Chapter 3: Embers Beneath the Ash
The lecture hall of Class 3-E buzzed with quiet chatter as students filtered in, adjusting their pristine uniforms and summoning parchment with flicks of mana. Aetherion Academy's architecture towered with silver filigree, crystal archways, and enchanted murals that shifted with the seasons. Arin sat near the back of the room—alone.
The lecture hall, a half-moon amphitheater with tiered stone seats and floating lecture glyphs, was overseen by Professor Maelin—a sharp-tongued scholar with greying green hair tied in a tight braid and eyes that shimmered like citrine under the enchantment of truth-seeing lenses. Her robe bore the Academy's sigil—a twin phoenix encircling a starburst.
Arin tried not to look out of place. His robes hung slightly loose on him, a hand-me-down from an older cousin. His boots were worn, scuffed at the soles. No sigil adorned his body. No familiar perched at his side.
As the professor launched into a history lecture on the Age of Warding, Arin tried to keep focus. But his mind drifted. The phantom pulse beneath his skin hadn't faded. If anything, it grew stronger.
"Can anyone tell me the significance of the Warding Pacts of Year 1003?"
A girl near the front raised her hand instantly. Blonde hair pinned with mana-threaded clasps, and eyes like carved sapphires. Her voice rang with clarity.
"The Warding Pacts were the first tri-nation alliance to hold against the Night Siege. It marked the origin of shield-weaving spells in continental warfare."
Professor Maelin gave a curt nod. "Excellent, Miss Thirendale."
Another student leaned over to whisper near Arin, not noticing he could hear.
"Did you hear? Someone broke the entrance trial records this year."
"Who? One of the nobles from the inner ring?"
"No—some commoner girl. Selene something. She scored above the Grandmaster threshold in spell recall and shattered the summoning crystal."
"Impossible. No one's ever done that."
Arin's attention sharpened.
Selene.
That name... it stirred something. He couldn't place it.
Another student whispered, "She's being fast-tracked for faculty mentorship. Already moved to Class 1-A."
Interesting.
Not that it mattered—yet. He had his own mission. Still, it was good to know someone else on campus wasn't playing by the script.
The rest of the lecture passed in a haze of dates and declarations. When the bell chimed, students filed out in groups, eager for lunch or dueling club.
Arin remained seated for a moment, staring at the floating glyphs slowly fading into mist.
A whisper. A page turned.
He felt it again.
The Codex.
In his dorm room that night, he lit a single mana candle and locked the door. As the room dimmed, shadows coiled around the corners. He sat cross-legged and focused.
The book appeared again.
No sound. No warning.
One moment it wasn't there—the next, it rested on the desk as if it always had.
Its cover shimmered faintly. The violet leather now bore the shape of a single rune—unfinished, fractured.
He opened it.
More pages. Still blank to the eye. But one shimmered.
Weave of Restoration: Minor.
It was simple magic. Healing scratches. Fixing broken glass. It wouldn't impress anyone here.
But it was his.
His signature curled along the margin in faint silver ink—proof he'd written this spell ages ago. Lifetimes ago.
He closed his eyes and let the spell bloom through his fingertips.
The crack in his desk mended. His candle steadied. The air warmed.
Arin exhaled.
Power returned slowly. But it returned with certainty.
The Codex had scattered across time and space. But pieces still lingered. Waiting. Watching.
He reached for the next page. Blank.
Not ready yet.
He tucked the book beneath the floorboard and laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Down the corridor, in Dormitory A, the girl they whispered about—Selene Altharys—stood in front of a council of instructors.
"Show us again."
She extended her hand. A glyph unfurled in the air like a blooming flower. Raw mana poured from her palm and crystallized into a glowing sphere. It pulsed with synchronized runes—six-layered, self-sustaining, complex.
The instructors murmured among themselves. One of them, a wizened elf, whispered, "This… isn't student-level spellwork."
Selene lowered her hand. Sweat beaded her brow. Her voice remained steady.
"I didn't copy it. I dreamed it."
That was true. And not.
Somewhere in the depth of her being, something ancient watched through her eyes.
But it remained silent.
For now.
Back in Dormitory C, Arin drifted to sleep, fingers still faintly glowing.
In his dream, a tower burned. A sky cracked open. A book wept.
And something beyond the stars whispered:
"Find the next page."