Brent limped to the infirmary after Combat Theory, waving off the nurse's questions and the gentle glow of a healing charm she tried to press into his ribs. "I'm good," he muttered. "Just bruised. Like, soul-deep."
She sighed and let him go.
He didn't go back to class. Instead, he ducked into the library, where the shadows were thick and the air smelled like ink and dust and secrets. He made his way to the far corner—the forgotten corner—where the shelves leaned and the lanterns flickered low. It was quiet here. Nobody bothered him here.
He dropped into his seat from earlier and pulled the small book from his bag.
Forms of Forgotten Power. Luminaris. It was thin, and looked more like it was made from very thin leather instead of paper, it was sealed but that may have been from the years of being sandwiched in the binder of the book. In fact, the pamphlet looked like it hadn't been touched in centuries. No shimmer of enchantment, no whisper of wards. Just… quiet. Heavy. Waiting.
Brent ran a finger along the edge, pausing at the strange symbol stamped into the cover. A shape like a sun with a spiral in its core, flanked by wings. He didn't recognize it from any sigil or house crest he knew.
He took a breath—and opened the small 3 page pamphlet.
The pages didn't crumble like he expected. They were soft and warm, almost alive. The ink shimmered faintly, shifting as he read.
The first page was about ancient powerwells—sources of raw magic that once pulsed beneath the world like a heartbeat. The second spoke of "the Giftedless," a caste of magicless protectors trained to navigate ley-storms and corrupted realms where no magic user could survive.
Brent frowned. None of this was in the school's curriculum.
But it was the third page that changed everything.
As he turned the page, the air in the room dropped ten degrees and the place on his hand where the gem dissolved suddenly stung like he just grabbed a flaming hit iron. The letters on the parchment twisted and the strange glow ran from his fingers into the pages, the letter rearranged, and then began to glow. Not just faintly—but bright. Lines of gold light spidered across the page, forming diagrams and a single word in a language Brent had never seen… yet somehow understood.
"Awaken."
The book breathed.
Not literally. Not with lungs. But the way the pages pulsed, the faint tremor in the table beneath his arms, the way the shadows in the corners of the room pulled away from it—it felt alive. A low hum started to build, like wind whispering through stone.
Suddenly, the spiral sigil from the cover shimmered to life on the page. Brent touched it without thinking.
The world blinked.
Light flashed—bright and blinding—and when it faded, Brent was no longer in the library.
He stood in a vast stone chamber, crumbling and covered in moss, lit by blue fire that floated in midair. The walls were carved with the same spiral symbol, over and over again, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.
"What is this place…?" he breathed.
A voice—quiet, ancient, and echoing in his mind—answered.
"The Hall of the Hidden Flame. Only the Unmarked may enter. Only the Lost may see."
Brent stumbled backward. The book was still in his hands, though it looked different now—etched with runes that glowed faintly, like they'd woken up.
And for the first time in his life, Brent Alder felt it.
Not a spark. Not a burst.
But a pull. Like something inside him had just turned to face the sun after years in the dark.
Whatever this place was, whatever this power was—it had been waiting for someone like him.
And now… it wasn't waiting anymore.