The figure stepped from the shadows like ink bleeding into moonlight—tall, robed in tattered silk that moved as if underwater. Gold watched without moving, Skymoon wine still lingering on his tongue, now soured by instinctual dread.
The messenger bowed without lowering his head. No eyes. Just a mask of pale wood, carved with a spiral of thorns.
"Gold of No House," the figure said, voice layered—human and not.
Gold's hand drifted toward the dagger beneath his cloak. "You broke the seal."
"The seal was already broken," the messenger replied. "I am only what follows."
Gold narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"
"To warn. And to ask."
"Ask what?"
The messenger slowly unrolled the parchment. Written not in ink, but blood.
> "The Pactum stirs. The gods are not waking. They are remembering."
Below the words: an emblem of intertwined wings and chains. Gold knew it. From dreams. From rituals. From the memory fragments clawing their way back.
He whispered, "Who sent you?"
But the messenger only stepped back. "Beware the masked ones and the Hollow Tongue. Even within your so-called sanctum, the rot coils deep."
And with that, he vanished.
---
Morning was heralded by a slow, tolling bell—low and grim, echoing through marble halls. Gold entered the central atrium beside Irethiel. She said little, her expression unreadable.
He hadn't told her about the messenger.
Not yet.
The Academy instructors stood atop a raised dais. Each bore a distinct aura—some regal, others near monstrous.
One stepped forward. A man in crimson robes, metal rings orbiting his wrists.
"Students," he announced, voice sharp as shattered obsidian, "Welcome to the Flame Circle. Here, you will be unmade."
The students shifted uncomfortably.
"That's Professor Velmion," Irethiel whispered to Gold. "He teaches Applied Divinity. Likes to push students into breaking themselves."
Ryn, standing nearby, added, "His favorite phrase is: 'You are the vessel. I am the hammer.'"
Velmion raised his hand.
The ground shimmered. Sigils crawled across the floor like silver spiders. In a blink, the hall shifted—now a vast circular arena, obsidian and glass.
"Trial One," Velmion intoned. "Invoke. Or be invoked."
---
One by one, students were forced to reveal their power.
Ryn conjured spectral libraries—books burned midair, from which a being of ink and teeth emerged.
Yvaine held up a feather. From silence came a beast made of starlight and breathless void.
Then it was Gold's turn.
He stepped forward. Silent.
"Your pact, initiate," Velmion demanded. "Now."
Gold closed his eyes and whispered:
> "I offer nothing. Take nothing. But if you come, I will not run."
The arena stilled.
Air warped. Pressure thickened.
Something pressed against reality—a hand, not of flesh, but of memory.
The runes flared. Velmion shouted containment sigils, locking the space before the anomaly could fully emerge.
Gold opened his eyes. "That's enough."
The presence withdrew.
Velmion glared. "You walk a dangerous path, boy."
Gold stepped down without replying.
Ryn avoided his gaze. Yvaine didn't.
She smiled like she'd just found a rival.
---
That night, Irethiel led Gold to a forgotten wing of the Academy. Through a corridor masked by illusion, past broken statues and withered glyphs.
"This place is forbidden," she said. "They call it the Veiled Archive."
The walls pulsed with ambient power. Chains hung from the ceiling, unmoving. Floating books whispered in dead languages.
Gold touched a sealed tome. "This was a church once."
"Yes. Before they buried the First Pantheon."
She led him to a mural—half-faded, cracked.
A faceless man, kneeling before a throne of mirrors.
"The First Pactum," Irethiel whispered.
Gold stared. The figure on the throne… wasn't sitting. It was watching. From everywhere.
"They weren't worshipped," he muttered. "They were remembered."
She looked at him. "And what do you want?"
"To remember who I am. Before I'm gone."
Irethiel took a step closer. "Then stay near me. I'll help you anchor."
He nodded. "You may regret that."
"I won't."