The bell above the door rang with a soft ding as Kaelen stepped into the library.
The scent of old parchment, ink, and candle wax wrapped around him like a familiar blanket. Dust motes drifted in the sunbeams that poured through the stained-glass windows. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, packed with everything from gardening records to obscure scrolls on regional glyph theory—not that anyone ever borrowed those.
Kaelen exhaled slowly and set his satchel down behind the desk. It was the only place in the village where he felt safe.
"Morning, boy," called Master Olric from the upper balcony, where he was already sorting scrolls with his usual clumsy hands.
Kaelen looked up. "You're early."
"Old bones don't sleep in," the man chuckled. "And neither should you. We've got inventory today."
Kaelen offered a wry smile. "Because nothing says excitement like counting copies of Rites of Grain Taxation, volume six."
He liked the old man. Olric had taken him in two years ago when the temple burned—after Kaelen had run for miles with nothing but a torn cloak and a head full of questions. The village of Greystone hadn't cared much for orphans, but Olric had seen something in him. A sharp eye. A steady hand. A hunger to read.
That had been enough.
Now, at sixteen, Kaelen was the library's only scribe, tasked with copying trade manifests, estate records, and local proclamations. Quiet work. Safe work.
He preferred it that way.
By midday, the village bustled under golden sunlight. Merchants hollered in the square. Children raced past stalls with ribbons tied to their wrists. Blacksmiths sang old war songs as they hammered steel. It was the Harvest Eve Festival—one of the few days when even the grumpiest elders cracked a smile.
Kaelen sat at his desk, writing with clean, precise strokes as he copied a ledger of grain exchanges. He paused to flex his wrist and stared out the tall arched window.
He didn't belong here.
He liked Greystone. It had peace, structure, rhythm. But something inside him itched whenever he looked at the mountains to the east—at the clouds that gathered beyond the horizon. Like he was waiting for something to change. For something to begin.
A shadow crossed the window.
Kaelen blinked.
It wasn't a cloud.
It was smoke.
The first scream came seconds later.
Then another.
And another.
The air split open with chaos.
Kaelen was halfway out of his chair when the front door of the library slammed open.
A girl—blood on her sleeve, eyes wide with terror.
"They're coming!" she cried. "Bandits—from the ridge—they've breached the gate!"
Olric shouted from the upper floor. "Lock the doors!"
But it was too late.
Men in patchwork armor spilled into the streets, shouting. Blades flashed in the sunlight. The bell tower crumbled under fire. Homes burned. The guards were already falling.
Kaelen stood frozen, clutching the edge of his desk.
Not again.
Not like the temple.
Not like before.
The memories hit him like a wave—the fire, the screaming, the Circle soldiers dragging his mother into the light.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Someone kicked in the back door.
Kaelen turned just as a bandit entered—tall, scarred, wielding a blade already wet with blood.
"Well now," the man grinned, eyes sweeping the library. "Didn't think bookworms were worth killing."
Olric stumbled down the stairs with a shaking hand raised. "This is a place of learning, not—"
The bandit drove a knife through his chest before the sentence finished.
Kaelen screamed.
The man turned to him, amused. "You want to be next, boy?"
Kaelen backed away, heart hammering. His fingers brushed the edge of the scroll he'd been copying.
A voice stirred in his head.
"Do you want to live?"
He didn't know where it came from.
But the glyph flared to life under his skin before he could answer.
A blast of silver light erupted from Kaelen's chest.
The bandit flew backward, crashing into a shelf with a sickening crunch. Scrolls rained down. Glass shattered. The floor split with spidering cracks.
Kaelen dropped to his knees, gasping.
The air buzzed.
The mark on his forearm—one he'd never noticed before—glowed like lightning. A curling sigil etched into his skin, pulsing with energy that didn't feel like it belonged in this world.
He looked at the bandit.
He wasn't breathing.
Kaelen stumbled back, horrified. The other villagers would come. They'd see what he'd done.
They'd see the mark.
The cursed mark.
Veritas.
He didn't know how he knew the word.
But it echoed in his skull like thunder.
Kaelen didn't wait.
He grabbed his satchel, a cloak from the coat rack, and bolted through the front door. Smoke rolled through the streets like waves. People screamed. A man knelt over a fallen child. The baker's shop had collapsed into flames.
He ran.
Through the alleys. Past the well. Across the field where children had danced just an hour ago.
And no matter how far he ran, the mark still burned on his arm.
A brand.
A curse.
A question.
By nightfall, the village was behind him.
The trees grew thicker. The sounds of pursuit faded. The stars blinked into place one by one.
Kaelen collapsed beneath a twisted oak, breath ragged. He peeled back his sleeve and stared at the mark again.
Not just a wound.
Not a trick of light.
A glyph.
Still glowing. Still warm.
He was no mage. No trained glyph-bearer. But something inside him had broken free—and now, it wasn't going back.
He'd killed a man.
He'd used forbidden magic.
He was cursed.
And they would come for him.
The Tower. The Circle. The hunters.
All of them.
He didn't sleep that night.
Not really.
Only drifted in and out of fevered visions—of a woman with silver eyes standing at the top of a glass tower, her hand outstretched.
Calling him.
Whispering his name like she'd known him before the world began.
By dawn, Kaelen was already walking again.
No map. No plan. No destination.
Only a truth he couldn't escape.
The mark was real.
The power was real.
And someone, somewhere, would want it silenced.
But Kaelen had survived fire before.
And he would survive it again.