Silence didn't last.
It never did.
Three days after the accord, the Academy returned to its routines with unsettling efficiency. Classes resumed. Research continued—carefully redirected, officially harmless. The Archive Below remained partitioned, quiet enough to convince most that the danger had passed.
But forgotten magic didn't vanish.
It migrated.
I felt it at dusk, sharp and wrong, like a splinter under the skin of reality.
[Passive erasure detection: Active.]
[Location: Outer Academy District — Civilian Zone.]
I stopped mid-step in the courtyard.
That's too far.
The Archive hadn't leaked that way before.
"Someone's using it," I whispered.
Not the Archive itself.
A person.
I moved without announcing myself, cloak drawn low, slipping past wards before they could register intent. The sensation guided me through narrow streets and dim alleys until I reached a half-collapsed tenement at the edge of the district.
The air there was thin.
Empty.
Wrong.
I stepped inside.
The building's interior was stripped of detail—walls smooth where cracks should be, debris erased rather than cleared. A man stood at the center of the room, hands shaking as pale distortion bled from his fingers.
A student.
Third-year, judging by the insignia half-burned into his robe.
He turned when he sensed me, eyes wild.
"I fixed it," he said desperately. "I figured it out. The Archive… it responds if you remove the noise."
Remove the noise.
Erasure.
"You don't know what you're touching," I said quietly.
He laughed—a brittle, broken sound. "They told us not to study it. That it was stable. That it was safe."
The floor beneath him rippled.
A chair near the wall vanished—not broken, not burned.
Gone.
[Unauthorized erasure event detected.]
[Civilian casualty risk: Imminent.]
I stepped closer, raising my hand.
"Stop," I said. "Release it. Now."
"I can't," he whispered. "It listens to me."
That was the problem.
The Archive had learned too well.
A scream echoed from the street outside.
Someone had wandered too close.
The distortion flared.
Time collapsed into a single, brutal decision.
Rules, I reminded myself.
No erasure on living beings.
Exception: extinction-level threat.
If this continued, the district wouldn't just lose people.
It would lose itself.
I reached inward—not for Ember of Oblivion—
—but for partition.
[Partition — Emergency invocation.]
The spell unfolded smoothly, reality bending to separate the distortion from the surrounding space.
For a heartbeat, it worked.
The student stared at his hands in confusion.
"I—I can't feel it," he said.
Relief flickered.
Then his chest pulsed.
The distortion didn't detach.
It had rooted.
Into him.
[Critical insight:]
[Host-bound erasure vector.]
He wasn't channeling it.
He was the leak.
"No," I breathed.
The distortion surged outward again, stronger, angrier.
The scream outside cut off abruptly.
Something precious snapped inside me.
"There's no other way," I whispered.
The student looked up at me, tears streaking his face.
"I don't want to disappear," he said.
I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms.
"I know."
And that was the worst part.
Partition couldn't separate what had already merged.
Memory Anchor couldn't stabilize something that consumed memory as fuel.
Containment would only delay the spread.
There was one option left.
One spell.
One line.
I raised my hand.
"Ember of Oblivion," I said softly.
The black flame ignited—small, contained, absolute.
The student gasped.
I stepped forward and touched his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You'll be remembered."
For an instant, the distortion froze.
Then the flame brushed him.
There was no scream.
No body.
No ashes.
The space where he'd stood simply… resolved.
The ripples faded.
The building reasserted itself, cracks returning, debris falling back into place like a memory snapping into focus.
[Erasure complete.]
[Threat neutralized.]
I staggered back, my head roaring.
[Memory erosion: Severe spike detected.]
Something tore loose.
A laugh.
A face.
A warmth I couldn't name.
I dropped to one knee, retching, though there was nothing to empty.
The black flame vanished.
Silence returned—heavy, accusing.
I had crossed the line.
Not because I used erasure—
But because I understood exactly what it cost.
I stood slowly, hands shaking.
My first kill.
Not in battle.
Not in rage.
But in responsibility.
As I stepped back into the street, sirens wailed in the distance. Academy responders were already on their way.
I pulled my hood low and disappeared into the crowd.
Somewhere deep within the partitioned Archive, something shifted—subtle, satisfied.
And for the first time since my rebirth, I wondered—
Not whether the world could forgive me.
But whether I ever would.