Sylas didn't scream.
But only because Calista was watching.
Instead, he stared at the crack in the projection wall like it had just called him by his social security number.
"Vermund," he whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it less real.
Calista turned toward him sharply. "That's your family name, isn't it?"
He gave her a dry look. "No, it's just the name I scream during romantic moments."
"Not the time, Sylas."
"It's never the time."
But inside, he wasn't joking.
Something beneath the Academy just woke up, and it knew his name.
They didn't speak on the way back. Not much to say when you'd just received a magical death threat from a haunted wall.
Calista peeled off toward her dorm once they hit the main corridor, giving him one final glance.
"We're not done," she said. "Whatever this is—we're already part of it."
Then she was gone.
Sylas exhaled slowly, then turned down his hallway. When he reached his door—
He stopped.
It was open.
Just slightly.
A sliver of candlelight flickering from inside.
He reached into his coat.
No weapon, obviously. He hadn't thought that far ahead.
Instead, he palmed a candlestick from the wall sconce and pushed the door open silently.
Inside—
"Ah," said a voice. "There you are."
A woman stood near his desk, pale blond hair braided like a crown, robes trimmed in obsidian thread. Her expression was calm. Her presence was not.
Headmistress Seraphine Lorne.
Oh. Good.
He'd finally attracted the attention of the Academy's apex predator.
Sylas cleared his throat. "If this is about my overdue History paper, I have a very creative excuse involving a goat and a minor explosion."
She didn't smile. Of course she didn't.
"I assume you're aware that someone accessed the Observatorium tonight."
"Define 'aware,'" he said slowly.
Her eyes narrowed just slightly. "I won't pretend I don't know it was you. The wards recorded your signature."
Sylas made a mental note to look up what the hell his signature even was.
She stepped forward. "You touched the scroll. The one sealed behind four arcane locks."
"…Is that bad?"
"That scroll is a containment vessel," she said, voice icy. "And you just uncontained something."
"Again," Sylas said, "define bad."
Seraphine Lorne didn't blink. "Do you know what your family once was, Mr. Vermund?"
He paused.
He knew what the history books said. Noble house. Minor. Disgraced.
But her tone suggested something more.
"Your ancestor," she said, "was once a contender for the throne. Not a footnote. A real threat."
Sylas blinked. "Like… a fake king?"
Her smile was razor-thin. "A False King."
The phrase hit like a thunderclap.
"That scroll is a remnant of that era. A memory locked in runes and ink. The fact that you could read it means the bloodline persists."
Sylas opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then: "Are you saying I've got royal pretender blood and a possible curse?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she stepped closer and placed something on his desk.
A thin vial.
Glowing faintly.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Proof," she said. "Drink it before tomorrow's midterm. It will reveal whether the connection is magical, ancestral… or both."
Sylas eyed the vial like it might explode.
"And if it's both?"
"Then," said Seraphine Lorne, "you and I will be having a much longer conversation."
She turned, robes billowing, and walked out
The door clicked shut behind her.
Sylas stared at the vial.
Then muttered to the empty room:
"You know, I really miss when my biggest problem was failing math."