The next morning, Cassian was quiet.
Quieter than usual.
Not because he wanted to be—but because the words from the night before still echoed in his head like a whisper lodged behind his eyes.
"The Spiral is not a curse. It is a lock. And the key is blood."
He kept the book hidden in his satchel, its unnatural weight gnawing at him. It didn't feel like a normal grimoire. It pulsed with something wrong—like it breathed, like it watched.
The Thorn Spiral on his wrist had faded back into stillness, but his skin felt raw, as though the mark was only barely beneath the surface.
Saria noticed.
She always noticed.
"You didn't sleep," she said, falling into step beside him as they crossed the bridge toward the northern wing.
"Didn't feel like it."
She didn't press him.
At least not yet.
Professor Halros's Advanced Glyphwork class was uncharacteristically somber. Normally, the eccentric mage would bark questions or conjure live examples, but today he simply passed out copies of a single diagram—a binding array older than modern notation.
"This," he said without preamble, "is the Remnant Seal. A glyph array designed to hold back curses of unknown origin. It hasn't been used in over two hundred years, for reasons you will soon understand."
Cassian studied it, eyes narrowing. The array was flawed—purposefully so. One part of the glyph chain fed backwards, destabilizing the whole thing. It was a trap for the unwary.
He raised his hand. "Sir. This array creates a feedback loop if used on a living subject."
Halros's single golden eye flicked to him. "Continue."
Cassian stood. "The runic anchors in quadrant three are mismatched. The warding glyphs contradict the containment schema. It wouldn't bind a curse—it would draw it deeper."
"Exactly."
Murmurs rippled through the class.
Halros turned, clacking his golem arm against the blackstone board. "This is what happens when you try to contain power you don't understand. You accelerate it. You feed it."
He glanced at Cassian.
A little too long.
And for the first time, Cassian felt something strange.
Fear.
Not from himself—but from Halros.
Later that evening, Saria confronted him in the library.
"You're hiding something."
Cassian didn't deny it.
"You were gone last night," she pressed. "After curfew. You came back with your wrist burned and eyes like you'd seen a ghost. What's going on?"
He sighed and reached into his satchel.
She recoiled slightly as he laid the book on the table between them.
"…what is that?"
"I found it in the old observatory. Someone—or something—left it for me."
Saria hesitated, then leaned closer. "It feels… wrong."
Cassian nodded. "It is."
He opened the book to the page that had shown itself the night before. The script had changed. The old writing was gone, replaced by something new.
"There are seven bloodlines."
"Each born from a Prime Source. Each a fracture of truth."
"Only one bears the Spiral."
"The one who breaks magic itself."
Saria's voice dropped. "It's talking about you."
Cassian didn't answer.
Instead, he flipped the next page.
A map.
Faint. Inked in lines too fine to be normal. The geography was distorted—twisted, like it was trying to represent a memory more than a location.
But one mark was unmistakable:
A spiral burned into a valley, far beyond the capital.
There was something else.
A second mark.
Right here.
Arcanveil.
That night, he returned to the observatory.
He had questions.
And no one else would give him answers.
The circle was still there, but the air was different—charged. The kind of static that builds before a lightning storm.
As he approached, the mark on his wrist began to glow faintly again, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The book trembled in his satchel.
He drew it out and placed it on the center stone.
It opened on its own.
This time, no words appeared—only an image.
A hooded figure standing over a pit of light, blood pouring from their eyes, the Spiral branded on their chest like a living wound.
Then, a whisper filled the room—not from outside, but inside his skull.
"You are the Key."
"But the Lock has many doors."
"One of them walks these halls."
Cassian staggered back, heart pounding.
One of them?
Another bloodline wielder?
Here?
His breath hitched.
Suddenly, the glyph circle around him sparked.
A ring of runes ignited.
A trap.
"Move and you'll die."
The voice came from the shadows behind the pillar.
Cassian spun.
A figure stepped out—hooded, masked, their aura cloaked behind a null field. Not even a magicule trace.
"How do you know the Spiral?" Cassian demanded.
The figure said nothing.
Instead, they stepped forward, and Cassian felt a spike of pressure—not magic, but something older.
Bloodline power.
The figure raised a hand, revealing their palm.
A different mark.
A crescent of fangs.
Cassian's blood ran cold.
Another bearer.
They stood in silence, studying each other.
Then, the stranger spoke again.
"There are seven. One's already dead. That leaves six."
They turned to leave.
"But be warned, Spiral-Bearer. Not all bloodlines are meant to awaken. Some… are meant to devour."
And with that, they vanished into the dark.