The fire didn't just burn—it remembered.
As the flames consumed the journal, Rowan didn't step back. He stepped forward.
He felt it—memories that weren't his, threading through his bones like whispers through a keyhole. Battles. Betrayals. Crowns forged in blood. Hands raised in war. Hands raised in mercy.
And then… the throne.
It wasn't just a prophecy.
It was a warning.
"You're not meant to be here," a voice said behind him.
Rowan turned. A boy stood in the doorway—barefoot, pale, and wearing the robes of the Order. But his eyes weren't cruel.
They were scared.
"I saw it," the boy whispered. "I saw you end everything."
Rowan didn't speak.
"I thought you were just another lie," the boy said. "Another ghost in the fire. But you're real."
Rowan took a step closer. "Who are you?"
The boy flinched. "A Watcher."
Lyra's voice cut through the tension. "He's not here to kill you. Watchers don't fight. They observe."
The boy nodded slowly. "We were told never to interfere. But now—" he looked at the ashes of the book—"I think the war has already started again."
Rowan's heart beat like a war drum. "Then tell them something for me."
The Watcher raised his gaze.
"I'm not the boy from the prophecy," Rowan said. "I'm the one who breaks it."
The Watcher vanished before their eyes—no flash of light, no swirl of magic—just a ripple in the air, as if reality had blinked and forgotten him.
Lyra stepped beside Rowan, her silver eyes unreadable. "They'll know where you are now."
"I want them to," Rowan said.
Avery stared at him. "You want a war?"
"No," Rowan replied. "I want the truth."
They moved through the halls of Blackthorn like shadows. The school had grown colder overnight, as if reacting to what had been burned away. As if the House itself remembered.
Their path led them down a forgotten stairwell hidden behind a painting that refused to be seen unless touched by fire. At the bottom was a door unlike the others—one that pulsed with blue and black light.
Lyra pressed her hand to it. "This is the Room That Remembers."
"The what?" Avery asked.
Lyra didn't answer. The door opened with a sigh, revealing a circular chamber filled with floating glass panels. Within each panel, a memory shimmered—some beautiful, some violent.
"This place was built by the founders of the Thirteenth House," Lyra said. "A vault for memories too dangerous to destroy."
Rowan stepped forward. The glass closest to him flickered, showing a boy in dark robes—his face identical to Rowan's—kneeling before a crumbling throne.
"The Thirteenth King," Lyra whispered. "That's you… or who you were."
Before Rowan could speak, the image changed.
The king raised a wand—and the other Houses burned.
The image of the Thirteenth King didn't fade—it bled. Blue fire trickled from the edges of the glass panel, crawling like veins across the room. The floor trembled.
Rowan staggered back, breath quickening. "That's not me."
"No," Lyra said softly, "but it was."
The memories were responding to him now. Panel after panel lit up in sequence, forming a circle around Rowan. Each showed fragments: a child raised in shadows, a crown forged from broken wands, twelve Houses kneeling in forced allegiance… and then flames—always flames—swallowing everything.
"It's a warning," Lyra said. "This room isn't just memory. It's prophecy, too."
Avery looked between them. "So what now? He's some kind of cursed king doomed to burn the world?"
"No," Rowan said, eyes locked on the last panel.
It showed a throne. Not golden. Not grand. But scorched and buried beneath ash, vines growing from its ruins.
A voice echoed through the chamber, old and layered with centuries:
"The one who remembers shall rise. But memory is a crown that cuts."
Lyra stepped closer. "There's still one place left to go."
Rowan tore his gaze from the panels. "Where?"
"The ruins of the original Thirteenth House," she whispered. "Hidden beneath Blackthorn itself."
Avery's voice dropped to a hush. "You mean the place where the war ended."
"No," Lyra said. "The place where it began."
—-
The descent was silent.
Torchlight flickered as Rowan, Lyra, and Avery followed the spiral stair hidden behind the Memory Room's final panel. The air grew colder, older—like breathing in dust soaked with forgotten spells.
The tunnel opened into a massive underground cavern, walls carved with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly with blue light. Time itself felt thinner here, like something watching from the cracks between seconds.
Rowan stopped. "This place… it's alive."
Lyra nodded. "It remembers."
Avery stepped forward cautiously. "This is it? The original House?"
"No," Lyra whispered. "This is its grave."
At the center of the ruins stood a stone altar. Shattered wands were embedded into the rock like bones in a tomb. But one wand—blackened, burned, and wrapped in silver roots—remained whole.
Rowan approached it. The closer he got, the more the whispers grew.
We are still here.
We are still burning.
We are you.
His fingertips brushed the wand— and the entire cavern lit up.
Visions slammed into him: Twelve Archmages surrounding a child, voices arguing, flames breaking loose, a circle collapsing. The Thirteenth House didn't fall by accident.
It was betrayed.
The wand pulsed in his hand, and Rowan felt its truth—this was no weapon. It was a key. A seal. A memory too dangerous to be known.
Avery shielded his eyes. "Rowan!"
But Rowan stood still. The cavern began to shake as if the House itself had been waiting—for him.
Above them, Blackthorn trembled.
And somewhere far away, the Order of Twelve felt it awaken.
The moment Rowan grasped the wand, the cavern transformed.
Stone melted into memory—walls turned to smoke, air thickened with magic older than the Twelve Houses. He was no longer in the ruins beneath Blackthorn. He was standing inside a memory. A memory that was not his, but felt like it had always belonged to him.
The Thirteenth Hall stretched before him, magnificent and terrible.
Flames of blue and black hovered in silver lanterns. The ceiling shimmered like the night sky, but there were no stars—only eyes. Watching. Remembering.
Figures moved through the hall—cloaked in gray, faces blurred, each holding a wand made of different elements: bone, obsidian, twisted iron, flamewood. One among them turned to Rowan.
"You are the last flame," the figure said. "But not the final one."
Rowan opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
The figure stepped forward. "You were born from betrayal, but forged in truth. The Thirteenth House was never a mistake—it was the lock. The seal. The keeper of all magic too dangerous to belong to the Twelve."
The memory cracked like lightning.
Suddenly Rowan was back in the cavern. Lyra and Avery were staring at him, their expressions pale, terrified.
The wand was still in his hand—but it was no longer blackened.
It was silver now. Alive.
Lyra whispered, "You unlocked it."
Rowan's voice came out hoarse. "What did I unlock?"
A deep rumble answered him—not from any mouth, but from the earth itself.
"The First Flame."
The walls of the cavern split open with a roar of ancient stone. A staircase of glowing obsidian led downward into a chasm of blue fire.
Lyra grabbed his arm. "We shouldn't go further."
But Rowan was already stepping forward. "We have to."
Because whatever the Thirteenth House had locked away…
It was waking up.