The next morning, the academy felt… wrong.
Lights flickered. Air vibrated like someone had tuned the world half a note off-key.
Even the usual cafeteria chaos was quieter — except for Mira, who was trying to eat cereal and read a spell chart at the same time.
"Why's my spoon buzzing?" she asked.
Ceal peered over her shoulder, utterly unbothered. "Because reality's having mild indigestion."
"That's comforting," Ryn said, pouring coffee like it was holy water.
Lyra rubbed her temples. Her head was still pounding from the mirror incident. Every time she blinked, she saw a flash of fire — her flame — trying to push through her control.
She could feel something stirring again.
Aiden walked in, perfectly calm as always, though the faint shimmer around his eyes told her he'd barely slept. "Veil readings spiked all night. We're sealing the relic wing."
"So Mira's research is officially banned?" Ryn said.
"Temporarily," Aiden said. "Or permanently, depending on how long I live."
Ceal smirked. "He says that like dying's an option."
"For you maybe," Aiden said. "For me, it's paperwork."
They gathered in the training hall after breakfast.
Aiden began setting up containment seals while Lyra tried to focus her energy. Mira and Ceal were supposed to monitor her pulse and aura — though Ceal's "monitoring" involved drawing symbols on the floor and offering sarcastic advice.
"Don't explode," he said.
"Thanks," Lyra replied. "Didn't think of that."
"If you do explode," Mira added cheerfully, "can I name the crater after you?"
"Absolutely not," Aiden said without looking up.
As Lyra focused, her power flared — white flame, soft but bright.
The air shifted again. This time, a faint whisper echoed around the hall — not just one voice, but many.
"Daughter of Dawn…"
"The Veil remembers…"
Lyra's heart jumped. She looked around, but only Ceal seemed amused, while Aiden went completely still.
"It's responding to her," Ceal said. "The flame's reaching across both worlds."
"Cut the flow," Aiden ordered.
"Too late," Ceal said, eyes glowing faintly. "It's already connected."
For a moment, the air shimmered — and in the faint reflection of the flame, a silhouette appeared again.
Loren.
He looked lost, standing somewhere dark, his hands covered in dust and blood, whispering to himself.
He couldn't see them, but Lyra's voice trembled as she reached out anyway.
"Loren… please remember."
The image flickered — then vanished.
When it was over, Lyra's legs gave out.
Aiden caught her, his tone softer than usual. "You're pushing too fast."
"He's out there," she said quietly. "He's calling for me. I can't just—"
"And if the Veil tears again?" he cut in. "You'll destroy both sides."
Ceal clapped his hands. "So! Conclusion: uncontrolled resonance. Solution: controlled chaos. I'll need coffee and at least two volunteers who don't value sleep."
"You," Ryn said flatly, "are not touching the Veil again."
Ceal grinned. "Oh, I'm not. She is."
He pointed at Mira, who froze mid-bite of her biscuit.
"Wait—what?!"
"You like mythology," Ceal said. "Congratulations. You're now part of one."
As the group argued, Lyra sat quietly, the echoes of Loren's voice still in her mind.
Somewhere deep down, she knew — this wasn't just about power anymore.
The Veil was thinning.
And something beyond it was watching back.