Chapter 6 – The House That Shouldn’t Exist
Lira waited until after second bell to move.
The academy dimmed at night, its enchanted wards shifting into low-thrum watch mode. Students were locked to their assigned towers, and the library gates sealed themselves with layered magic. But Lira had learned quickly that spells didn't behave the same way around her anymore.
Especially not since Line Twelve.
She pulled her hood low and skirted the edge of the courtyard, careful to stay beneath the shadow cast by the west tower. Her fingertips brushed the hem of her cloak, and her Mark pulsed in silent rhythm beneath her collarbone.
Not hunting. Not hiding. Just calling.
Because something was down there.
And it wanted her to find it.
The restricted wing of the archive tower had no door.
Only a stone arch wrapped in old runes, long faded and half-buried beneath layers of updated spellcode. It wasn't used anymore. Not officially. But Lira had passed it three times since the Rite, and each time, the air had shifted when she stepped too close—like the magic remembered her, even if the school pretended not to.
Now, she placed her hand flat against the stone.
The Mark responded instantly.
The old runes lit up—gold, sharp, angry.
And the wall opened.
Not with sound.
With surrender.
The staircase behind the arch spiraled down into silence.
There were no torches. No lanterns. No illusion-light. Just cold air and the faint taste of dust and memory. Lira walked slowly, one hand tracing the curve of the stone wall, the other resting against her chest to mute the pulsing of the bond.
As she descended, she saw markings etched into the walls.
Old sigils.
Older than the current Houses.
She paused in front of one.
It wasn't just a rune.
It was a name.
Half-burned.
But still visible.
Aeren.
Her heart skipped.
She had heard that name before.
In the dream.
In the mirror.
On his lips.
"Her name was Aeren. And I killed her."
The Headmaster's voice echoed in her mind.
Lira shivered and pressed on.
At the base of the stairs, she found a door.
Wood. Reinforced. Bound in metal that didn't shine—it drank light. No handle. No keyhole.
Just a single line carved into the center:
"What is forgotten lives in silence."
Lira touched the mark.
It burned bright.
The door melted inward.
The chamber beyond was small. Round. Covered in ash.
Ash.
Not dust.
As if something had burned here long ago and the walls had never recovered. Shelves stood in disarray, some empty, some half-collapsed under the weight of forgotten tomes. A broken crest glowed faintly on the far wall.
It wasn't one she recognized.
Seven lines.
Seven houses?
Or something else?
She stepped closer.
And saw a small object lying on the floor beneath it.
A ring.
Black.
Etched with a gold line that shimmered faintly.
The moment her fingers brushed it, the entire chamber shifted.
The air turned electric.
Not violently—more like breath held tight.
Lira staggered back as the broken crest on the wall flared. Lines of light raced outward, criss-crossing the floor, connecting to unseen glyphs embedded beneath the ash.
One by one, they activated.
And then—
A book rose from the center of the room.
No pedestal.
No magic hands.
It simply lifted, slow and steady, bound in dark leather with a seal Lira had never seen.
The seal looked like the Mark.
But older.
Sharper.
Angrier.
And underneath it, one word.
Burned into the cover.
Eryndra.
She opened it.
Pages fell like memories.
They weren't stories.
They were instructions.
Lines.
Not spells, but commands.
When the Mark reaches twelve, the bearer becomes the bridge.
The bond is not only between two—it is the resurrection of the House that fell.
The Seventh lives only through memory. And memory lives through them.
Lira's hands trembled.
This wasn't just about her.
Or Kael.
It wasn't just about power.
It was about rebuilding something that had been erased.
Something that had tried to rise once before—and failed.
She flipped to the back of the book.
The final page was blank.
Until the ink began to write itself.
Two have carried the fire.
One remembered.
One forgot.
The cycle breaks with the next name.
Then:
Your name, bearer?
Lira froze.
The Mark flared.
And her lips moved before her mind could stop them.
"Eryndra Vale."
The room went still.
And the crest on the wall—
Healed.
Aboveground, Kael woke in a cold sweat.
The bond screamed against his spine, rattling through his chest like thunder through glass. He stumbled from bed, one hand clutching the edge of the desk to steady himself. His vision flickered—not with pain, but with memory.
He saw Lira.
But she wasn't Lira.
She stood in a burning chamber, fire crawling up the walls, hands raised in a shield spell too fragile to last. Across from her, Kael's ancestor—Calren's brother—stood with a blade in hand.
And Kael felt the fear.
Not hers.
His.
Not as Kael.
As someone else.
As if the memory weren't history.
But a seed.
Inside him.
He dressed without thinking, pulling his jacket on over bare skin, boots shoved on half-tied. He had to find her. He didn't know where, didn't know how, but the bond would guide him.
It always did.
Lira stood in the chamber, eyes wide, chest tight.
The crest on the wall pulsed.
The ring in her hand flared.
And the air behind her shifted.
Kael stepped through the arch a moment later.
He froze when he saw her.
And the seal.
And the name.
"You found it," he said.
She turned slowly, still caught in the rush of what she'd read, still holding the book like it might vanish if she let go.
"It wasn't just a House," she whispered.
Kael walked toward her.
"It was a plan," she said. "They marked their descendants. Hid their bloodlines. Waited for a bond strong enough to hold all of them."
Kael looked at the crest.
Then at her.
"You're not just a girl with a mark."
She shook her head.
"I'm a door."
He reached for her hand.
Held it.
Steady.
And for once, the bond didn't flare.
It breathed.
Calm.
Anchored.
Together.
They left the chamber slowly, sealing it behind them.
The Mark on both of them still glowed—but now it pulsed in sync with something deeper.
Something that wasn't waiting anymore.
Something coming.