Cassian didn't sleep.
Not after the masked figure. Not after the warning.
"There are seven. One's already dead. That leaves six."
He couldn't shake the image of the mark on their palm—those crescent fangs like a predator mid-bite. A bloodline like his, yet so different.
Devourer.
It wasn't a power meant to balance magic like his anti-magic Spiral. It was meant to consume. Break. Feed.
He paced his dorm room, the book sealed inside his satchel, the Spiral on his wrist pulsing in uneasy silence. He needed answers—more than the whispers in his head and cryptic passages in a cursed book.
He needed facts.
And there was only one person in the academy with unrestricted access to the restricted archives.
Professor Halros.
The next day, Cassian attended Glyph Theory with Saria, but his focus wasn't on the glyphs.
Halros moved slower than usual. His movements sharp, but his expression grim. He didn't mention the death again. No one did. The atmosphere had shifted—classes continued, but they were formalities now.
The faculty was watching them.
Every move.
Every whisper.
At the end of the session, Cassian approached him.
"Professor," he said carefully, "I've been reading about ancient glyph classifications. There's very little about the so-called prime glyphs. Most of what we're taught only scratches the surface."
Halros didn't respond right away. His golden eye flicked to the students filing out. Only when the door shut did he speak.
"Because prime glyphs aren't just symbols. They're manifestations of truth. Reality-shapers."
Cassian's voice dropped. "Bloodline marks?"
The professor turned to face him fully. "Come with me."
Halros's private office sat beneath the glyph hall—behind layers of warded doors and a binding circle keyed to his magicule signature. Cassian had never been there before. No student had.
It smelled of dust, ink, and ozone.
The walls were lined with ancient scrolls. Behind his desk, a painting showed a battlefield shrouded in magical fire—mages hurling bolts of lightning while strange figures loomed behind them, untouched by the chaos.
"Take a seat," Halros said, then conjured a ward that sealed the room with a quiet hum.
Cassian sat, tense.
"I know what you're here to ask," Halros said, voice low. "The Spiral. The book. The dead student."
Cassian didn't hide his surprise.
Halros chuckled bitterly. "You think no one's noticed? The Thorn Spiral didn't appear by chance. And that corpse… wasn't the first time I've seen a mark like it."
He reached into a locked drawer and pulled out a faded journal.
It was bound in cracked leather. Older than anything Cassian had seen in the academy library.
"My predecessor—Professor Mirdan—recorded strange occurrences during his tenure. One entry mentions a student who bled black and bore a fang-shaped scar. The faculty covered it up. Claimed it was a magical accident."
He opened the journal and pointed to a page.
Drawn crudely, but unmistakably:
The same Crescent Fang.
Cassian's blood ran cold.
"That mark… I saw it last night."
Halros's eye narrowed. "Then you've already been marked. You're entangled in the web now, Cassian. There's no escaping it."
"What are these bloodlines?"
"They predate the kingdoms. Ancient forces—possibly sentient. Bound to a host by blood and will. Each one changes its bearer. Shapes them. Tests them. And if you lose… you become its tool."
Cassian's mouth was dry. "And the Spiral?"
Halros paused. "It was once called the Null Womb. A paradox. A force that unravels the threads of magic, not by opposing it—but by denying its foundation."
Cassian blinked. "It doesn't destroy magic… it makes it impossible."
Halros nodded. "Which is why the others fear it."
Cassian swallowed. "You mean the other bloodline wielders?"
Halros met his gaze. "No. I mean the Academy."
Cassian barely made it back to his dorm without collapsing.
His thoughts spun like torn pages in a windstorm. The Spiral wasn't just a weapon. It was a rejection of magic itself. Of the world's natural laws.
And worse—those in power knew.
He could feel it now. Professors watching from behind charmed spectacles. Classmates casting subtle detection spells when they thought no one was looking.
And Reyn.
Reyn was watching him the most.
That night, Cassian returned to the book.
It opened without resistance.
More writing had appeared.
"The Fang feeds. The Spiral silences. The Crown commands."
"Three have awakened."
"Four remain."
"The Sovereign must rise, or the world must fall."
There was a new map. This one showed glowing points across the continent. Seven lights—each pulsing with strange rhythms.
Cassian touched the one marked near the capital.
A vision surged into his mind:
A girl with crimson hair, standing before a burning throne, her eyes glowing with a golden crown-shaped sigil. Dozens knelt before her—then burned into ash.
Then a different image:
A boy in a desert, surrounded by sand twisted into glass, his veins alight with violet lightning.
Then—
Darkness.
One light faded.
One's already dead.
Someone knocked on his door.
Cassian froze.
Another knock.
He reached for the book—slid it beneath the bed.
Then opened the door.
Reyn.
He stood there, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
"I know what you are," Reyn said quietly.
Cassian stared at him, heart steadying.
"Then you know it's best you walk away."
Reyn smiled.
"I'm not here to fight."
He extended his hand.
"I'm here to join you."