Rain lashed the academy windows.
The storms were unnatural—too sudden, too cold. Thunder cracked like breaking bones across the sky. In the North Tower, students whispered of omens. Crows gathered on the roof that morning and hadn't moved since.
Kael felt it in his sleep — the pulse of the mark on his palm beating with the rhythm of the storm.
He woke before dawn.
Something was wrong.
---
Outside the main gates, a carriage arrived. No sigil. No guards. Just sleek black wood polished to obsidian and a single crimson cloth hanging from the rear.
The driver said nothing as the gatekeeper asked for a name.
Instead, a single scroll was handed over — sealed with twisting gold wire, the kind used only by the temples of the inner realm.
The scroll read:
"I seek the one who bears the unsealed mark."
— Eryndor of the Crimson Path.
---
Lioren stood still as the name echoed in the chamber.
"You can't be serious," muttered the Head of Defense. "The Crimson Path? Those mad scholars who study forbidden inheritance?"
"He is no madman," Lioren said, jaw tight. "He was once a god-binder. A priest of the last sealed epoch."
"And what does he want with a first-year?"
Silence.
Lioren didn't answer.
But his eyes were already searching through memory — and fear.
---
Kael stepped into the morning chill, hood drawn over his face.
He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but when the name "unsealed mark" reached him from the Head Courtyard, his blood turned to ice.
Naya was beside him in seconds.
"What is it?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing."
But the mark under his skin pulsed again.
A lie.
He knew something was coming.
He just didn't know if it would kill him.
---
Later, in the grand library's east wing — one only the higher ranks were allowed to use — Kael wandered between shadowed shelves. He told himself he was searching for distraction, but the truth tugged deeper.
That's when he felt it.
A presence.
Not magic. Not aura.
Memory.
As if someone had pulled a memory from his soul and painted it across the room.
Kael turned sharply.
There, in the center aisle, stood a man in a red mantle, lined with silver script that shimmered like living ink. His face was thin, angular, and his eyes — one gold, one black — held a weight older than the academy's stones.
"You have it," the man said.
"I don't know what you mean," Kael lied again.
The man stepped closer, gaze never blinking.
"You bear the blood that devours the divine. It stirs now. Your ancestors fed on stars, Kael. And the gods buried them in silence."
Kael's throat tightened. "Who… are you?"
The man gave a small, sad smile.
"I am your warning."
---
Far away, in the darker parts of the continent, an ancient sealed door cracked.
Chains trembled.
And a whisper curled into the wind:
He breathes again.
Begin the hunt.
---
Kael staggered back.
But Eryndor didn't move.
"They will come now," he said softly. "The Wardens. The Hidden. Even the gods will wake, one by one. Your birth was never meant to happen."
Kael stared at him, breath shallow.
"Then why did it?"
The man paused.
Then said:
"Because the world needs to burn before it can be reborn."
He dropped a stone talisman into Kael's palm — etched with the same dragon seal as the altar — and turned to leave.
"Live long enough to choose your side, Kael."
Then he was gone.
No door creaked. No footstep echoed.
As if he had never been there at all.
---
And Kael stood alone.
Clutching a stone that should not exist.
With a truth that could unravel everything.
And above him, the storm continued to scream.