The next morning arrived with no sunrise—only a thick wall of grey mist clinging to the hills, suffocating the Academy in a breathless hush. Damp crept in through the window slats and pooled in the corners of Izen's narrow cell. His blanket clung to his skin, sticky with half-dried sweat. He sat upright long before the morning bell rang, back stiff, hands wrapped around his knees.
Sleep had not been generous.
All night, his thoughts had spiraled around the image of Kaelith standing over Morlen, calm, still, eyes unreadable. He tried to convince himself she hadn't hesitated when he asked the question—that maybe that meant something. But the silence she'd offered... it weighed heavier than any answer would have.
There was something about her he couldn't see yet.
And that terrified him.
The Academy's corridors felt different that morning. Not tense, not loud—just… watchful. As though the walls themselves had begun to pay attention. Even the torches along the halls seemed to flicker less, the flames drawing inward like breath held in suspense.
Izen dressed slower than usual. His limbs moved with caution, not fatigue.
He had the distinct, creeping sense that today, something would change.
Lessons resumed after first bell, but they no longer felt like ordinary classes. Instead of physical drills or lectures, Instructor Lys led them into the Anatomy Hall, a narrow room tucked beneath the apothecary wing. The chamber smelled of iron and vinegar. The brick walls were stained and flaked with brown where old blood had dried into the pores.
A long table stretched through the center of the room, veiled in a clean white cloth.
Every student present stiffened.
They all knew what this lesson would be.
Lys stood beside the table, her uniform pressed to surgical precision. The leather apron tied over her blouse hung like a butcher's garb. She did not greet them. She simply pulled the cloth away with one smooth motion.
Underneath lay the body of a man—middle-aged, gaunt, with sunken cheeks and old scars running down his forearms. His eyes had been sewn shut. His chest was caved in. There was a symbol burned into his ribcage: the mark of a traitor.
A black spiral. Coiled and incomplete.
"This man was once an assassin," Lys said, voice cool and even. "Trained in this very Academy. He took a commission in the western provinces and disappeared two years into service. When we found him, he'd sold information to a rival house and killed his contact. He lasted three days in the interrogation wing."
She lifted a small blade from the tray beside her.
"Today, you will learn how to cut open lies."
No one spoke. No one moved.
Even the loudest students—Cassin, Brek, Wren—stood pale and rigid. Izen kept his eyes fixed on the symbol burned into the man's chest. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it. Somewhere—on a page, maybe? Or a coin? He couldn't remember.
But the moment he looked at it, something in him itched.
Not in his skin.
In time.
The dissection was quiet.
Each student was called forward to observe and repeat. Lys guided them through the layers of muscle, fat, sinew. Not with cruelty. With focus. With the kind of detachment that was somehow worse. She corrected their angles. Their grip. Their understanding of the body as both a tool and a weakness.
When it was Izen's turn, he stepped forward without flinching.
The man's skin was cold beneath the blade.
Not cold like death.
Cold like memory.
As he peeled back the first layer, Izen's breath caught in his throat.
There, beneath the clavicle, etched faintly into the bone, was the same spiral.
But this one was different. It wasn't burned. It was carved—like a ritual or a warning.
Lys noticed where he was looking.
"You've seen this symbol before," she said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
Izen didn't lie. "Yes."
"Where?"
"I don't remember."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded, as though that answer was acceptable—for now. "You will."
The lesson ended with the body wrapped and removed. No one spoke as they left. Not even Kaelith, who usually walked with her eyes on the sky, indifferent to the others. Today, her gaze lingered on the back of Lys's neck. Watching. Measuring.
Izen caught up to her as they ascended the stairs toward the east wing.
"She knew I recognized it."
Kaelith didn't look at him. "Of course she did. She knows everything."
"What does it mean?"
"I don't know," she said.
But there was hesitation.
And hesitation was a kind of confession.
That evening, the rain returned.
It fell in thin needles, whispering against the courtyard stones and dripping from the eaves above the dormitory windows. Izen sat alone at his desk, staring at the coin again. The spiral etched into its surface felt different now—less like a symbol, more like a door. Something waiting to be opened.
He remembered a moment—not from the Academy, but from years ago. A fight in the cellar. A man screaming. His mother kneeling, whispering something in a language he didn't recognize.
And the spiral drawn in chalk across the floor.
A knock at the door pulled him back.
It wasn't loud. Just two soft raps.
When he opened it, no one was there.
Only a slip of parchment folded neatly at his feet.
He picked it up and unfolded it.
No signature. No seal. Only a single line, written in clean, careful ink:
"Meet me at the Chapel. Midnight. Come alone."
The Academy's chapel wasn't used for prayer. Not anymore. The stained glass had been removed long ago, replaced by reinforced slats. The altar had been converted into a meditation space—though most students joked it was where instructors went to speak with ghosts.
Izen arrived at a quarter to midnight.
The doors were unlocked.
Inside, the darkness felt layered.
He waited near the center, between two pillars carved with old scripture. The candlelight behind the wall sconces flickered, then dimmed.
And then she stepped out.
Kaelith.
She wore a long black cloak instead of her uniform. Her boots made no sound on the marble floor. She stopped five paces away, arms folded.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
"For what I'm about to tell you."
She tossed something at his feet.
A scrollcase. Old, worn leather. Its cap sealed with wax.
Izen picked it up and turned it over.
"Where did this come from?"
"It was in the old records beneath the library. Instructor Volen keeps a duplicate archive. Hidden. I've been watching him for weeks."
"And this?" he asked, holding it up.
Kaelith's eyes darkened. "That contains the original contract for your mother's execution."
The room spun.
Not fast.
Just slow enough to feel like drowning.
Izen didn't open the scrollcase. Not yet.
"What do you mean?"
Kaelith stepped closer. "You weren't supposed to kill her. That was never your mission. That's the lie they told you to ensure your loyalty. The real contract was to extract her. To bring her back alive."
Izen's hands trembled.
"You're lying," he whispered.
"I'm not."
"She killed herself—she—she tried to run—"
"She gave you the knife," Kaelith said gently. "Didn't she?"
The silence between them said more than anything else could have.
Izen stepped back.
He couldn't breathe.
Kaelith placed a hand on his arm, gently.
"She knew what they'd done to you. She knew about your potential. About your connection to the spiral."
"What spiral?"
She hesitated again.
"It's not just a symbol. It's a map. A path through time. A kind of language... only certain bloodlines can understand it."
Izen stared at her.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to believe her.
But all he could do was stand there, broken.
"You're part of something older than the Academy," Kaelith said softly. "And they're afraid of what you'll become."
She stepped back into the shadows.
Then she was gone.
Izen stood alone in the chapel, scrollcase in hand, the spiral burning against his palm.
Somewhere beneath the layers of fog and stone and memory, the truth waited.
And it was beginning to awaken.