The rain came hard and cold that night, hammering against the stained-glass windows of Varenhold Academy. Most students had retreated to their dorms, lights dimmed, fireplaces crackling with false comfort.
But Ardan moved through the corridors like a ghost. Hood drawn, boots silent on stone, steps timed to the rhythm of the patrolling sentinels.
He reached the stairwell leading to the restricted wing and paused. The wards shimmered faintly across the archway — interlocking lines of pale blue runes woven through the air. The sigil matrix was a hybrid construct — modern runic stabilization layered over something older, something that didn't belong to the academy's current era.
That was what drew him here.
The Balance Sigil in his wrist pulsed faintly, resonating with the runes. It wasn't curiosity driving him. It was recognition.
He wasn't alone.
"You're late," Cael murmured from the shadows, stepping forward with a lantern hooded to half-light. His academy cloak was gone; he wore dark leathers marked with faint traces of alchemical dust — clearly prepared for more than a stroll.
"I had to reroute the patrol in the south hall," Ardan said. "You're welcome."
Cael smirked. "Efficient. I like that."
"Don't," Ardan said flatly. "We're not partners."
"Not yet."
Their eyes met — two predators circling the same carcass, both aware that cooperation was a temporary truce.
Cael crouched, examining the runic pattern. "Outer barrier's keyed to faculty signatures. Inner lattice runs on blood attunement — that's old magic. What's your plan?"
Ardan reached into his sleeve, drawing a small vial of shimmering liquid. "Mana distortion gel. Short-term interference, thirty seconds before the ward recalibrates."
"Enough?"
"If you don't hesitate."
Cael chuckled. "I never do."
They worked in silence. The gel hissed when it touched the glowing lattice, runes flickering like fireflies caught in a storm. Ardan counted under his breath. At five, the light fractured; at eight, it broke.
They slipped through.
The air below the stairwell changed immediately.
Cold. Dense. Ancient.
The Vaults weren't part of the academy blueprints — they predated the building itself. The walls were older stone, carved with sigils that no scholar in this age could translate. Some glowed faintly; others bled shadow instead of light.
Mana hummed like a heartbeat.
Cael lowered his lantern, revealing rows of forgotten doors — dozens of them, leading deeper into the dark. "Looks like we found the academy's skeleton."
"Keep your voice down," Ardan muttered. "Sound carries here."
Cael smirked. "You sound like you've done this before."
Ardan didn't answer. He had. In his last life, years from now, this place would be rediscovered during the Siege of Varenhold — when the empire collapsed, and half the academy sank into the earth.
He'd been here as a general then. Now, he was here as a ghost retracing his own future.
They advanced. The first chamber they entered was filled with broken constructs — old golems and shattered crystal matrices. The air smelled of ozone and dust.
Cael knelt beside one fragment, brushing away grime. "This isn't imperial make."
"No," Ardan said. "It's pre-imperial. Pre-sigil."
Cael frowned. "Impossible. The sigil system is the foundation of mana civilization."
Ardan's voice was quiet. "Then this place shouldn't exist."
He touched one of the fragments. A faint surge of energy rippled through his arm — the Balance Sigil in his wrist reacted instantly, glowing silver. The old runes responded.
Cael stepped back sharply. "What the hell was that?"
Ardan's eyes narrowed. "The past remembering itself."
He knelt, tracing the runes now visible through the dust. The language was ancient — curved, almost serpentine. But one phrase repeated over and over:
Equilibrium is death. Imbalance births creation.
The Balance Sigil pulsed harder.
He stood abruptly. "We need to go deeper."
Cael raised an eyebrow. "You sound like a man chasing a curse."
"Maybe I am."
The second vault door was sealed by a black iron circle inlaid with quartz shards. Ardan recognized it — containment lock, sevenfold resonance. The kind used to trap entities, not objects.
He drew a small knife, sliced his palm, and pressed his blood to the central shard. The rune flared — rejecting him.
"Denied," Cael said dryly. "Guess it doesn't like your charm."
Ardan scowled, wiping the blood away. "It's keyed to emotional resonance. It needs intent."
"Intent?"
"Will. Desire. The thing that defines your existence."
Cael smirked. "You first, then."
Ardan stared at the seal. His intent was clear enough — power, knowledge, retribution. The sigil beneath his skin thrummed like it understood. He pressed his hand to the rune again, this time letting the emotion bleed through.
The shard glowed silver. The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Cold air rushed out — dry, sterile, tinged with the faint metallic scent of mana decay. The chamber beyond was vast and circular, lined with statues — twelve of them, each depicting a figure holding a different symbol: sword, scale, crown, heart, flame…
At the center of the room lay a pedestal of obsidian, and on it — a crystal sphere half-filled with what looked like ash.
Cael approached slowly. "What is it?"
Ardan didn't answer immediately. He knew. He'd seen something like it before — centuries from now, when the Empire tried to weaponize the remnants of divine sigils.
This wasn't a relic. It was a core.
A piece of a god.
He whispered, "A Fragment of Origin."
Cael glanced sharply at him. "You can't be serious. Those are myths."
"So was regression," Ardan murmured.
The Balance Sigil flared again, violently this time — silver light crawling up his arm like veins of lightning.
The crystal sphere answered. It pulsed once, twice, then cracked.
Mana screamed through the chamber, wild and raw. Statues shuddered, ancient inscriptions igniting. Cael swore, drawing his blade as the ground trembled.
"Ardan, what did you—"
The air split open.
A voice poured through the fracture — distorted, genderless, layered like a thousand echoes.
"You return again, false heir."
Ardan froze. His breath caught. "You… remember me?"
"All who bear the Balance are chained to return."
Cael looked between them, alarm rising. "Ardan—who the hell is talking?"
The voice ignored him.
"The world loops to correct its sin. But each time you rise, it rots further."
Ardan's jaw clenched. "Then tell me how to end it."
"End? Balance does not end. It devours."
The crystal shattered completely.
A shockwave threw them both backward — Cael slammed against a pillar, coughing blood. Ardan hit the ground hard, vision spinning. The silver glow under his skin was almost blinding now, crawling up his throat, his face.
He gasped — and for a heartbeat, saw two worlds overlaid: the academy now, and the ruins it would become. Fire. Corpses. The echo of his own death, looping, endless.
Then it was gone.
When he came to, the vault was silent. The fragment had vanished. The statues were cracked, their eyes dim.
Cael staggered to his feet, blood on his sleeve. "What in the gods' names was that?"
Ardan didn't answer right away. He stared at his hands. The silver veins had faded — mostly. But his reflection in the broken shard beside him was not entirely his own.
For just a moment, the man staring back was older. Harder. The version of him who'd died at thirty-six.
"Ardan," Cael snapped. "Talk."
He forced his voice steady. "We triggered something. Not a trap. A memory."
"Of what?"
"Of the world."
Cael gave a humorless laugh. "You're insane."
"Maybe." He turned toward the tunnel. "But you'll want to be insane too, soon enough."
They made their way back through the dark, the silence between them heavier than before. Neither spoke of what the voice had said.
But as they emerged into the rain-washed courtyard, the air above the academy shimmered faintly — a new constellation forming in the wards, unknown to any mage alive.
Twelve sigils.
One missing.
The Balance.