The Academy, still reeling from the recent assassination attempt on Professor Ravenclaw, had begun to heal, at least on the surface. The halls, once patrolled heavily by city guards and academy wardens, slowly returned to the rhythm of youth. The grand marble corridors, filled with echoes of whispers and rumors just days prior, now hummed with the chatter of returning students and the rustle of parchment.
Though shadows still lingered in the corners of memory, life, stubborn as it was, found a way to resume.
On this day, the bell of the Fourth Tower rang thrice—a signal for advanced magical theory. Students filed into the high-domed lecture hall, their cloaks trailing behind them, the air thick with anticipation. Despite his recent brush with death, Ravenclaw was already back, not as a noble or targe, but as a scholar, a mentor. His presence commanded silence the moment he stepped inside.
He walked with calm precision, the long black coat trimmed in silver drifting behind him like a ghost. When he reached the center of the room, he turned slowly to face them.
"Quiet down," he said, his voice cool, deliberate. A hush settled like snowfall.
"Today," Ravenclaw continued, "we are going to talk about the shape and flow of magic—not the spell itself, but what lies beneath the spell. What makes magic like?e."
He picked up a piece of chalk and drew a flowing spiral on the enchanted blackstone board behind him, the lines shimmering with residual energy.
"All magic," he said, "is a consequence of will colliding with law. The law of the world resists intrusion. It demands order. When you cast a spell, you are forcing your will through the seams of that law. Some call it an art. Some, a science. I say it is neither. It is a war between desire and reality."
He turned to the students.
"Shape determines intent. Flow determines stability. If your flow is unstable, the shape collapses—and magic, wild and untamed, bursts forth without regard to your control."
He gestured, and with a flick of his fingers, a spiral of golden light formed in the air his palm, slowly twisting into a glyph that hovered like a delicate constellation.
"Now observe," he said. "If I shift the shape—"
The glyph unraveled, its geometry warping, and a sudden gust of hot wind erupted from the space, scattering loose parchment.
"Chaos," he said simply. "Because my will wavered."
The students were riveted.
For the next hour, Ravenclaw led them through exercises in precision shaping, in visualizing the 'flow-lines' of energy between ley points. Several students struggled, but a few, like Sonya, excelled. Her glyphs were tight, beautifully constructed—yet always with a flicker of danger, like a painting drawn in gunpowder.
When the lecture finally ended, Ravenclaw dismissed the class with a curt nod. But as the students began gathering their things, he looked to Sonya.
"Miss Sonya," he said. "I'd like to speak with you in my study after this."
She paused, met his eyes, and nodded once.
Later, in Ravenclaw's study...
The chamber was dim, lit by only a single hanging lamp. Shelves lined with rare tomes climbed the walls like battlements. At the center, a desk of blackwood sat with maps, scrolls, and relics scattered across it.
Ravenclaw stood by the window, hands behind his back, staring at the rain tapping lightly on the glass.
"Please, have a seat," he said without turning.
Sonya complied, the creak of the leather chair the only sound in the room for a few seconds.
Then he spoke.
"I want you to stop extracting materials from the Abyssal Forest."
She blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
Ravenclaw turned, his gaze grave. "I mean exactly what I said. It's too dangerous for you and me."
Sonya's brows furrowed. "It's not illegal. Technically."
"No," he said. "But it is forbidden for those of us affiliated with the Academy, and more importantly, if someone is watching us, and they see you taking relics from a cursed region, it gives them ammunition. You know how political this place is. They'll twist it. Make it treason. Heresy."
She crossed her arms. "I've taken precautions. Nobody knows."
"Someone always knows," he said, voice low. "You said it yourself. Someone's trying to dismantle us. Our companies. Our reputations. All it takes is one whisper about a royal tampering with cursed magic—and I won't be able to protect you. Nor you, me."
Sonya remained silent. Her fingers tapped on the armrest, thoughts racing.
After a long pause, she finally said, "The forest holds answers. Power. I'm not extracting for greed—I'm trying to understand it."
"I believe you," Ravenclaw said softly. "But intention does not shield you from consequence."
They sat in silence for a while. Then she nodded.
"Fine. I'll stop. For now."
"Good," he said. "Because I'm certain—whoever's coming for us, they want one of us to make a mistake. Something small. Something… irreversible."
That evening…
The garden outside the Academy was kissed by twilight. Long, cobblestone paths wound between marble statues and enchanted willow trees whose leaves whispered like old voices in the wind. Lamps along the walkways flickered with bluish flame, casting eerie shadows.
Ravenclaw and Sonya walked slowly, their conversation casual, lighter than before—relics of happier times. She laughed once at something he said. He allowed himself a small smile.
Then—A scream.
High. Shrieking. Frantic.
They both froze.
Another scream—closer.
They bolted in unison toward the sound, boots pounding against wet stone.
Around a bend, in a clearing lit by moonlight, a girl stood trembling, her hands clutching her face. Several other students rushed out from the path behind her.
Ravenclaw stepped forward immediately. "What happened?"
The girl could barely speak. She pointed to a patch of grass beside a statue of the Goddess of Judgement.
"She—Jina—she was right there! We were talking about the lecture, then she just vanished into the air! Her voice cut off mid-word!"
Sonya's face paled. "Vanished?"
"Gone," the girl sobbed. "Just gone! Like something pulled her—but I didn't see anything! She didn't scream. She didn't even blink. One second she was there… the next... nothing."
Ravenclaw knelt where the girl had stood. The grass was disturbed. Slight indentations—as if something heavy had pressed down. A faint mark. A sigil. Fading.
He whispered a word, casting a minor revelation spell.
There, glimmering in the air like heat distortion, was a circle. Arcane. Old. Abyssal. Summoning.
And then, faintly, under the static trace of magical residue… a scent.
Sulfur.Ash.Rot.
Ravenclaw stood up slowly, eyes darkening.
"She didn't disappear," he said grimly. "She was taken."
Ravenclaw rose from the grass, his coat billowing slightly in the evening wind. His eyes scanned the terrified faces of the students gathered around the spot where Jina had vanished. One girl was weeping, another stared blankly at the place where her friend had stood. The sigil etched into the grass still glowed faintly beneath his spell—a glyph not seen in the Empire in over two decades.
He exhaled sharply, his voice cold and commanding as he turned to the crowd.
"Effective immediately, the Academy is under lockdown. Everyone, return to your dormitories. Do not linger. Do not stray. Guards will be posted at every hallway intersection and tower."
A few students gasped. Others protested.
"But what about—?"
"NOW!" Ravenclaw snapped, his voice rippling with magical weight.
The students scattered.
Without another word, he turned on his heel, shadows chasing his boots as he strode across the eastern courtyard, climbing the stone steps that led to the upper towers. With a flash of light and the pulse of a teleportation rune, he vanished, leaving the echoes of authority behind.
The Headmistress's Office – Tower of Argent Flame
Principal Elara's study was a chamber of ancient design—high-arched windows overlooked the cityscape, and silver-gold wards shimmered along the ceiling like stars. Books floated midair, rearranging themselves into unknown orders. On her desk sat three sealed scrolls bearing the mark of the Imperial Seal.
She turned from her window the moment Ravenclaw appeared, appearing unbothered, but her fingers tightened around her quill.
"What is it now, Ravenclaw?" she asked, dipping the pen again. "I'm halfway through a report to the Council."
"We have a problem," he said, striding forward.
She didn't look up. "Another complaint from Lord Velmont? He can go to hell with his—"
"A child disappeared," Ravenclaw interrupted.
That got her attention. She stilled mid-motion. The quill remained poised in the air, dripping ink over an unsigned line.
"Disappeared," she repeated. "As in…?"
He nodded. "As in gone. No scream. No teleport. No trace but a summoning circle. Abyssal."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're certain?"
"I traced the residue myself. It's not just forbidden—it's antique. And there was sulfur. Burnt air. The scent of rot." His voice dropped lower. "And a glyph I haven't seen since the Black Dusk Rebellion."
She stood slowly, her fingers gliding across her desk as she reached for a rune-lock drawer. With a whisper, she opened it. Inside lay a single black stone, carved with a symbol—a half-circle eclipsed by three thorns.
"The Night Hunters," Ravenclaw said.
Elara's breath hitched. "They were exterminated years ago."
"No," he said. "They went underground. We never caught the leaders. We thought the Abyssals broke them. But this… this isn't some cult child's game. Jina was taken, Elara. This is a message."
She sank into her chair.
"The demons," she said softly. "They're moving again."
Elara stood slowly, her back straightening as years of command returned to her features.
"The last time we saw a Night Hunter sigil," she said, "they were snatching mages from the outer provinces and offering them to the Abyss. We shut down twelve portals. I lost sixteen students to the void that year."
"I lost a brother," Ravenclaw said quietly.
A long silence passed. Rain began to strike the windows harder, as if the skies themselves had started to mourn.
"We need to call the High Warden," Elara finally said. "Reinforce the perimeter."
"I've already sent a raven," Ravenclaw said. "But if they've come for the Academy, we don't have days—we have hours."
She glanced at him, frowning. "Why now?"
He nodded grimly. "That's what I intend to find out."
Ravenclaw felt it—a pull. A brief shiver of presence across the weave of magical space.
"Someone is scrying," he muttered.
Elara nodded. "And not just watching—they're listening."
She raised her hand and spoke a phrase of binding. The chamber glowed blue for a moment, then fell dark again.
"We need to start an investigation tonight," she said. "But quietly. No announcements. No press."
"And if it's truly the Night Hunters," Ravenclaw said, "then Jina is already beyond the veil."
Elara looked at him, grim determination in her eyes. "Then we find a way to tear the veil open."
They had searched every inch of the Academy grounds in those two sleepless days. Every vault, every abandoned chamber, every binding rune, and every teleportation gate. They even delved into the restricted zones—sealed gardens, broken arcane elevators, and disused catacombs that once housed ancient students. Yet nothing. No trace of Jina. No further signs of a summoning glyph. Only a lingering stench in the ether. Something that felt… ancient. Watching.
Worse still, a second student had vanished. This one is from House Narel, during an exam.
They were out of time.
And Then, on the Third Dawn—They Came
The winds shifted, and the skies turned an eerie bronze. Thunder rolled not from clouds but from distant runes burning their arrival into the sky.
A sound like a thousand chains being dragged through a desert echoed across the air.
The High Wardens of Byrix had arrived.
Black ships glided across the sky—not ships made of wood or steel, but of bone and soulglass. Each bore the mark of Byrix: a flaming sword piercing a chained eye. They did not land at the city's ports. They came down in silence above the mountain ridge beyond the Academy. And from them descended twelve armored figures clad in the regalia of the Hunt.
Their leader wore a half-mask shaped like a lion's skull. His cloak was made from the skin of a Leviathan. His staff was a burnt obelisk with runes etched in molten silver. His name was High Warden Kael of the Thirteenth Circle—one of the four living Warden-Lords, whose name was invoked in both reverence and fear across continents.
Ravenclaw stood alone at the gates, awaiting the emissary.
He had changed his robe. Now he wore the formal garb of a disciple-archmage: navy trimmed in amethyst, the starburst sigil of Byrix stitched into the left shoulder. Though he had never completed the final trial—slaying a demon prince without aid—he had walked the same path. He was one of them. Just not yet ordained.
When High Warden Kael stepped through the gates, the winds ceased. Time, for a moment, stilled.
Ravenclaw bowed deeply.
"High Warden, I greet you as your brother in the Order of Byrix," he said, voice low but steady.
Kael raised his head slightly. The air around him tasted of scorched incense and divine iron.
"And I greet you, disciple-mage," he said, his voice layered with something not entirely human. "I heard you would have become one of us… had you taken the rite."
Ravenclaw rose. "I chose the path of the arcane. But the hunt is in my blood still."
"Good," Kael said. "We will need blood."
The Briefing in the Chapel of Black Glass
The Headmistress cleared the chapel and brought them in. Only five figures were allowed—Ravenclaw, Elara, Kael, and a silent Warden known only as Isari, a woman whose face never left the shadows.
The chapel glowed with spectral fire as they gathered around the table. Kael placed a demon-bone shard in the center and activated it. The room filled with the scent of sulfur and screams trapped in time. A projection flickered, showing the glyph Ravenclaw had uncovered.
Kael growled.
"This is not a summoning. This is a binding. The child was not sacrificed. She was taken—alive, marked, and bound to the Obsidian Road."
"The Obsidian Road?" Elara whispered. "I thought it was a legend."
"No," Kael said. "It is real. And it is opening again. The Night Hunters have returned to complete their rite, raise the Thorned King. A god of chains. A king of the void. Once awoken, he devours light, law, and life."
Elara blanched. Ravenclaw clenched his fist.
"You think they're doing this here?"
Kael nodded. "The Academy is built on one of the nine Veinlines of the world. Places where the leyline is deepest. They intend to use it to breach the veil."
Ravenclaw's voice was ice. "Then we cut their circle."
Kael looked at him. "You will not survive."
Ravenclaw raised his eyes, filled with fire. "We survive worse every day."
That Night – The Investigation Resumes
Kael deployed his wardens across the campus—silent guardians in black armor, walking the halls like ghosts. Meanwhile, Ravenclaw followed what little trail remained. And somewhere in the deepest archives of the Academy, beyond broken bookshelves and hidden panels, they found it:
A ritual chamber, unused for centuries, marked with dried blood and whispering walls. Candles lit themselves as they entered. A glyph activated on its own.
There, scrawled in chalk and fresh blood, were names.
Jina.
The sun had not yet risen, and already the air felt heavy with omen. A dark wind blew through the halls of the Byrixian Sanctum, where Head Mage Kael stood in his private study, overlooking the parchment sealed with seven interlocking rings—each representing a seat on the High Council of Byrix.
He held it in his hands like one might hold a blade to their own throat.
The sigils shone faintly—runes of ancient make, older than even the Academy. They hummed with invisible magic, a binding spell that could not be faked. It was genuine. Authenticated by the oldest magic left in the world.
A summons.
He broke the seal.
As he read, his jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the scroll until the parchment creaked.
Then, slowly, he whispered to the empty room:"This is suicide… for him."
Kael moved through the winding stairwells with haste but not panic. His footsteps were precise. Deliberate. He passed through arched corridors, empty now, save for flickering lanterns held aloft by chains made of voidsilver. Each door he passed closed behind him on its own. Magic obeyed him here.
He reached a chamber guarded by twin statues—robed mages whose eyes glowed white.
He placed a palm on the sealed door. The glyph lit, reading the pulse of his soul.
The stone groaned and parted.
Inside, waiting on one knee before an empty dais, was Austin Ravenclaw.
Not the professor now. Not the heir to a noble house.
But a disciple of the Order.
And one chosen.
Kael said nothing for a long moment. The firelight cast long shadows on the stone floor, like reaching hands.
Finally, he spoke.
"Rise, Disciple."
Ravenclaw rose, eyes sharp, face calm. Yet the air around him pulsed. He had felt it. The call.
Kael unrolled the scroll.
"The High Council of Byrix has watched. They have judged you fit."
He looked up, locking eyes with the young man.
"You are to undergo the Rite of Ascension."
Ravenclaw's breath caught for a moment.
Not fear. No hesitation.
But the weight of understanding.
"What is the trial?" he asked, voice low.
Kael's voice became a whisper then. A prayer. A curse.
"You are to slay the Thorned King."
The words struck the air like a bell tolling across the void.
Even the flames recoiled, flickering violently.
Ravenclaw stood still, unmoving, as if carved from stone. But something in his gaze darkened, deepened—his past life, his oaths, his blood.
"He was sealed beneath the Academy 3,000 years ago," Kael said. "Not dead. Not gone. Bound. The seal has weakened. The disappearance of that girl, Ina, was the first sign. The Thorned King stirs."
"Then why not send the Council's mages?" Ravenclaw asked.
Kael's face, for a rare moment, showed something like sadness.
"Because none of them can."
He stepped closer.
"The Rite of Ascension is more than a trial of strength. It is a rebirth. You must descend alone into the Vault of Thorns. You must face him—not as a professor, not as a noble, but as a soul bared and bleeding."
Ravenclaw was silent.
Kael continued.
"If you survive… You become the youngest Archmage in the history of Byrix. If you fail, the seal shatters. The Thorned King returns. The world… burns."
The room held its breath.
Kael placed a hand on Ravenclaw's shoulder, gripping it tightly.
"I did not recommend you for this."
Ravenclaw blinked.
Kael's voice softened.
"But I won't stop you either. The Council sees in you… Something I fear. But perhaps the world needs it."
The halls of the Academy were not made for the night.By day, marble and mana-lit crystal gave the grand corridors a noble, almost holy glow.But at night?
The light left the walls. Shadows pooled in corners like ink spilled from the world's edge. Footsteps echoed too loudly. And every creak, every shifting gust of wind, whispered like a voice just behind your shoulder.
Austin Ravenclaw moved through the southern wing with deliberate silence.
This part of the Academy had been cordoned off after Jina's disappearance. No student was permitted near it. Even faculty avoided it—except those assigned to investigate. Ravenclaw, naturally, had ignored the curfew. The lockdown didn't apply to him. Not in spirit.
He stepped around a fallen tapestry. Torn. Burned at the edges.
The courtyard beyond the cracked archway was strangely quiet. Too quiet. No birds. No frogs in the fountain. Just stillness, and the occasional breath of wind that moved nothing.
And then—He saw it.
Movement.
Far across the courtyard, under the pale moonlight, stood a hunched figure.
Ravenclaw froze behind a column.
The figure bent low, scrubbing the stone with what looked like a cloth. Again. And again. The motion was precise. Slow. Ritualistic.
The moon slid from behind the clouds, and for a moment, Ravenclaw saw his face.
Professor Veyren.
He was cleaning something. His hands were bare. His sleeves were rolled up. The stone beneath him was dark… stained.
Ravenclaw squinted.
No, not just stained.
Blood.
It had dried into the runes of the stone, soaked into the ancient etchings beneath the courtyard—markings that had long been ignored by students. Decorative, they'd said. Outdated.
But now, as Veyren scrubbed, they glimmered faintly.
Not old. Not decorative. Seals.
Ravenclaw's eyes narrowed. He pressed closer, his breath caught in his chest.
Veyren paused.His head turned—just a little. Not enough to look directly at Ravenclaw.
But enough to know he was being watched.
For a long second, neither of them moved.
Then, slowly, Veyren stood. He tossed the cloth aside. The bloodstained cloth.
And without a single word…He walked into the shadows of the garden, disappearing as though the night had swallowed him whole.
Ravenclaw returned to his dorm chamber, his gloves stained with dirt from the runes he'd brushed after Veyren vanished. The symbols were clearer now — not just magical, but ancient. Pre-Academy.
He sat by the edge of his desk, sketching them quickly into his grimoire. One of the shapes — a spiral crossing through three eyes — made his breath catch in his throat.
He'd seen it before.In his father's old vaults.On the door of the Abyssal Tomb, buried beneath their ancestral lands.
"What the hell is Veyren doing…" he whispered.
Three months.That was how long Professor Veyren had been walking the halls of the Academy.
He didn't teach often. Most students couldn't even recall the last time they saw him in class. He existed like a shadow—present, but never accounted for. No one knew what his quarters looked like. No one saw him eat in the mess hall. And whenever someone tried to talk to him, his responses were… polite, brief, and wholly unsatisfying.
It wasn't that he was rude.
He simply spoke like someone who had learned long ago not to say more than was needed. As though every word cost something.
Ravenclaw had barely taken notice of him — until now.
A knock came at the door.
He flinched.
But it wasn't a student. Nor Sonya.
It was Kael. The old warden. The only other person Ravenclaw trusted right now was.
"You saw him, didn't you?" Kael asked, stepping inside with a grim face.
Ravenclaw didn't bother asking how he knew.
"He was cleaning blood. Where Jina vanished. And I think… I think he was trying to hide the symbols underneath."
Kael's face went pale.
He pulled something from his coat.
A parchment, sealed in black wax.
"This came from the Council of Byrix. About Veyren."
Ravenclaw took it. Broke the seal.
His eyes scanned the page.
Missing from the record.Banished from three towers.Accused of grave ritual interference.Name previously sealed: VAEL-D'RYN.
Ravenclaw's heart skipped.
He looked at Kael.
"Vael-D'ryn isn't a name."
Kael nodded grimly.
"No. It's a title. 'Voice of the Rift.'
moved through it all with a kind of detached sharpness — the sort born not from royalty, but from survival. Her cloak was ash-grey, the hem dragging through muddy gutters, blending her in with the filth of the undercity.
Her maid, quiet and alert, walked beside her. She was armored under her cloak, the outline of a dagger hilt barely visible at her ribs. They spoke little — here, words could get you killed.
Near the old cistern, beneath the collapsed balcony of a ruined tannery, the maid finally broke silence.
"Princess," she said lowly. "A letter. From the Emperor."
Sonya stopped walking.
The maid handed her a tightly rolled parchment, bound with red silk and sealed with the dragon insignia of the Empire. It wasn't often Elros sent her letters directly. That alone set off quiet alarms in her mind.
She peeled the wax with her gloved thumb and read.
**"Sonya.
In seven days, you are to present yourself at the Imperial Palace in Vellkarth. Prince Mustafa of Arqaban will be arriving.I want the full family present.
You are expected to represent House Deuterich.
— Emperor Elros."**
Sonya stared at it for a long second, the wind tugging at her cloak.
"Prince Mustafa," she muttered.
The maid didn't speak. She didn't need to. Everyone had heard the stories — of how Mustafa broke a noble's jaw during a peace banquet; of how his court in Arqaban burned three scholars alive for defiling scripture; of how his arrival always meant something more than diplomacy.
"A political marriage?" the maid asked.
Sonya's face tightened. "Maybe. Or maybe Father's testing my leash."
She folded the letter and slid it inside her belt.
"He wants the family assembled. That means appearances. But Mustafa's early. His envoys are already in the capital. I need to know why he's here."
The maid nodded. "I'll activate the lower web."
Sonya turned to continue walking. "Do it quietly. No contact with the Academy. Ravenclaw has his hands full."
As they rounded the corner, a beggar with milky eyes reached out — but the maid gave him a look sharp enough to cut. He pulled back.
They vanished deeper into the alleys, where the world of kings and crowns didn't matter — only steel, secrets, and survival.
And in seven days, Sonya would walk into the palace not as a pawn — but as a weapon.