Rain had begun to fall over Eldros Academy—thin and steady, tapping softly against the arched windows like a heartbeat. Kael sat alone in the eastern wing of the Grand Athenaeum, a tome of forgotten glyphs open before him. The faint candlelight flickered across his eyes, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
Beneath his skin, something stirred.
A restlessness. A rhythm. A call.
He'd been feeling it all week—since the storm glyph had briefly sparked to life above his hand. It wasn't just power anymore. It was memory. Not full, not clear, but close.
And it scared him.
Not because he feared what he could do… but because he feared how natural it felt.
"Still hiding in corners and playing with ancient death-traps?" a voice said behind him.
Kael didn't look up. "Lyria. I thought you preferred the west wing's archives."
She walked around the table and sat down, crossing her arms. "I do. But you've missed two meals and three classes. The professors are starting to notice."
"I'm fine."
She eyed him, unconvinced. "No one who says 'I'm fine' while translating Vaelithian war glyphs in candlelight is actually fine."
He exhaled through his nose and finally looked at her. "I'm getting closer. I can feel it."
"To what?"
"Understanding."
Her gaze softened. "Kael, you don't have to carry whatever this is alone."
He hesitated. "What if I was never supposed to be 'Kael'? What if… that was the mistake?"
Lyria looked at him for a long moment, then leaned forward. "Whatever you were, you're also who you are now. That's not a contradiction. It's just a beginning."
Before he could respond, the door slammed open.
Annie rushed in, soaked to the bone, her usually calm face twisted in panic.
"Kael. You need to come. Now."
The courtyard outside the dorms had become a battlefield.
Not a duel. Not training.
Chaos.
Lightning surged through the air as two senior students hurled high-level spells at a barrier shimmering with violet light. Professors barked orders, trying to contain the situation, but the source of the disruption lay at the center of the chaos.
A black rift.
A tear in the fabric of the air itself, pulsing with shadowed energy and shrieking wind. And standing in front of it—unmoving, silent—was Marcus.
His eyes were open, but unseeing. His body trembling, hovering inches above the cracked stone.
"Kael!" Professor Varra's voice snapped through the noise. "Get back!"
Kael took a step forward anyway.
"What happened?" he demanded.
Annie shook her head, her voice hoarse. "We don't know. One minute we were practicing elemental focus, the next… that thing appeared. Marcus touched a glyph on a stone he found in the forest last week. And now—"
Kael didn't wait for her to finish. He pushed through the circle of energy, ignoring the static crackling against his skin.
Closer now, he saw it.
Marcus was whispering something. Repeating it.
Over and over.
"The gate turns. The eye awakens. The veil thins. The king returns…"
Kael's heart dropped.
That wasn't gibberish.
It was prophecy.
He'd written those words once.
Or… he had.
Not Kael.
Aric Vaelith.
The Archmage King.
Kael raised his hand, calling on his mana.
At first, it resisted—jittery, unstable.
Then something deep within him unlocked. A pressure in his mind cracked open, like a dam giving way.
Magic rushed into him.
Not just his. The entire area's ambient mana responded, coiling around his presence like a storm finding its eye.
Professor Varra felt it.
So did Sylas, watching from the tower.
Everyone did.
Kael stepped forward, placed his hand on Marcus's shoulder—and whispered, "Return."
The word echoed with power. Not just sound, but command.
The rift shuddered.
For a second, it resisted. Fought back.
And then it collapsed.
The wind stopped. The shadows faded. The glyph-stone shattered into dust.
Marcus crumpled, unconscious, into Kael's arms.
Silence.
Then someone whispered, "What was that?"
Kael didn't answer.
But the look in Varra's eyes told him she already suspected the truth.
That evening, the academy went into lockdown.
No students were allowed outside their dorms. The faculty held an emergency meeting in the Council Hall. Rumors spread like fire—of demons, ancient magic, and chosen bloodlines.
Kael stood by the window of his room, watching the rain fall harder now. The storm had followed him.
Lyria arrived minutes later, her cloak dripping wet.
"Marcus will recover," she said softly. "But they're scared. Even the professors."
"They should be," Kael murmured.
She closed the door behind her. "You knew those words he spoke."
He nodded. "They weren't just words. They were a trigger. A key."
"To what?"
"To a memory. A part of me I didn't even realize was locked away."
He turned to face her. "Lyria… I remember something now. Just flashes. A throne of stone, built in the heart of a storm. A war council. A betrayal."
Her breath caught. "Kael—"
"I wasn't always Kael. I was someone else. Someone… feared. Powerful. Aric Vaelith."
She stepped back slightly, eyes wide.
"The Archmage King?" she whispered. "That's a myth."
He gave a tired smile. "I was the myth."
She looked at him differently now—not with fear, but with understanding.
And something else.
Resolve.
"Then we need to figure out why you're back," she said. "And who might already know."
Far below the academy, Sylas sat in the flickering torchlight of the warded chamber.
Before her lay a map of the kingdom, its edges curling with age.
On it, glowing faintly now, was the sigil of the storm.
"It's begun," she murmured.
Professor Varra entered silently behind her. "He woke the glyph. Neutralized a rift. The entire Council felt the surge."
Sylas nodded. "It's as we feared."
"Should we restrain him?"
"No. Watch him."
Varra raised an eyebrow. "He's not a child anymore. If he is who we think—"
"He is," Sylas said coldly. "And that changes everything. The veil between realms isn't as thick as it once was. And Aric Vaelith's return may not be the only one."
A long silence passed.
Then Sylas added, "Tell the Seers. The Dreamwall may crack before winter."
Kael couldn't sleep that night.
He stood at the edge of the courtyard, the rain washing over him, soaking him to the bone.
He raised his hand.
Whispered the glyph again.
This time, it came willingly. Formed perfectly.
A symbol of storm.
And memory.
And power.
He stared at it, glowing above his palm.
"I'm not afraid of what I was," he whispered.
"But I'm terrified of what I might become."
Chapter End