The bells of the East Veil Tower did not ring. They resonated—a ripple through stone, air, and bone alike. Lynchie felt it not in her ears, but in her sternum, in the deepest hinge of her ribs, where breath and blood debated dominion. The sound was older than metal, older than stone. It was a tone carried by the spine of the world, as if the heavens themselves had leaned close to whisper a single, harmonic truth:
The Seal has stirred.
Archmistress Caera appeared before the gathered students like the shadow of a lightning bolt—sudden, bright-eyed, and crackling with restrained ferocity. Her robes trailed golden ink that shimmered with celestial logic, the hem of her sleeves inscribed in languages that dreamt themselves into being.
"Attendance," she said, her voice a cool blade. "Is not optional today."
The students lined up beneath the Observatory Dome, each standing on their designated arc of the spiral mosaic. Even Zev, silent since his last visitation dream, stood with his head lowered, his gaze unreadable. Lynchie found herself just a few paces from Archivist Vyen, who stood by the central lectern with a tightly-bound scroll in his hands—the same scroll that had whispered to her two nights ago.
What is written, remembers. What remembers, wakes.
The memory chilled her still. It had not faded. If anything, the presence behind the phrase had grown, whispering through cracks in her sleep, flickering behind mirror-glass and still water. She had not told anyone—not even Evanthe. Something about it felt too sacred. Or too dangerous.
Caera turned, raising her hand. The scroll unbound itself mid-air, unfurling like a coiled creature stretching after long slumber. Words burned onto the page again—but these were not passive. They were active flames.
"We begin the Invocation of Nine Truths," Caera intoned. "Prepare yourselves. This is not merely recitation. The Codex responds. The Spiral listens."
One by one, the verses were read aloud. Each student spoke a single line, their voices blending like the layered keys of a sacred instrument.
Zev's line was spoken last:
"Truth is not what survives time, but what survives silence."
The Dome shuddered. A slow, grinding moan echoed from the crystal foundation, and beneath Lynchie's feet, the mosaic shimmered, revealing ancient etchings only visible under spiritual resonance.
Then, the first tear appeared. Not in the air. Not in the dome.
In a student.
Arliven, the quiet boy who never spoke, let out a strangled gasp. His eyes rolled white, and from his chest, a glowing spiral of light and ink began to unfurl, hovering an inch above his shirt. The glyph twisted, reconfigured, and then branded itself into the air with a scream that didn't belong to him. He collapsed.
The Codex had begun choosing.
Lynchie felt her stomach twist.
They had just opened something that could not be closed.
And the Ninth Truth had not yet spoken.