The fires had gone out, but Thale still smelled of ash and sorrow.
The wounded were gathered in the southern infirmary, and the dead had begun to be counted. Over fifty mages lost. Entire guilds reduced to ashes. Mira stood at the front lines of recovery, her face as unreadable as stone, her coat singed, her voice hoarse but unwavering.
Amine had not slept since the battle.
He couldn't.
Not after seeing the way Riven fought—with no hesitation, no fear. He didn't just wield power; he embodied it. And worse, he believed his cause was righteous.
Amine didn't understand the full scope of it yet, but he knew one thing: Riven was more than a threat. He was a harbinger.
A beginning.
Or an end.
That morning, Amine found himself drawn to the ruins beneath the old arcane library—once sealed, now collapsed by dragon fire. Most of the upper levels were destroyed, but a hidden stairway had cracked open beneath the rubble.
He descended carefully, Thanor's spirit trailing him in shadow.
The stairs led into what looked like an ancient vault: stone walls laced with silver runes, long-dead torches lining the halls. At the very end was a pedestal, still intact.
Upon it: a single book.
It was bound in red leather, etched with a symbol Amine didn't recognize—a circle broken by a slash of lightning and a dragon's claw. As he approached, the book opened on its own, its pages fluttering like wings.
A whisper echoed in his mind:
Do you seek the truth?
Amine froze.
"Yes," he whispered.
The pages stopped.
And what he saw made his blood run cold.
Fragmented Notes from the Grimoire of Lirael, First Flamebound Archmage (circa 102 A.D.W.)
There were no Mages until the dragons came.
They were not born of humanity's strength… but from our wounds.
The first mages were survivors of the First Consumption—those who witnessed dragonfire and lived. The fire changed them. It did not kill them. It made them different.
Arcana is not a gift. It is a curse granted by contact with the alien core of draconic life—what they call "A'Rethyx."
We do not wield magic. We are infected by it.
Amine stared, unable to breathe.
The words twisted everything he thought he knew. If this was true, then mages weren't born lucky. They were contaminated. The power he used—the very force he'd clung to—was a mutation.
But why him? Why now? Why after death?
He turned the page.
More writing—this time a prophecy.
And in the cycle's end shall walk the Brokenborn—
A soul torn from two deaths.
One forged in flame.
One birthed of blood.
When the sky opens, he shall choose: extinction or transcendence.
Amine's hands trembled.
The "soul torn from two deaths." Could that mean him? Reborn after suicide into a world of dragons, now tied to this ancient force? And what of the other part—"birthed of blood"?
Riven?
Were they… both part of the same prophecy?
A cold wind swept through the vault, and the pages flipped again, landing on a final passage written in a different hand—more recent, sloppier.
If you read this… you are one of the last.
The mages are not prepared.
The Sky Wound is not a scar—it is a doorway.
And something waits on the other side.
Amine slammed the book shut, heart pounding.
He climbed the steps, emerging into the sunlit ruins, eyes searching for Mira.
He found her outside the southern wall, standing beside a row of freshly dug graves.
When she saw his face, she knew something had changed.
"I need to show you something," he said, holding up the book. "It's not just about dragons anymore."
Mira took it, scanned a few lines, and went pale.
"This symbol…" she whispered, pointing to the cover. "I've seen it before. At the border of the Sky Wound. Carved into obsidian monoliths that hum with life."
She looked at him slowly.
"You're part of something ancient, Amine. Something this world has been trying to forget."
That night, he didn't sleep again.
Thanor appeared beside his bed, not summoned, just there. Watching. Waiting.
"They're coming," Amine whispered. "From beyond the wound."
Thanor nodded once, his flames low and steady.
"We're not ready," Amine said.
But inside, something else burned—a quiet certainty.
"We'll become ready."