The morning sun spilled soft light across the stone corridors of Wikker, stretching shadows that flickered like lingering memories. Cigger walked slowly behind Florence and Amelia, his mind still tangled with thoughts of yesterday's ceremony. The symbol, the whispers that spread like wildfire, and Professor Witongart's gaze—not merely watchful, but knowing, as if he had recognized something deep within Cigger—a silent acknowledgment that made his heart pound.
He hadn't spoken much since the ceremony. Florence noticed, of course. She always did.
"Quiet today," Florence said, tightening the straps on her bag. "Not unusual for you, but today's quiet feels different."
Cigger shrugged. "I don't know what to say."
Amelia, walking ahead, turned with a sly grin. "Just admit you're the heir to a forbidden power that's going to destroy the school. Way more dramatic."
Florence grimaced. "Not helping."
They arrived at the Hall of Mirrors, a chamber reserved for students whose Echoing Soul readings showed instability. Professor Witongart was already waiting, his dark robe flowing like smoke, his eyes—calm, unreadable—resting on each of them.
"Cigger Orin," his voice resonated softly. "You will enter alone."
The other students stepped back. Even Amelia, usually fearless, hesitated.
Cigger swallowed hard and stepped inside. The sound vanished as soon as the door closed. The obsidian walls reflected light like a dark sea. At the center stood the Mirror of Echoes, taller than a man, its frame carved with runes that pulsed faintly.
"Closer," Witongart instructed from behind.
Cigger obeyed. At first, he saw only his reflection, but the surface rippled, distorting the image. Then, a woman appeared—standing by a lake, her hair drifting like mist, her eyes full of sorrow… eyes that mirrored his own.
"You are not broken, Cigger. You are the bridge," the woman whispered from within the glass. Her voice was soft, aching.
Cigger staggered back, breath caught in his chest. The mirror flickered, and the image vanished.
Witongart stood beside him now, hands folded behind his back. "She is your mother," he said quietly. "A Guardian of Aetherion. One of the last."
Cigger turned to him, heart hammering. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Because the world fears what it does not understand," Witongart replied evenly. "And Aetherion… has always been misunderstood."
He gestured toward the mirror. "This is not a curse. It's a calling. But it won't be easy."
Cigger stared at the obsidian wall, thoughts swirling. "Then what do I do now?"
Witongart's eyes gleamed faintly. "Learn. Listen. And when the time comes—choose."
Later that afternoon, Cigger sat beneath the whispering branches of the Garden of Whispers, a quiet grove behind the library. The wind brushed through the leaves, carrying the scent of old parchment and resin. Florence approached with an armful of heavy books, her face set in the look she wore whenever she uncovered something important.
"I found something," she said, opening a dusty volume. "Aetherion isn't just about spirits and time. It's about memory, emotion, and connection—the power to link what once was to what may come."
Cigger frowned. "That sounds… heavy."
"It is," Florence nodded. "But it's also beautiful—if you choose to see it that way."
Amelia leaped down from the garden gate with a groan. "Just failed my fire control test. Professor Thorne said I almost burned his beard off."
Florence didn't look up. "Good. The world might thank you for that."
Amelia laughed. "You're welcome, then."
They sat together in the soft quiet, letting silence fill the space between words. Finally, Cigger spoke, his voice low, almost fragile.
"I saw her in the mirror. My mother," he said. "She told me I'm the bridge."
Florence slowly closed her book. "A bridge? Between what and what?"
Cigger looked down at the grass. "I'm not sure. Between worlds and spirits? Between the past and the future? I just… feel like something's coming. Something big."
Florence met his gaze, her expression steady. "Then we face it together."
Amelia clenched her fist, her wild grin returning. "With fire, if necessary."
Cigger smiled—truly smiled—for the first time since arriving at Wikker. Not out of certainty, nor safety, but connection—a thread tying him to his new friends, and to something far greater than himself.
Deep beneath the school, in the Vault of Echoes, a dusty book stirred faintly. Sealed for centuries, it now trembled—as if something inside had taken its first breath. The book began to awaken.
Above the towers, night drew its curtain. In the stillness, whispers began to rise, and the peaceful world of Wikker started to feel the pulse of a danger long forgotten.