Midnight.
The Academy slept fitfully beneath the twin moons. Most students tossed in their beds, restless from the weight of the Trials. Others worked late into the night, chasing perfection in sigil craft.
Kael slipped through the dark like a wraith.
No lights. No cloak. Just deliberate silence and eyes sharp as razors.
The Archive Roots were ancient—deep tunnels beneath the library itself, where the oldest trees in the Academy grounds sent roots through stone, soil, and magic alike. The space had long since been abandoned—too unstable, too wild.
Or so the Circle said.
Kael trusted the Circle about as far as he could spit uphill.
He moved past the Library's western gate, past a crumbling statue of the first Sigilwright—a hooded figure with empty sockets and an open hand.
The roots began there, thick cords of wood twisted with faint, living sigils.
Kael smiled faintly. "Homey."
He descended carefully.
The deeper he went, the more the air changed—cooler, drier, tinged with the scent of earth and old bark.
Faint lights bloomed here and there—sigils of longevity, feeding the roots with ancient energy. They pulsed with a slow heartbeat.
At the base of the spiral stairs, a wide chamber opened—half-natural, half-hewn by unseen hands.
Roots hung from the ceiling like chandeliers. Moss carpeted the floor in uneven patches.
And beneath it all, a faint thrumming.
Kael paused at the threshold.
Someone else was already here.
Two figures.
One leaned against a stone pillar—tall, broad-shouldered, face shadowed beneath a hood.
The other sat cross-legged on the floor, fingers tracing invisible patterns in the moss.
Kael stepped forward without hesitation. "So. Either we've all got the same friend, or I walked into someone else's midnight club."
The seated figure looked up—a girl with sharp eyes and hair like molten silver.
"Kael Arin," she said softly. "I was curious if you'd come."
Kael tilted his head. "You know my name. Should I be flattered or worried?"
The standing figure chuckled—a deep, amused sound. He pulled back his hood.
Kael blinked.
"Coren?"
Coren nodded. "Didn't write the note, though."
The silver-haired girl stood. "Nor I."
Kael folded his arms. "So none of us called this meeting. That's... concerning."
Coren smiled faintly. "And interesting."
The three stood in silence for a moment, the roots whispering faintly above.
Kael studied the girl. Young—his age, maybe a year older. Her sigil was visible on her wrist—a complex pattern he didn't recognize.
"You've got an advantage," he said lightly. "You know me. I don't know you."
She inclined her head. "I'm Veyra. House of Ashwind."
Kael raised a brow. "Noble?"
"In name only," Veyra said with a sardonic twist of her mouth. "And about as welcome in the Apex as a snake at a wedding."
Coren glanced between them. "We're wasting time. Whoever called this meeting isn't here yet."
"Or they are," Kael said softly, eyes scanning the room.
That's when he noticed it.
A single sigil, etched into the center of the floor.
Old. Faint. Almost erased by time.
But not quite.
He knelt, brushing aside moss.
The sigil was circular—seven interlocking lines around a hollow core.
Kael's pulse quickened.
It was a fragment of the same pattern he'd seen in the Vault's great wall.
"One spark may yet ignite the end."
He touched it lightly.
A voice whispered—not in sound, but in thought.
"Seek the root beneath the root. The hunger comes."
Kael recoiled, eyes wide.
Coren knelt beside him. "You heard it too?"
Kael met his gaze. "Yeah."
Veyra's voice was steady. "I heard nothing."
Before they could speak further, a fourth figure stepped from the shadows.
Tall. Lean. Robes marked with a sigil of the Circle, but subtly altered—slightly off-pattern.
Kael tensed. Coren's hand hovered near his belt. Veyra stood poised.
The figure raised empty hands. "Peace. I called you here."
Kael's voice was dry. "Bit late for introductions, don't you think?"
The figure removed their hood.
An older man—gray hair, lined face, eyes like cold iron.
"I am called Maeren. Once of the Circle. Now… a Watcher of a different sort."
Veyra's eyes narrowed. "You're a heretic."
Maeren smiled faintly. "A seeker of truth. You are here because you seek it too."
Kael crossed his arms. "You planted the note?"
"Yes."
Coren scowled. "Why?"
Maeren's gaze swept across them. "Because the Circle lies. Because the Trials are a veil. Because the sigils we wear bind us to a fate not of our choosing."
He looked directly at Kael.
"And because one of you is close to waking what sleeps beneath us all."
Silence.
Then Kael laughed softly. "You really know how to pitch a good horror story."
Maeren's expression didn't change. "You've felt it already. The hunger. The shift in your sigil's flow."
Kael's smirk faded.
Coren spoke quietly. "What is it?"
Maeren exhaled. "The Origin's last seal. The sigils were crafted to contain a force older than memory. But the craft was imperfect. The more we push the limits of our sigils, the more we strain the seal."
Veyra's voice was hard. "And what happens when it breaks?"
Maeren's eyes darkened. "We become its vessels. Its weapons."
Kael's mouth was dry. "That's why the Circle watches us."
Maeren nodded. "They seek to control the inevitable. Or delay it. But they cannot stop it."
The roots above pulsed once—deep and slow.
Maeren straightened. "I will teach you. If you wish to understand. If you wish to resist."
Coren's voice was cold. "And what price will you ask?"
"No price," Maeren said softly. "Only your will. Your mind. And the courage to face truths the Circle would burn to hide."
Veyra studied him. "How do we know you're not leading us into the dark?"
"You don't," Maeren said simply. "But ask yourselves this—why do your sigils call to you now? Why do they change?"
Kael looked down at his wrist.
The sigil there flickered—not with raw power, but with layered depth. Patterns within patterns.
Like it was growing.
Or evolving.
Kael met Maeren's gaze.
"I'm in."
Veyra sighed. "Foolish or brave. Maybe both. But I won't walk blind anymore."
Coren hesitated. Then: "If I can protect others from what I saw before… I'll walk this path."
Maeren smiled faintly. "Good. Then our true lessons begin."
As they prepared to leave, Maeren spoke one last time.
"Be wary in the days to come. The Circle moves. And there are others—far older than they—who watch through different eyes."
Kael tilted his head. "Cryptic much?"
Maeren smiled. "You'll understand soon enough."
And with that, he vanished into the shadows.
Later, alone in his room, Kael sat on his bed, wrist glowing faintly.
"Seek the root beneath the root."
"The hunger comes."
He should have been afraid.
Instead, Kael smiled—a thin, dangerous smile.
"Let it come."
"I'm ready to learn."