The mark on Callum's palm didn't vanish when he woke.
It pulsed once every few seconds, slow and deliberate, as if reminding him: I'm still here.
It didn't hurt. But it itched in the same way a secret did.
He sat on the edge of his bed for half an hour before moving, half-expecting someone from the academy staff to kick down his door and demand an explanation. But nothing happened. No alarms. No dream police. Not even a message from Elly, which was more suspicious than reassuring.
It had been less than a day since the Hall of Shapes. Since the voice behind the mask offered him the shard of Veritas. Since he accepted.
And yet the world hadn't changed.
Not visibly.
But Callum had. Somewhere beneath the layers of worry and thought and fractured memory, something had solidified. The same way heat hardens glass into something that can cut.
Class that day was on comparative combat theory.
Their instructor, Master Argen, looked like he'd walked straight off a battlefield and hadn't noticed. He had the gait of a swordsman and the patience of a man who'd long since stopped caring if students survived.
"Today," he said, slamming a box onto the dueling mat, "we're doing reactive sequence drills."
A collective groan spread through the class.
Except for Callum.
Because Argen's version of "drills" wasn't normal.
The box opened with a hiss, revealing twelve orbs the size of melons, each floating just above the surface and glowing a dull yellow.
"Each orb responds to a different type of threat," Argen said. "If you attack, it counters. If you defend, it adapts. If you run…" He paused. "It marks you as prey."
One by one, students stepped forward. Some were skilled enough to dodge the orb's retaliation. One girl with storm magic even managed to destroy hers before it adapted.
Then it was Callum's turn.
He stepped onto the mat. The orb floated toward him like it recognized him.
"Begin," Argen said.
The orb pulsed. Waiting.
Callum didn't move.
The others had all rushed in, or flared mana, or shouted an incantation. That was the test—trigger a reaction and survive it.
But Callum didn't fight like them.
He fought with implication.
So he whispered, "You're already broken."
[Lie] activated.
Target: Adaptive Orb
Belief Level: Moderate
Effect: Initial disarray in logic sequence
Duration: 2.5 seconds
The orb wobbled.
Just enough.
Callum stepped in and tapped it once with the dull edge of his practice blade.
The orb shut down.
The whole room went quiet.
Argen stared at him.
Then walked over and crouched by the orb, running his hand along its surface.
He didn't say anything for a long time.
Finally, he stood. "What was that?"
Callum shrugged. "A bluff."
Argen squinted at him. "You're not supposed to bluff something that doesn't understand speech."
Callum gave the smallest of smiles. "I lied to the concept. Not the machine."
Another silence.
Then Argen barked a laugh. "Well. That's terrifying."
He motioned Callum back to the benches. "Remind me to never spar you without a mind-shield."
Later, in the library, Callum found Elly waiting for him.
She sat upside-down on one of the old stone banisters, legs swinging lazily.
"You've been quiet," she said.
"You've been quiet longer," he replied.
She grinned. "Harlan says you've been poking around the deep stacks."
"I'm always poking around."
"Not with truthsteel burns on your hand."
Callum froze.
"You knew?"
She flipped down beside him. "I felt it. You accepted a shard. Veritas, maybe. Or something worse."
Callum said nothing.
"Look," she said, voice lower now, less teasing, "I'm not going to stop you. That's not what we do in 9-Z. But…"
"But?"
"…the last person who tried to wield truth before they understood it? They unmade a town."
Callum blinked. "Unmade?"
"As in, it was believed out of existence. Nobody remembers its name. Or where it stood. Just a hole in maps and a legal ban on going near it."
Callum swallowed.
Elly touched his arm. "Just be careful what you let yourself believe."
That night, he tried not to dream.
But truth has a way of opening doors where walls should be.
He saw a library that didn't exist. A place buried beneath the earth, where the shelves bled ink and whispered in dead languages.
He saw a boy—himself, maybe—standing before a council of robed figures, each with their mouths sewn shut.
And he saw a blade of words, floating in the air, its hilt made of silence.
When he reached for it, he woke up sweating.
And the mark on his palm had deepened.
By morning, three students had dropped from the academy.
No explanations.
Just empty rooms and sealed reports.
Callum overheard two senior instructors whispering about "spatial fractures" and "perception slippage." One of them said the word Echo-Lie. The other went pale.
He didn't ask.
He already knew.
It was starting.
In his journal—the one written with memory-dye—he added two more sentences.
Veritas was not forged. It was said into being.
It can only cut what the world thinks is whole.
The ink shimmered faintly after he wrote it.
As if nodding.
As if listening.
Later that day, while walking through the west hall, he heard the voice again.
Osric's.
Soft. In his head. Not quite memory. Not quite hallucination.
There will come a time when you lie so well, the world forgets what was true. And if you're not careful… so will you.
Callum paused mid-step.
He wasn't alone.
Ahead, a familiar figure waited in the corridor.
Mask of obsidian. Robes of gray.
The one from the Hall of Shapes.
The voice was still genderless. Still layered with calm.
"You've progressed," it said.
"I didn't ask for that," Callum replied.
"Progress doesn't wait for permission."
A pause.
"You've shaped your first echo."
Callum nodded once. "The orb."
"That was a whisper. A shadow of what's possible."
Callum crossed his arms. "Then show me what is possible."
The figure cocked its head. "Are you ready to break something that matters?"
Callum met its gaze. "Yes."
The mask tilted upward, slightly. "Very well."
The corridor darkened.
Walls bent.
And the two of them vanished.
They appeared in a plain white chamber.
No doors. No exits. Just an endless floor and an old man seated in a chair.
The man looked up slowly. His eyes were empty.
Not blind. Not dead. Just hollowed.
"Who is that?" Callum asked.
"A memory," said the figure. "One of the Academy's first casualties."
"What happened to him?"
"He believed a lie someone else told. One they didn't mean to become real."
Callum stepped closer.
The man didn't react.
"He's stuck?"
"He is the lie now."
Callum looked at the man. Then at the figure. "Why bring me here?"
"To warn you. Power isn't in the lie. It's in what believes it. You are not just lying to people anymore, Callum. You're lying to belief systems. To rules. To truths."
The figure stepped beside him.
"When the Academy first studied concept magic, it was said that the strongest could break gravity by whispering that the ground was optional."
Callum stared.
"Did it work?"
"For three minutes."
"What happened after?"
"The mountain they were standing on forgot how to hold itself up."
Callum's heart raced.
The figure turned.
"Your next lie must be intentional. It must be true, if only for a second. And it must be necessary."
Then the figure was gone.
And Callum stood alone with the memory of the man who had believed too much.
He returned to his dorm with shaking hands.
His journal sat waiting.
He uncapped the ink.
Wrote:
Not every lie needs to be believed by others. Some are weapons when I believe them alone.
Then paused.
And added:
Today, I believe I am invincible.
The moment the sentence dried, he felt it.
A shift.
The floor beneath him welcomed his step. His skin felt heavier. Not tired. Anchored.
He looked in the mirror.
Same eyes.
But sharper now.
Not glowing. Not cracked.
Just… sure.
He didn't know how long the feeling would last.
But for now, it was enough.
He was real.
He was dangerous.
And the lie that once trembled on his tongue now sat quietly in his throat, patient.
Waiting to become law.