Kyan's "duel" in the courtyard sent shockwaves through the Sunstone Academy. The official story, disseminated by the administration, was that the "unstable borderland Neophyte" had suffered a panic attack and accidentally discharged a series of low-level spells, prompting a justified but restrained response from the ever-vigilant Inquisitor Valerius.
No one truly believed it.
To the student body, the incident became the stuff of whispered legend. The arrogant nobles, led by Lord Cassian, saw it as proof of Kyan's inherent savagery. But for a growing number of others—the overlooked second sons, the scholars from minor provincial houses, the students who chafed under the Empire's rigid dogma—Kyan's act was one of breathtaking defiance. He was the first person to ever face an Inquisitor, sanctioned or not, and walk away. He became a symbol, a reluctant and silent focal point for the Academy's simmering discontent.
This new, unwanted fame brought a host of new characters into Kyan's orbit.
The first was Seraphina Valerius. She was an older, fifth-year student, a prodigy of the Sanctioned Art, and, to Kyan's initial horror, the Inquisitor's own niece. But where her uncle was a being of shadow and negation, Seraphina was a creature of blinding light. She was beautiful, charismatic, and a master of the Light and Order runes, her spells precise, elegant, and powerful. She was the Academy's golden girl, admired by all, the very model of a perfect Imperial mage.
She approached him in the crowded dining hall, her presence silencing all conversation around them.
"Neophyte Kyan," she said, her voice clear and melodic. "My uncle has... an intense dedication to his duties. I hope you were not unduly frightened." Her expression was one of polite concern, but her eyes, the color of warm honey, held a sharp, analytical intelligence.
Kyan, wary, simply nodded. "The Inquisitor is a diligent man."
"He is," she agreed, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips. "He believes any deviation from the path leads to a cliff. I, however, believe that sometimes the most scenic views are found by wandering a little. Your control of the Stone rune, though crude, showed remarkable resilience. You have a strong will. I will be watching your progress with great interest."
She was an enigma. Was she a threat, an extension of her uncle's surveillance? Or was she a potential ally, a high-ranking noble who saw the flaws in the system? Kyan didn't know, but he knew she was a dangerous and influential player in the Academy's game.
The second new character was Jax, a brawny, good-natured student from the forge-cities of the north. He was everything the capital's nobles were not: loud, direct, and completely unimpressed by titles. His specialty was not elegant spellcasting, but the Art of Runic Artifice—the imbuing of sanctioned echoes into metal. He was a blacksmith of the soul.
He cornered Kyan in the training yards, a wide, friendly grin on his face. "Heard you gave the 'Spook' a run for his money," he boomed, clapping Kyan on the shoulder with a hand the size of a small hammer. "Name's Jax. Anyone who rattles that crimson cage is a friend of mine."
Jax was the leader of a small, unofficial faction of students from the working-class provinces. They were skilled artisans and warriors who were constantly looked down upon by the "pure-blooded" mages like Cassian. Jax saw in Kyan a fellow outsider, but also a symbol of raw, untamed power that he respected far more than the polished, predictable spells of the nobles.
"That stone wall of yours was ugly as sin," Jax said with a laugh. "But it held. That's what matters. If you ever need a shield that won't shatter, or a blade with a proper rune-forged bite, you come find me."
He was a straightforward ally, a valuable connection to the Academy's undercurrent of pragmatic, working-class strength.
The third, and most unexpected, character was Master Oren, the Academy's elderly, eccentric, and perpetually drunk Arch-Librarian. Oren was considered a relic by most of the faculty, a man who had long since lost his ambition and retreated into the dusty solitude of the Athenaeum's highest, most forgotten levels. He was often seen shuffling through the stacks, muttering to himself, a wineskin clutched in his hand.
He found Kyan in a secluded alcove, studying a text on conceptual resonance.
"Sympathetic Resonance," Oren slurred, his breath smelling of sweet berry wine. He peered at the scroll with one bleary eye. "A fool's art. Chasing ghosts in rocks. The real ghosts, boy, are right here." He tapped his temple.
Kyan, expecting him to wander off, was about to stand when the old man's demeanor shifted. The drunken haze in his eyes vanished, replaced by a momentary, startling clarity.
"They say you stood up to the Gardener," Oren whispered, his voice suddenly sober. "They say you fought him with the Academy's own pathetic tricks and made him blink. Nobody's made the Gardener blink in fifty years." He leaned closer. "You created a public spectacle to save your own skin. That wasn't the act of a wildling. That was the act of a politician. Or a prisoner who knows the rules of the prison better than the guards."
The old librarian knew. He had seen through Kyan's facade.
"The real library isn't in the shelves, boy," Oren murmured, the drunken slur returning as he saw a golem sentry approaching. "It's in what's not on the shelves. Look for the gaps. Every book they burned left a shadow..." He straightened up, took a long swig from his wineskin, and shuffled away, once again the harmless old eccentric.
Oren was a hidden player, a man who wore a mask of senility to protect a sharp, observant mind. He was a potential wellspring of forbidden knowledge, if Kyan could figure out how to earn his trust.
While Kyan navigated this new, complex social web, he waited anxiously for a signal from Lyra. He didn't dare use the sympathetic stone again, knowing Valerius would be watching for any such communication. He could only hope his disruption of the Silent Heart had been enough.
The answer came a week later, not through a whisper, but through an event that shook the entire Academy.
An alarm rang out from the deepest levels of the Athenaeum. Not a simple breach alarm, but a "Conceptual Containment Failure"—one of the most serious alerts possible.
Kyan, along with every other student and Magister, rushed towards the library to see what was happening. A cordon of Imperial Sentinels, the elite guards of the Academy, had surrounded the building. Inquisitor Valerius was already there, his crimson robes a stark slash of color against the white marble. His entire body radiated a palpable, barely controlled fury.
"What happened?" Magister Liana asked one of the Sentinels.
"A remnant has destabilized," the captain replied, his face grim. "The 'Weeping Locket.' Its echo of Grief has broken containment and is flooding the lower archives. No one can get near it without being overcome by suicidal despair."
Kyan's mind raced. The Weeping Locket was a famous, dangerous artifact kept in the deepest vault. Its containment rune was one of the strongest in the Academy. For it to fail on its own was impossible.
Unless it had been sabotaged.
This was Lyra's message. She couldn't speak to him, so she had created a diversion, a conceptual crisis that would draw all eyes, especially the Inquisitor's, away from her and her prison. It was a brilliant, dangerous move. But it was also a test. She was showing him her capability, and simultaneously creating an opportunity for him.
As Valerius and the Academy's Archons focused all their energy on containing the spreading echo of Grief, Kyan knew this was his chance. The Gardener was distracted. The prison's security would be at its weakest.
He saw Jax in the crowd, his brawny arms crossed as he watched the chaos. He saw Seraphina Valerius, directing junior mages with a calm, authoritative grace. He saw old Master Oren, leaning against a pillar, taking a swig from his wineskin, and for a second, the old man's eyes met Kyan's across the crowded plaza, and he gave a slow, deliberate wink.
The players were on the board. The game had begun. Kyan had to choose his next move, knowing that every potential ally was also a potential risk, and the one person he needed to trust was a disembodied voice he had never even seen. He slipped away from the crowd, his destination the one place he had sworn he would never go again: the abandoned wing, and the dark secrets it held.