The sky had always carried a scar.
Not everyone could see it.
Lyra Vael could.
When she was a child, while others pointed at drifting clouds or argued about incoming rain, she would stare at a single, unmoving line stretching across the firmament—a faint fracture, thin as a hairline crack in glass.
At first, she thought it was imagination.
Then she realized it never disappeared.
By day, it dissolved into blue.
But at night—when the stars aligned at certain angles—the fracture shimmered faintly, like something trying to remember how to break.
And tonight, as the carriage rolled toward Vhaldrith Academy, the scar looked wider than she had ever seen it.
"Stop staring at the sky," her father muttered without looking at her.
Lyra lowered her gaze.
He could not see it.
No one in her family ever could.
That had always made her feel… misplaced.
The carriage crossed the final stone bridge.
Vhaldrith rose before them.
It did not resemble a school.
It resembled a cathedral built to contain something too vast to bury.
Gothic spires pierced the night, narrow windows glowing faint blue. The main structure stood at the edge of a cliff, its foundations swallowed by mist thick enough to hide whatever lay beneath.
Lyra felt a shiver crawl up her spine.
This was where the Fracture had been strongest.
This was where the Threshold had thinned.
This was where Echoes answered.
The carriage stopped.
Her father stepped down first and offered his hand. She accepted it out of habit.
"Remember what I told you," he said quietly. "Do not stand out. Learn. Survive."
Survive.
Not excel.
Not shine.
Survive.
She nodded.
Other aspirants gathered near the grand entrance. Some wore embroidered cloaks bearing family sigils. Others stood with rehearsed confidence, already certain which House would claim them.
Nervousness thickened the air.
And beneath it—
Resonance.
Lyra felt it humming under the stone, a subtle vibration threading through her bones.
The great doors opened.
No ceremony.
No welcoming speech.
Only a tall figure in dark robes whose voice carried without effort.
"Aspirants. Cross the threshold and leave behind your lesser names. Tonight, something will choose you… or refuse you."
Several swallowed hard.
Lyra stepped forward.
The moment she crossed into the hall, pressure built behind her ears, like descending beneath deep water.
The interior was far larger than the exterior suggested. Floating chandeliers cast cold light over a circular platform of black stone. Seven towering pillars stood at its center, each etched with intricate sigils.
The Seven Houses.
Noxveil.
Pyrelyn.
Thalmyr.
Virex.
Astren.
Gravem.
Aetheris.
She knew them all.
She also knew Aetheris was the House no one wanted.
Unstable Echoes.
Incomplete bonds.
Students who did not last.
The aspirants were called one by one.
The first placed his palm upon a pillar. Scarlet flame coiled around his arm.
Pyrelyn.
Muted applause followed.
Another touched a different pillar. Liquid shadow slid across her shoulders.
Noxveil.
Light flared.
Air rippled.
Stone trembled.
Each Echo manifested differently, but all carried weight.
When Lyra's name echoed through the chamber, the murmur softened.
"Lyra Vael."
She stepped forward.
Her pulse was steady.
Not heavy.
Not light.
Inevitable.
She placed her hand against the cold black stone.
For a heartbeat—
Nothing happened.
A whisper of confusion spread through the hall.
Perhaps she was not Resonant.
Perhaps a mistake had been made.
Then the cold arrived.
Not from the stone.
From above.
Lyra lifted her gaze.
The fracture.
She could see it through the ceiling as if the structure were transparent.
The scar in the sky widened.
Something descended.
Not physically.
But undeniably.
It did not burn.
It did not glow.
It silenced.
The chandeliers flickered out.
Sound collapsed into absence.
The stone beneath her palm trembled.
A crack formed at its center.
One of the robed Masters stepped forward sharply.
"Remove her—"
Too late.
The crack spread—not only across the pillar, but through the air itself.
Lyra saw them.
Fractures, thin and branching, slicing through space like invisible veins.
And within them—
Something watched.
It had no shape.
No face.
No body.
But it possessed awareness.
A whisper brushed her thoughts.
Not words.
Intention.
The pillar shattered.
Fragments of black stone scattered across the floor. A shockwave rippled outward, knocking several aspirants back.
Lyra staggered but did not fall.
A thin black line traced itself along her wrist—like a fracture etched into skin.
The lights flickered back to life.
Silence lingered, heavier than before.
A Master descended the steps slowly, studying the destroyed pedestal.
Then Lyra.
"What did you do?"
Her throat felt dry.
"Nothing," she answered softly.
But it was not true.
She had made contact.
Not with an Echo.
With something older.
The Masters exchanged tense glances.
"It does not correspond to any House," one murmured.
"The resonance was… unclassified," another added.
Lyra felt different.
Not stronger.
Not empowered.
Aware.
The fractures remained visible to her, faint but persistent.
And the whisper returned.
Clearer this time.
Fragment.
It did not come from the hall.
It came from within.
After a long, measured silence, the leading Master spoke.
"Provisional assignment. House Aetheris."
A ripple of unease passed through the aspirants.
Aetheris.
The House of unstable fragments.
Lyra did not react.
Her attention remained on the space above.
The fracture in the sky was wider now.
And for a single, fleeting instant—
The sky answered back.
A distant cracking sound rolled across the night.
Some aspirants glanced upward in confusion.
They saw nothing.
Lyra did.
The scar had grown.
And something beyond it had taken notice.
"Escort her," the Master ordered.
Two attendants approached carefully, as if she might detonate.
Lyra allowed herself to be guided away.
She did not resist.
But the whisper settled deeper into her mind, no longer distant.
Not hostile.
Not gentle.
Incomplete.
Hungry for shape.
As the great doors closed behind her, the Academy trembled almost imperceptibly.
High in the Observatory Tower, glass splintered with a thin, silent crack.
Far below, within the sealed crypts beneath Vhaldrith, something ancient stirred for the first time in three centuries.
The Threshold had remained quiet since the Fracture.
Until tonight.
Lyra touched the thin black line along her wrist.
It was warm.
For the first time in her life, the sky did not merely seem broken.
It seemed—
Attentive.