He reached the abandoned wing. The oppressive, nullifying field was still present, but it felt weaker, frayed at the edges. His disruption of the Silent Heart had permanently damaged the system, and with Valerius's attention diverted, it was running on a fraction of its power.
He phased through the iron door not with a desperate struggle, but with a firm, practiced push of will. He stood once more in the obsidian sanctum. The Silent Heart still floated there, but its perfection was marred. A network of fine, hairline cracks, like a spiderweb, now covered its black surface. The angry red glow within was gone, replaced by a sullen, pulsing grey. It was wounded, but it was slowly, steadily healing itself. He knew he didn't have much time.
His plan was not to attack the Heart again. He was here to find the prison's physical entrance. Lyra could not escape as a disembodied mind; she needed a door.
He placed his hand on the cold floor of the sanctum, directly over the silver-inlaid diagram. This was the hub of the entire system. He closed his eyes and pushed his perception downward, recalling the echo of Structure. He was not looking for a person, but for a mechanism—for tumblers, gears, and locking runes.
He found it. A complex array of conceptual locks, powered by the Heart, sealed a massive stone slab in the floor of a chamber far below. But he also found something else, something Lyra hadn't mentioned. The prison was not just one cell. It was a panopticon, a multi-celled complex. And he could feel two distinct consciousnesses within it. One was Lyra, her mind a beacon of sharp, clear thought. The other was… chaotic. A raging, incoherent storm of power and madness.
Before he could ponder this, a thought from Lyra came, not through the stone, but directly into his mind. The weakened field was allowing her to project again.
The Gardener has a failsafe. A second prisoner. A beast he starves and torments, a weapon to unleash on anyone who breaches the walls. You must be careful, clever wolf.
Kyan now faced a terrible choice. He could try to bypass the locks, a time-consuming and risky process. Or he could try to overload the damaged Heart, forcing a catastrophic failure that might blow every door in the prison wide open, releasing both Lyra and the "beast."
He chose a third, more dangerous option. He would not just open a door. He would forge a key.
He remained in the sanctum, the safest place from any prying eyes, and placed his half of the sympathetic stone on the floor. He sent a single, focused thought to Lyra.
"Tell me the nature of your chains. Not the physical locks. The concepts."
Her reply was instant and precise. A trinity of binding. The first is a rune of Stasis, preventing any physical or spiritual change. The second is an echo of Isolation, severing my connection to the outside world. The third is a chain of Weight, anchoring my very soul to the bedrock.
Stasis. Isolation. Weight. The three pillars of her prison. A normal mage would be helpless against them. But for Kyan, they were simply three locks waiting for their corresponding keys.
He sat cross-legged, the wounded Silent Heart pulsing softly nearby, and began his work. It was the most complex act of Weaving he had ever attempted.
First, he reached for the opposite of Stasis. He recalled the echo he had used against Valerius in his mind: the dynamic, ever-changing concept of Evolution. He did not manifest it. He condensed it, shaping it into a purely conceptual form, a shimmering, ethereal key of liquid silver.
Second, he sought the antithesis of Isolation. This was the core of his very being. He recalled the golden, radiant echo of Connection that he had used to save Mistwatch. He channeled its warmth and unifying power, forging a second key, this one of brilliant, solid gold.
Third, he needed a counter to Weight. He recalled the echo of Weightlessness, the memory of a floating feather, of rising smoke. He wove it with the sharp, cutting echo of Focus. The resulting concept was not just lightness, but Ascension—the active desire to rise, to break free from anchors. This key was a near-invisible thing of clear, crystalline light.
He held the three conceptual keys in his mind, a feat of mental control that left him sweating and trembling, his nose beginning to bleed from the strain. He had the keys. Now he just had to deliver them.
He focused on his half of the sympathetic stone, the simple piece of granite. It was the bridge. He pushed the three keys, one by one, through the conceptual link. The small rock on the floor beside him began to glow, first with silver light, then gold, then a clear, diamond-like brilliance.
It is done, he sent to Lyra. The keys are yours. Can you use them?
There was a pause, a moment of intense concentration on her end, and then a wave of profound, overwhelming gratitude washed over him. You have done more than give me keys, clever wolf. You have reminded me what I am. You have reminded me of the Art. Yes. I can use them.
Suddenly, a violent tremor shook the sanctum. The cracks on the Silent Heart widened, and the grey light within pulsed erratically. A deep, booming CRACK echoed from far below, the sound of a massive stone slab breaking.
The alarm runes in the sanctum flared to life, screaming a silent, psychic warning. He had not just unlocked a door. Lyra, using the conceptual energy of his keys, had blown her cell apart from the inside.
The beast is free, Lyra's voice warned, a new urgency in her tone. Its rage is all it knows. It will try to destroy everything! I will try to contain it. You must GO!
Kyan didn't hesitate. He phased through the door and sprinted down the hallway just as the entire abandoned wing began to shake. The sound of something immense, something impossibly strong, smashing through solid rock echoed up from the foundations.
He burst out into the Academy grounds and ran, not back to his room, but towards the chaos at the Athenaeum. Hiding was no longer an option. He needed witnesses. He needed allies.
He found Jax first, who was helping the Sentinels form a barricade.
"Jax!" Kyan yelled, his voice ragged. "Something else is happening! In the old wing! A prisoner escape!"
Jax's eyes widened. "What in the Forge-God's name did you do now, Kyan?"
"No time!" Kyan said. "We need to get people away!"
At that moment, the ground of the Academy buckled. A section of the manicured lawn between the dormitories and the Athenaeum collapsed inward, and a geyser of rock and shattered earth erupted into the air.
From the newly formed crater, a creature of pure rage climbed out. It was a man, or had been once. He was a giant, his body a grotesque tapestry of corded muscle and scar tissue. His eyes were gone, sealed shut under layers of scar tissue, and his mouth was locked in a silent, eternal scream. Heavy, broken chains of obsidian, still glowing with fragments of the shattered binding runes, were fused to his wrists. He was the beast. And his rage was a tangible thing, a physical wave of heat and fury that washed over the assembled crowd.
He was not a Recaller. He was a living remnant, a man whose soul had been so completely consumed by a single echo—the primal, animalistic echo of Fury—that it had transformed his physical body.
Lord Cassian, who had been preening and directing junior mages with an air of arrogant importance, was closest to the crater. He saw the beast, and for the first time in his pampered life, his face showed true fear. He instinctively traced a rune, launching a powerful bolt of sanctioned Fire at the creature.
The fireball slammed into the beast's chest. It had no effect. The creature didn't even seem to notice. It took a step forward, its head tilting as if sensing the source of the attack. Then it charged, its speed unnatural and terrifying.
"Cassian, move!" Jax roared.
But the young noble was frozen in terror.
The beast reached him in two strides. It did not use a weapon. It simply swung its massive, chain-wrapped fist. The air cracked with the force of the blow. Cassian was thrown through the air like a broken doll, slamming into the marble wall of the Athenaeum with a sickening crunch, his fine uniform stained crimson. He did not move again.
A collective scream of terror erupted from the students. The disciplined lines of the Sentinels broke as the beast turned its eyeless gaze upon them and charged again.
In the midst of the chaos, Seraphina Valerius stood her ground, her face pale but her eyes blazing with a cold, determined light. She began to trace complex runes in the air, weaving a powerful cage of pure, golden light. "Hold it! Bind it! We need to contain it!"
Kyan watched the carnage, his mind reeling. This was his fault. He had unleashed this. Lyra was trying to contain it, he could feel her subtle echoes of Calm and Order trying to soothe the beast, but its rage was too absolute.
He had to intervene.
Just as he was about to act, a figure appeared beside him as if from nowhere. It was old Master Oren, the Arch-Librarian. The drunken haze was completely gone. His eyes were sharp, clear, and filled with a grim light. He was holding not a wineskin, but a simple, gnarled staff of petrified wood.
"So the seed has sprouted thorns," Oren said, his voice a low, sober rumble. He looked at the rampaging beast. "They called him 'The Unchained.' The Throne's last resort. A living siege engine they couldn't control. Valerius kept him as a pet."
He looked at Kyan, his gaze piercing. "You have a choice, boy. Let the Imperials handle this, and they will butcher that poor soul and then lock you away for a thousand years. Or you can show them something they haven't seen since the Schism."
Oren tapped his staff on the ground. A faint, almost invisible ripple of power, an echo of Clarity so profound and ancient it made Kyan's own feel like a child's copy, washed over the panicked crowd, calming their terror, focusing their minds.
"Show them what a real Recaller can do," the old librarian whispered. "Show them why the Gods were so afraid."