The Academy bells were tolling when Caelen made his decision.
He tucked the scrap of parchment Lys had given him into the lining of his cloak and moved swiftly, silently through the sleeping halls.
The ember burned against his chest, not hot, but urgent—like a heartbeat urging him onward.
At every turn, he expected to hear the heavy footfalls of Sarn or see cloaked enforcers waiting in the shadows. But the corridors remained eerily empty.
Almost as if the Academy itself was watching, waiting.
He slipped out through a servant's gate in the outer wall, ducking under the gnarled branches of an ancient oak. Beyond, the world opened wide: the misty foothills, the dense forests, the glittering river that wound like a silver serpent toward distant mountains.
Freedom—and danger—in every direction.
Caelen pulled up his hood and set out into the night.
⸻
The city of Caldrith lay two days' walk south, across rugged terrain.
He traveled by night, hiding by day, following animal paths and forgotten roads.
The ember served as his guide. When he strayed too far from the right path, it grew cold. When he moved closer, it warmed in quiet approval.
On the second night, as he huddled in a ruined watchtower to escape a sudden storm, he dreamed again.
The black door loomed larger than before, the crimson veins across its surface pulsing frantically.
This time, the whispering voice was clearer.
"You must choose, Caelen. Wake… or be consumed."
He jerked awake, gasping, the ember flaring against his chest.
He knew then—Veythar wasn't just a place or a power.
It was alive.
And it was growing restless.
⸻
By the time he reached Caldrith, his boots were falling apart and his cloak was little more than rags.
The city was a chaotic sprawl of crooked streets, leaning towers, and sprawling markets. The smell of smoke and salt hung heavy in the air.
Caelen moved carefully, keeping to the alleys, avoiding the patrols of grim-faced city guards.
He found the address Lys had given him carved into a half-collapsed archway.
No door. No sign.
Just a narrow stairway plunging into darkness.
He hesitated.
The ember pulsed against his chest.
Down he went.
⸻
The stairs twisted deep beneath the city, the air growing colder and thicker with each step.
Finally, he reached a heavy iron door.
He raised his hand to knock—
—and the door swung inward on silent hinges.
Inside was a cavernous room filled with ancient scrolls, flickering lanterns, and odd machines that ticked and clanked in the gloom.
At the far end, hunched over a battered table, was a man.
He was skeletal, his hair a wild white tangle, his robes patched and stained. His eyes, when he looked up, were sharp and glittering.
"You're late," the man said, voice rasping like dry leaves. "Lys said you'd come three days ago."
"I was delayed," Caelen said, heart still hammering.
The man snorted.
"They always are. Come. Sit."
Caelen crossed the room cautiously.
"My name is Maerik," the man said. "And you—"
He leaned forward, studying Caelen intently.
"—are carrying something that could end this world."
Caelen swallowed hard.
"Tell me everything," Maerik said.
And so he did.
⸻
For hours, Caelen spoke—of the Academy, the dreams, the ember, the book, the word Veythar.
Maerik listened without interrupting, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
When Caelen finished, the old man leaned back, sighing heavily.
"It's worse than I feared."
He rose and shuffled to a massive bookshelf, pulling down an ancient tome.
"This world," he said, "was built atop the bones of the old one. A world ruled not by men, but by powers—living forces of creation and destruction."
He opened the tome to an illustration.
It showed a black door, exactly like the one in Caelen's dreams.
"They were sealed away," Maerik said. "Locked behind doors forged from their own essences. Veythar is one such door."
He turned a page.
"And you," Maerik said softly, "are its key."
⸻
Caelen recoiled as if struck.
"No," he said. "I'm just… I'm nobody."
"You carry the ember," Maerik said. "Not a trinket. A fragment of Veythar itself. Only one touched by its essence can awaken the door."
"And if I do?" Caelen whispered.
Maerik's face darkened.
"Then the old powers will return. And this world will burn."
The ember was a steady throb now, its heat suffusing Caelen's entire body.
He struggled to breathe.
"So what do I do?"
Maerik's eyes were grim.
"You must master it. Control it. Or destroy it—before others find you."
Caelen thought of Sarn. Of the Academy.
They were already searching.
"And if they catch me?"
Maerik's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.
"They'll use you to open the door."
"And then?"
"And then," Maerik said, "gods and monsters will walk the earth again."