel logs, nor on the restless stirrings among noble students.
They were on Lucien Thorne.
The glyphs he used in the duel weren't merely powerful—they were lost magic. Forbidden even among highblood researchers. The kind of runes that once burned kingdoms and reversed the laws of magical governance.
She summoned a magical scroll, its seal cracked only for emergencies.
A classified dossier.
Name: Lucien Thorne
Academy Status: Prodigy
House Affiliation: None
Bloodline: —REDACTED—
Suspected Ties: —REDACTED—
Behavioral Note: Controlled, manipulative, intellectually dangerous. Morally ambiguous.
She narrowed her eyes.
He reminded her of someone. No… more than someone.
An echo of the past.
---
Back in the sanctum:
Lucien didn't rest. His fingers traced the glowing runes etched into his walls, activating a secondary circuit—Rift Lens.
A pool of blue light shimmered on the stone floor, revealing encrypted magical channels around the academy. Hidden magic veins. Forgotten chambers.
Secrets buried by Crescent itself.
He smirked.
The note had been an invitation—but also a test.
The rebels wanted to see what he would do with knowledge. And Lucien would give them a demonstration. Not of loyalty.
But power.
He selected a path—one leading to the sealed Hall of Crest Forging, a sacred vault deep beneath the academy where royal crests were once crafted and stored.
The place had been locked for centuries.
Tonight, it would open again.
---
Meanwhile, on the northern continent of Viravelle:
In the Rebel Citadel of Thorns, a council of cloaked figures sat beneath stained banners. At the head stood a woman with storm-gray hair and half her face marked by burn scars—Matriarch Elira.
"He responded," said a scout mage.
Elira nodded slowly. "And did not destroy the note. That confirms his nature."
"He walks the edge of flame," said another. "He is not a savior. He is dangerous."
"All heroes are dangerous," Elira replied coldly. "And we don't need a hero. We need a weapon."
---
Back in Crescent Academy, midnight:
Lucien crouched before the rusted door of the Hall of Crest Forging. Layers of protection wards shimmered before him, ancient and tangled.
He whispered to the glyph on his palm. It burned violet.
"Reconstruct."
One by one, the wards unraveled—not shattered, but rewritten. Bypassed like pages rearranged in a book.
The door creaked open.
Inside lay rows of broken crest molds, cracked soul-siphons, and royal spellforges that had once carved power into blood. Lucien stepped in, eyes gleaming.
His hand hovered over the largest forge—a circular altar ringed by embedded jewels.
He placed his hand on it.
A vision struck him—
Flames. Screams. A woman with raven hair and violet eyes screaming as the forge consumed her. Betrayal. A blade in the dark.
Then silence.
His heart thundered. The forge had remembered.
His mother.
Her death wasn't an accident. It was an erasure.
Lucien drew a glowing sigil in the air. "Rewrite Crest Record – Thorne Protocol."
A deep vibration shook the chamber. The altar responded. From within, a hidden compartment opened, revealing a crest mold. Untouched. Preserved.
Shaped like a black rose entwined in thorns.
Lucien took it.
"This world forged me from ash and silence," he murmured. "Now I forge myself from flame and ruin."
The door slammed shut behind him.
He didn't flinch.