At first, no one noticed.
It happened at the change of bell. Seventh hour. When the mid-day lecture bells chimed three times and then fell silent.
Only they didn't chime at all.
The bells at Arcanum Academy were soulbound constructs. Not made of brass or iron, but memory-cast crystal. They were supposed to chime not because it was time, but because everyone believed it was.
That's why it was strange.
Not alarming. Not yet. Just odd.
Most students were too deep in their lectures or training pits to notice. But the senior staff heard it. The Tower Warden, the Vault Binder, even the head of Divination in the east wing paused mid-sentence, eyes going distant.
And Callum?
He didn't hear it either.
But he felt it.
A twinge. A misalignment. Like the world had turned its head slightly and refused to look back.
He was in the east courtyard, walking along the rune-paths between the elemental fountains, when his own shadow blinked.
Not shifted. Not stretched.
Blink. As if his body had flickered, and for a fraction of a second, the sun above him forgot how to cast it.
Callum stopped walking.
He looked up.
The sun was there. Bright. In place.
But it was… wrong.
It had no warmth.
He turned slowly and glanced at his hand. The mark of [Lie]—three curved lines, usually pale, now glowed faint gold. Warmer than the sun above.
That's when he heard it.
Not bells.
Whispers.
The whispers came from the walls. From the grass. From the very idea of a courtyard.
Not voices. Not language.
Not sound.
Just a certainty, leaking out.
The sky isn't real.
Callum shook his head.
"No," he whispered. "That's not me. I didn't say that."
But the air didn't care.
The belief had taken root.
All around him, the sun began to fade—not dim, but peel. Like a sticker being lifted off the dome of the world.
And behind it?
Nothing.
No clouds.
No stars.
No black.
Just… a hole. An unthought. A place the world hadn't imagined yet.
Students began to scream.
That's when the real alarms began.
Sirens carved from ancient windstones wailed along the towers. Instructors barked orders. Shields shimmered into being across the academy's outer wards.
Elly appeared beside him, breathless.
"You," she said, pointing. "What did you do?"
Callum backed away. "I didn't—!"
"The sky, Cal. The sky."
"I swear, El, I didn't lie about it. I didn't touch it."
She stared hard, eyes shifting briefly violet—checking his aura.
"You're not glowing," she said, stunned. "But the mark is."
He nodded. "Something's leaking."
"Leaking?" She pointed again—this time not at him, but up. "That's not a leak, that's obliteration!"
In the inner sanctum, the Archmage met with the Warden and five keymasters in a room of rotating bookshelves.
Verrin spoke first.
"Contain the fracture," he said.
The Warden frowned. "The dome isn't responding to patchwork spells."
"Then use foundational tone-locks."
"They won't hold unless someone remembers the original sky."
A silence settled.
"Then," said the Archmage grimly, "we find someone who still believes the sky exists."
Callum wasn't called into the sanctum.
He was summoned by a door.
Specifically, a door that hadn't existed five seconds earlier.
It opened behind him mid-run as he followed Elly back toward the Tower dorms. There was no corridor there—only a blank stone wall.
Until it blinked.
And a narrow, oak-framed door with no handle appeared, swung open, and pulled him through.
Elly shouted something—but he was already inside.
He found himself in a study.
Not grand. Not ancient.
Just… correct.
Books lined the walls. A fire burned in a hearth that gave off no heat but felt warm. There was a desk, and behind it sat a woman with no face.
Or rather—too many.
Her features shifted constantly. One second, a youthful professor. The next, a haggard old clerk. Then a laughing girl. Then something else.
"I've been expecting you," she said. All her voices spoke at once, like a chorus whispering.
Callum didn't answer.
"You've lied," she said.
"I always do."
"But this lie is different," she said.
"I didn't lie about the sky."
"Didn't you?" Her head tilted. "You believed something else mattered more. You forgot the sky mattered at all. The world listens, Callum. Not just to what you say. But to what you believe quietly."
He stepped back.
"I didn't mean to."
"No one ever does." Her tone softened. "Intent is the whisper. Belief is the blade."
She stood and reached across the desk.
In her hand was a map.
Not of the world.
Of the Academy.
And on it, a black circle slowly grew over the central courtyard.
"The fracture's spreading," she said. "It's unmaking what was assumed. The sky is the first layer. If it reaches the foundations…"
"What happens?"
"The Academy forgets it was ever real."
He looked at her.
"What do you need me to do?"
"You must speak a new sky."
They brought him to the spire.
The highest point of the Academy. The place where headmasters are chosen, and oaths are burned into the air with thought.
Elly was already there. Harlan too.
Both looked pale. Alert.
"This is insane," Elly whispered as Callum approached. "They want you to lie the sky back into place?"
"No," Callum said.
He looked up. At the endless tear above.
"I need to say something that ought to be true."
He raised a hand.
The mark glowed white.
The air thickened. The tear trembled.
And Callum whispered:
"The sky has always been here.
It is vast and blue and layered with clouds.
It warms the world and watches quietly.
We are beneath it because it chose to stay."
[Lie] activated.
Target: Environmental Concept — Sky
Belief Level: Unknown
Resonance: GLOBAL
Result: Pending…
Nothing happened.
Elly flinched. "It didn't take—"
Then the wind shifted.
And the sun reappeared.
Not like a light turning back on.
Like a memory returning.
The birds began to sing.
The dome faded.
And the mark on Callum's palm dimmed.
He collapsed.
Not from exhaustion. From weight.
Every cell in his body screamed.
He hadn't just bent truth. He'd shaped law.
The lie wasn't a whisper anymore.
It was a law of the world.
And the world had agreed.
He awoke twelve hours later.
In the infirmary.
Elly sat nearby, asleep in a chair. Harlan stood at the window, sharpening a toothpick with a real dagger.
Verrin was seated across from him.
The Archmage looked… not older. But smaller. Like he'd finally accepted something he hadn't wanted to know.
"You rewrote a layer," he said softly.
Callum tried to speak. Failed. Nodded.
"Not even the Founder managed that," Verrin added.
"Lucky me," Callum rasped.
Verrin stood.
"You've made your first Law. You're now a Belief-Class Caster."
Callum blinked. "That's not a real rank."
"It is now."
Verrin turned to leave.
"Be careful, Callum. The world listens to you now."
In his journal, Callum wrote one sentence.
I told a lie, and the sky came back.
He waited.
The ink glowed once.
Then faded.
This time, it didn't shimmer.
It settled.
Because the world now believed it had never left.