The halls of Blackstone weren't just quiet—they were suffocating.
A magical lockdown had sealed the Academy. Not a single draft stirred. Not even the distant hum of the city outside penetrated the wards that shimmered over every archway, pulsing red in time with the heartbeat of the school itself.
From the dormitory windows, students stared skyward, watching patrol drones sweep the air. Their crystal cores burned with a sickly white heat, casting pale shadows on the walls below.
The whispers had grown sharper:
"Someone awakened the Vein.""The Circle Keepers are here.""He was supposed to be just Mark Wilde."
But Mark Wilde no longer had the luxury of pretending.
He and Elira moved like ghosts through the Academy's forgotten levels—corridors and staircases where no student ventured, where time itself seemed to have grown unsure.
Each step took them lower, deeper into stone carved by hands long dead, half-consumed by roots and faded sigils that pulsed faintly underfoot. The air grew colder with every descent, carrying the scent of earth, mold, and ancient power.
They moved in silence, yet the world around them pulsed louder with every step—as if the Academy itself remembered him.
"You said your mother vanished," Mark said finally, breaking the oppressive quiet as they reached a circular chamber layered with vines and dust-covered runes. "But you never said why."
Elira paused, her fingers tracing a rune on the wall that flared faintly at her touch.
"She was a cryptomancer," she said softly. "Not just a spellcaster. She studied the root of spell structures—how language and emotion intersected with mana."
Mark's eyes narrowed. "Runic cognition… that's old magic."
She nodded. "And she believed the Forbidden Tier wasn't forbidden because it was dangerous… but because it was misunderstood. Misaligned. She called it a 'Vein of the First Will.' A source that predates all Circles and schools."
"Do you believe her?" he asked.
Elira's gaze sharpened, distant. "I saw her vanish mid-incantation. The runes around her folded like a dying sun. She looked… scared. Not of death. But of being erased."
Mark clenched his jaw. That same fear had danced at the edge of his thoughts since the Crucible.
Above them, the Circle Keepers moved like smoke.
You couldn't hear them. You couldn't see them coming. Their presence wasn't detected—it was felt, like the sudden drop of atmospheric pressure before a storm.
In the Council Chamber, Headmaster Kirian faced the Maw, the leader of the Keepers. The Maw's mask bore the jagged rune of silence, cracked like the open mouth of a screaming god.
"You let it awaken," the Maw said, voice like ice.
Kirian held firm. "I guided him. I gave him access to the Archives. That was deliberate."
"You opened a gate," Maw said. "And now it pulses."
A circle of floating runes shimmered before them, each glyph containing the magical profile of Mark Wilde.
"Rogue Tier. Unstable Signature. Predicted Cascade Event: Class Black."
"Do you even understand what he is?" Kirian demanded.
"Yes," Maw said coldly. "He's what we were made to kill."
Far below, in the Observatory, Mark sat cross-legged, the Forbidden Tome open before him. The runes had shifted. They no longer looked alien—they moved, breathed, and whispered instinctively.
"They're rewriting themselves," Elira murmured over his shoulder.
"No," Mark corrected, voice low. "They're reacting to me. Or maybe… remembering me."
A rune rose from the page, hovering over his palm. Its flame burned blue, then deepened to black fire.
This wasn't mana. Not cast magic. It was called, summoned from beneath the layers of structure and language modern magic had built for centuries.
"You ever hear of the First Language?" Mark asked.
"Only in legends," Elira said, cautious. "A language that wasn't spoken, but lived. Magic that changed reality because it already was."
Mark's eyes narrowed.
"These runes don't spell anything. They are something."
Suddenly, the rune flared and sank into his skin.
He hissed—not in pain, but in the shock of memory.
Not his memory.
He saw himself in a city of stone towers beneath a violet sky. A crowd of robed figures chanted in a circle around him. He stood at the center, older, taller, cloaked in shadow and flame.
A name burned through his soul. Not "Mark." Not "Maximilian." Something far older.
Then it vanished.
He collapsed, panting.
"Mark!" Elira knelt beside him. "What did you see?"
He stared at the ceiling. "My name… isn't new here."
She looked down at the tome. Its final page had filled itself with a single line, ink black and ancient:
"The one who woke the Vein must choose: Remember or Burn."
The stone wall behind them cracked. A spiral glyph shimmered into existence.
A Circle Keeper stepped through, moving like shadow given form. His voice was calm, deliberate.
"Mark Wilde. By decree of the Binding Accord, I offer you one chance to submit. Come with me. Be sealed. Live."
Mark stood slowly, blood dripping from a split lip, wiping it away.
"And if I don't?"
The Keeper raised a hand. The wall peeled apart, forming a living construct of red glyphs—a spell designed not to kill, but erase. To wipe memory, body, soul.
Elira gasped. "Mark—run!"
But Mark didn't move.
He stared at the erasure spell, then exhaled. He let the Forbidden Tier pulse from his chest.
The Keeper faltered.
The construct cracked.
Then shattered.
Mark's voice was low. Cold. Ancient.
"You think I was born yesterday. But I was buried here before this school had a name."
The Keeper stepped back. Another step.
Mark advanced. His presence warped the floor beneath him. Black runes circled his wrist, alive, hungry.
"Tell your Maw I'm done hiding," he said."I'm not the threat you fear. I'm the proof you were wrong."
Far below the Academy, the Vein pulsed again.
Across the ley-lines, ancient structures flickered online. Dormant ruins, forgotten machines, untranslated runes—one by one, awakening.
And deep beneath the world's most sacred prison, a sigil cracked.
Something stirred within.
It whispered the name Wilde—like a curse, or a homecoming.