The village was no longer silent.
Cassian stood at the edge of the burnt field, his boots crunching over scorched soil and the faint remains of ash that danced in the wind. The crops were ruined, twisted and blackened, and the air reeked of something unnatural. It wasn't just fire that had done this.
His fingers clenched into fists.
They had come through here. Whoever they were, they left no survivors.
Cassian knelt and touched the ground.
Dead magicules… but not decayed.
Whatever spell had been used, it disrupted the magicules directly—consumed them, as if rewriting the fundamental rules of casting.
He recognized the pattern.
It mirrored his own power.
Ten Years Ago — Arcanveil Academy, Year One
Professor Halros was a legend. He didn't teach theory; he lived it. His right arm was a grafted relic from a pre-Arcane era golem. His eyes, enchanted to perceive the flow of magicules themselves. But what made his lessons unforgettable was his method: immersion.
"Magic is language," he said, scrawling a series of complex glyphs across the blackstone board with a rune-wand. "It is intent. It is structure. But above all… it is sacrifice."
Cassian wrote every word.
Most students half-listened, more interested in flashy spell techniques than underlying principles. Not him. Powerless or not, he could grasp magic at its root. And Professor Halros saw that.
"Cassian," the man called without turning. "You wrote an essay on inversion theory. Come forward."
Cassian's heart stopped. Slowly, he walked up, his hands trembling.
"Explain why a counter-rune must be purpose-aligned and not force-aligned."
He swallowed. "Because counter-runes don't just neutralize a spell's structure—they rewrite the intended outcome. A force-aligned rune tries to overpower it directly, but if you invert the purpose instead, the spell collapses from within. Like a lie exposed."
Professor Halros finally turned. His smile was rare, but this time it touched his eyes.
"Well said."
Cassian heard a scoff from the back. Reyn, heir to House Vellire, was unimpressed as usual.
After class, Cassian gathered his things in silence. That's when Saria appeared beside him.
"You're getting too much attention," she said quietly, her eyes wary.
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated, brushing a lock of violet hair behind her ear. "Reyn doesn't like being second. Especially not to someone like you."
Someone powerless.
Cassian gave a small, bitter smile. "Let him be angry. I'm used to it."
"You shouldn't be," she replied. "You're not nothing, Cassian. Even if no one sees it yet."
Present Day — The Village Outskirts
Cassian stood and exhaled, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. The villagers were terrified. Rumors were already spreading—some spoke of fire spirits, others of rogue mages. But none of them would ever guess the truth: bloodline magic was resurfacing.
And not just his own.
He pulled his cloak tighter, concealing the mark on his left wrist—a crimson sigil shaped like a spiral of thorns. It had appeared the night after the field burned, pulsing with a strange warmth. He recognized it as a warning.
Another bloodline had become active. Somewhere nearby.
Back in his cottage, he unrolled the old scroll he kept hidden beneath a false floorboard. The parchment crackled as he flattened it across the table. It depicted ancient symbols, a map of bloodlines lost to time, handed down in secret fragments.
His own mark—the Thorn Spiral—was one of them.
But now another one was glowing faintly at the edge of the map.
The Crowned Fang.
Cassian stared at it.
That symbol belonged to royalty.
Academy — Year One, Month Four
The practical exams were brutal.
Cassian stood at the edge of the dueling ring, facing a smug opponent: Lira, one of Reyn's sycophants. She twirled a wand between her fingers.
"Try not to die, bookworm," she sneered.
He didn't respond.
The bell chimed. She struck fast—fire glyphs etched in the air, a chain of flame serpents erupting toward him. He dodged left, then rolled beneath the second blast. He wasn't fast. Just practiced.
She laughed. "You're just running."
But that's what he needed—time. Observation.
She's overcharging the glyphs… reckless.
He focused. No magic of his own. No power. But he remembered what Professor Halros said.
Magic is language.
And Lira's spells were sloppy sentences.
He feinted a stumble and fell inside the range of her cast. Her eyes widened—too late. He slammed his palm against her spell matrix just as she cast another.
A spark. A pulse.
The spell shattered mid-air. Fire evaporated into harmless motes.
Silence.
Professor Halros stood slowly. "Impossible…"
Cassian didn't understand it himself. But he remembered the sensation: his blood had sung, rejecting the spell on contact.
That was the first time it happened.
The first sign of the anti-magic.
Present Day — Cassian's Cottage
He lit a single candle and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
His body was stronger now—tempered by years of quiet training. But the shadows under his eyes never left. The past was still there, always just behind his shoulder.
The village was small, peaceful. That was the point. After barely scraping through the Academy and disappearing from the world, this place had offered him something he'd never had before: solitude.
But peace never lasted.
Cassian rolled up his sleeve. The Thorn Spiral pulsed again, glowing brighter this time. It wasn't just a warning.
It was a summons.
Something was calling him to the capital.
Or rather… someone.
Academy — Year Two, Month One
They found the first corpse in the dormitory courtyard.
Eyes wide open, mouth contorted in a scream, but no visible wounds. Just a faint mark on his chest—a spiral of thorns burned into his flesh.
Cassian stared at it in horror.
He had nothing to do with it. He hadn't even awakened his full powers yet. But that mark—his mark—was there.
Professor Halros took him aside later that evening.
"This isn't your fault," he said, but his tone was heavy. "But someone thinks it is."
Cassian felt cold. "Who?"
Halros only looked at him with an unreadable expression. "The Headmaster is calling for an inquiry. Keep your head low. And trust no one."
Present Day
Cassian opened his old satchel.
Inside was a sealed letter, unopened for over seven years. The wax emblem was still intact—the royal insignia. He had always known the day would come when he'd need to read it.
He broke the seal.
Inside, a single sentence was written in archaic script:
"When the Thorn Spiral burns again, return to where the Fangs sleep."
Cassian stared at the words.
The capital.
Something waited for him there—answers, enemies, maybe even others like him.
He slid the letter into his coat and stepped out into the night.
The stars above were cold and distant.
And in the east, beyond the forest, the city lights had begun to flicker once more.