The morning came too soon.
Caelen sat up in his cot, his body sore from the climb, his mind still tangled in the remnants of his dream—the door of black stone, the rhythmic pulsing, the voice that had almost spoken his name.
The ember around his neck was still warm, a quiet throb against his chest.
Outside, bells rang through the Academy grounds, signaling the start of their first day. Caelen dressed quickly, wrapping his Academy-issued cloak tight around him. The cold in the tower seemed alive, creeping into his bones.
He studied the scroll he'd been given.
Schedule:
• Dawn: Orientation Lecture, Grand Hall
• Midmorning: Physical Conditioning, Courtyard
• Afternoon: Elemental Theory, Lower Lecture Wing
• Evening: Free Study or Remedial Practice (for 'Unsorted')
The last line burned brighter than anything else.
"Unsorted."
He stuffed the scroll into his satchel and made his way down the spiraling stone stairs.
⸻
The Grand Hall was a cathedral of light and shadow.
Stained glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling, each pane depicting a legendary mage—conjurers of firestorms, summoners of tidal waves, breakers of mountains, tamers of tempests. Their faces were serene, untouchable.
Caelen stood at the back, apart from the clusters of new students murmuring among themselves.
He caught snatches of conversation.
"…heard there's a secret House for the Unsor—"
"…no, they just kick you out after the first week…"
"…only one Unsor—last decade. He vanished."
The words buzzed around him like gnats.
At the front of the hall, the Archmagister stood upon a raised dais, her presence commanding immediate silence.
"This Academy," she said, "exists to cultivate strength. Magic is not your birthright. It is a burden, a blade. Mishandle it, and it will cut you down before your enemies have the chance."
Her eyes swept the room, and for a terrifying moment, Caelen thought they locked with his.
"You will be tested. Constantly. Fail, and you will be dismissed. Defy, and you will be destroyed."
No one dared breathe.
She stepped back, and instructors flooded forward, barking names and orders.
Caelen's group was the smallest: four Unsorted students, all looking equally lost.
Sarn appeared again, looming like a storm cloud.
"Follow."
⸻
They were led to a secondary courtyard ringed by cracked stone pillars and overgrown ivy.
Sarn paced before them like a restless wolf.
"You have no affinity," he said bluntly. "No magic sings to your blood. That either means you're weak—or you're something else."
The way he said it made Caelen's skin crawl.
"Today, we find out which."
He tossed them each a practice staff—plain wood, scarred and battered.
"First lesson: survive."
Without warning, he lashed out at the wild-haired boy.
The boy yelped and barely raised his staff in time to block the blow. Sarn moved like a striking viper, relentless, merciless.
Caelen tightened his grip on his staff.
When Sarn came for him, there was no hesitation. Caelen ducked the first strike, spun aside, felt the wind of the second whistle past his ear.
He fought without thinking.
Instinct.
Movement.
The ember pulsed faster and faster, guiding him—not with magic, but with something deeper. A sense of where the blow would land, how to shift his weight, when to strike and when to yield.
By the time Sarn stepped back, breathing heavily, Caelen was the last one still standing.
The others nursed bruises and bloody lips.
Sarn studied him with new eyes.
"Interesting."
⸻
By afternoon, Caelen's muscles screamed in protest.
Sweat dripped into his eyes.
He dragged himself to Elemental Theory, where students sat in tiered rows, yawning as a droning professor lectured about the basic nature of magic.
Caelen barely heard the words.
His mind kept drifting back to the door in his dream. The sense that something ancient was waiting for him.
He pulled out the medallion, studying it under the desk.
The ember flickered faintly.
There were markings on the edge he hadn't noticed before—tiny runes, almost invisible unless the light caught them just right.
He traced them with his fingertip.
And the world shifted.
⸻
Suddenly, he wasn't sitting in the lecture hall anymore.
He was standing in a vast, empty space—fog curling around his feet, darkness stretching in every direction.
And before him: the door.
Closer this time.
More real.
The black stone was veined with crimson lines, and the air around it pulsed with a slow, steady heartbeat.
Caelen reached out a hand, compelled.
The ember burned against his chest.
Touch it, a voice whispered.
He hesitated.
Something deep inside him—the same instinct that had guided his movements against Sarn—screamed a warning.
He pulled back.
The mist thickened, swallowing the door.
And with a gasp, Caelen snapped back into the lecture hall.
No one seemed to have noticed his absence.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, heart hammering.
The medallion was cool and inert once more.
⸻
That night, sleep evaded him.
He sat by the narrow window, staring out over the mist-shrouded mountains.
The ember lay cold against his skin now, but he could still feel the door pulsing in the back of his mind.
Waiting.
Calling.
He had to find out what it meant.
But how?
The Academy was ancient, its libraries vast. Surely somewhere within its labyrinthine corridors, he could find answers.
He clenched his fists.
Tomorrow, he would start looking.
Even if it killed him.