The air in the buried city beneath Blackstone Academy thrummed with a rhythm older than time itself. The three awakened Pillars pulsed in unison, their black-gold light weaving through the ley-lines like threads of a forgotten tapestry. Mark Wilde stood at the heart of the subterranean amphitheater, his silhouette framed against the glowing sigils that spiraled across the ancient stone.
His allies—Elira, Vrix, Silas, and the newest recruit, a young girl named Lysa—stood in a loose semicircle behind him, their faces lit by the eerie glow of the third Pillar. The air was heavy with anticipation, as though the city itself held its breath, waiting for Mark's next move.
Lysa, the girl who had appeared unbidden at the amphitheater's edge, clutched a tattered journal to her chest. Her mana signature was faint, almost imperceptible, but her eyes burned with a quiet intensity that Mark recognized—a spark of defiance, of someone who had been pushed to the edges of the world and refused to break.
She hadn't spoken much since joining them, but her presence felt like a puzzle piece slotting into place, as if the city had summoned her as surely as it had summoned him.
"The Accord will come for us now," Elira said, her voice low but steady. She leaned against her staff, its tip faintly glowing with a protective ward she'd woven instinctively. "That display at the Council Ball wasn't subtle. The third Pillar's awakening sent a signal they can't ignore."
Mark nodded, his gaze fixed on the ley-line map etched into the amphitheater's central dais. The glowing veins stretched beyond the academy, connecting to distant points across the continent—places where other Pillars lay dormant, sealed by the Accord centuries ago.
"They're not just coming for us," he said. "They're coming for the network. The Pillars are the key to their control, and we're breaking their locks one by one."
Silas, lounging against a cracked pillar with his usual air of nonchalance, smirked. "You're not wrong, Wilde, but you're missing the bigger picture. The Accord doesn't just want to stop you—they want to rewrite you.
Those Markbearers aren't assassins; they're erasers. They'll wipe your name, your magic, your existence from the record. That's their endgame."
Vrix, her stone-like skin catching the light of the runes, crossed her arms. "Then we hit them where it hurts. The fourth Pillar. It's under the Eastern Spire, right? If we activate it, we'll have a network strong enough to challenge their wards directly. They won't be able to lock us out—or lock us in."
Mark turned to Lysa, who had been silent, her fingers tracing the edges of her journal. "You said the symbols called to you. What did you mean?"
Lysa's eyes flicked up, meeting his. Her voice was soft but clear, carrying a weight that belied her fragile frame. "I've seen them before. In dreams. In… memories that aren't mine.
They're in here." She tapped the journal, its pages worn and stained with age. "My mother left it to me before she disappeared. It's not just a book—it's a map. To the Pillars. To the Veins. To… you."
Mark's breath caught. The city's whispers had grown louder since the third Pillar's awakening, but this was different. Lysa's words carried the same ancient resonance he'd felt in the buried city's core, as if she were a living echo of its past. "Show me," he said.
She hesitated, then opened the journal. The pages were filled with sketches of runes, maps, and fragmented notes written in a language that seemed to shift under scrutiny. One page showed a detailed diagram of the Eastern Spire, its base marked with a spiral glyph identical to the one that had appeared on Mark's hand after the Crucible.
Another page depicted a figure standing atop a tower, a broken crown above their head—the same image from the mural in the buried city.
"This is the fourth Pillar," Lysa said, pointing to the diagram. "But it's not like the others. It's… guarded. Not by wards or constructs, but by something alive. Something that remembers."
Mark's eyes narrowed. "Remembers what?"
"You," she said simply.
The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Elira exchanged a glance with Vrix, who muttered under her breath, "This just keeps getting weirder."
Silas pushed off the pillar, his cane tapping rhythmically against the stone. "So, we've got a Pillar guarded by a living memory, a bunch of Markbearers itching to erase our fearless leader, and an Accord that's probably summoning every warlock in a hundred-mile radius. What's the play, Wilde?"
Mark's mind raced, piecing together fragments of his past life as Maximilian Wilde—deals made in boardrooms, empires toppled with a single word—and the instincts of this new body, this new world. The Forbidden Tier magic pulsed beneath his skin, not a wildfire but a cold, precise force, like a blade honed for centuries. He could feel the city's will aligning with his own, urging him forward.
"We move tonight," he said. "The Accord's distracted, licking their wounds from the Council Ball. We use that. Vrix, your diversion plan—execute it. Silas, map the safest route to the Eastern Spire. Elira, you and Lysa are with me. We'll need your wards and her knowledge to get past whatever's guarding the Pillar."
Elira nodded, her expression resolute. "And the Markbearers?"
Mark's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "Let them come. They'll find out what happens when you hunt a Crownless Sovereign in his own city."
The Eastern Spire loomed like a monolith against the storm-torn sky, its obsidian surface etched with wards that glowed faintly red under the violet-black rain. The air crackled with mana, the ley-lines beneath the academy straining under the weight of the Accord's counterspells.
Vrix's diversions had worked—flashes of rogue mana flared across the campus, drawing security drones and Circle enforcers to the wrong locations. Silas's maps had guided them through forgotten tunnels, bypassing the heaviest wards.
Now, Mark, Elira, and Lysa stood at the base of the Spire, hidden in the shadow of a crumbling statue. The entrance to the Pillar's chamber was sealed with a massive stone door, its surface carved with a single, pulsating rune—a spiral wreathed in flame, identical to the one in Lysa's journal.
"This is it," Lysa whispered, her hands trembling as she clutched the journal. "The guardian's inside. It's… not like the others. It's not a construct or a specter. It's something older."
Elira's staff glowed brighter, her wards flaring to life. "Whatever it is, we're ready. Mark, you good?"
Mark nodded, though his chest tightened. The Forbidden Tier magic stirred, reacting to the rune on the door. It felt like a call, not a warning—a summons from something that knew him. He placed his hand on the rune, and the stone shuddered. The door didn't open—it dissolved, melting into ash that scattered on the wind.
The chamber beyond was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow. At its center stood the fourth Pillar, a towering crystal that pulsed with a deep, resonant hum. But it wasn't the Pillar that drew Mark's attention. It was the figure standing before it.
A woman, or the shape of one, cloaked in black-gold light. Her form flickered, like a flame caught in a storm, but her eyes burned with a clarity that pierced through Mark's soul. She was neither alive nor dead, neither human nor spirit—just a memory given form, a fragment of the city's ancient will.
"You've returned, Crownless," she said, her voice echoing inside Mark's mind. "But you are not whole. Not yet."
Mark stepped forward, his allies flanking him. "Who are you?"
"I am the Warden of the Fourth," she said. "Bound to this Pillar, to its memory. I am what remains of the First Sovereign's will. And you… you are the echo of his fire."
Mark's heart pounded. The First Sovereign. The name resonated, stirring fragments of memories that weren't his—a city of stone towers, a council of peers, a rebellion crushed under the Accord's boot. "What do you want from me?" he asked.
The Warden's form flickered, her eyes narrowing. "To claim the Pillar, you must face what you've forgotten. The Fourth is not power—it is truth. It demands your regret, your pain, your purpose."
Lysa gasped, clutching her journal tighter. "The memory barrier. It's her."
Elira's wards flared brighter. "Mark, be careful. This isn't just a test—it's a judgment."
Mark nodded, stepping closer to the Pillar. The air grew heavy, the mana thickening until it felt like wading through water. The Warden raised a hand, and the chamber shifted. The walls dissolved, replaced by visions—flashes of Maximilian Wilde's life. A boardroom, a betrayal, an explosion.
Then older memories, not his own: a city burning, mages kneeling, a crown shattered under a storm of red glyphs.
"Face it," the Warden said. "Or be consumed."
Mark closed his eyes, letting the visions wash over him. He saw Thalia, his protégé, her face twisted with guilt as she betrayed him. He saw the First Sovereign, standing defiant as the Accord's chains closed around him. And he saw himself—Mark Wilde, the forgotten nephew, the boy who had been nothing until a tyrant's soul claimed his body.
"I regret nothing," Mark said, his voice steady. "Not the blood. Not the fire. Not the choices that brought me here."
The Warden's eyes flared, and the Pillar responded. Its hum grew louder, the black-gold light spiraling upward like a beacon. The visions shattered, replaced by a single image: a city reborn, its towers glowing with forbidden magic, its people free from the Accord's chains.
"You are worthy," the Warden said. "But the cost is not yet paid."
Before Mark could respond, the chamber trembled. Red glyphs flared along the walls—Accord wards, triggered by the Pillar's awakening. From the shadows emerged three Markbearers, their cloaks rippling with anti-memory runes. Their presence was a void, a pressure that threatened to erase everything Mark had become.
Elira raised her staff, wards blazing. Lysa clutched her journal, whispering runes that glowed faintly blue. Mark stepped forward, the Forbidden Tier magic surging through him. "Stay back," he said. "This is mine."
The Markbearers moved as one, their daggers flashing with cursed light. Mark didn't meet them with force—he met them with intent. The Pillar's resonance amplified his magic, turning his strikes into pulses of entropy that unraveled their spells. The first Markbearer fell, his glyph shattering into ash.
The second stumbled, caught in a web of Mark's redirected mana. The third lunged, but Mark caught his blade, twisting it with a surge of black-gold fire.
The chamber fell silent, the Markbearers' bodies dissolving into nothing. The Pillar's light stabilized, its song joining the others in a harmony that shook the ley-lines.
Elira exhaled, lowering her staff. "You're insane, Wilde."
Mark turned to Lysa, who was staring at the Pillar, her eyes wide. "You were right," he said. "It remembered me."
Lysa nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "And now they'll all know."
Above, in the Maw's sanctum, the mirror cracked further, its surface spiderwebbing with fractures. The Maw's voice was a hiss. "Four Pillars. He's moving too fast."
A warlock in crimson robes stepped forward. "Then we end it. The Whisper Division failed. The Markbearers failed. It's time for the Severance."
The Maw's mask glinted in the dim light. "No. We awaken the Hollow King."
The warlock froze. "That's… forbidden."
The Maw's smile was cold. "So is he."