Ch 27Thalacyans
Logan drummed his fingers on the desk, trying to look relaxed, but the rest of his body betrayed him. His leg bobbed under the table, his shoulder was tense, his ears attuned to every sound in the room.
The smell of old paper, ink, and chalk mixed with the metallic, subtle aroma of concentrated mana: the History of Magic classroom always seemed charged, as if the stone itself held memories.
It was the class he had anticipated most since arriving at Aldaria Academy: History of Magic with Professor Nyrel. The tall windows let in the cold late-afternoon light, which fractured into colored reflections on the stained glass representing the Six Arcane Beasts.
From his seat, Logan could see the panel of Fenrir, partially covered by a curtain of dust, as if even here that figure was too uncomfortable a secret to be displayed all the time.
The professor slowly arranged scrolls, memory crystals, and a floating globe. In the background, the magic board already bore the title: "Thalacyans – The Submerged Civilization and the Leviathan"
Logan felt a shiver run up the back of his neck. He had heard fragmented stories about the Thalacyans in Sky Reaper—loose notes in forbidden books, whispers among scholars who preferred to change the subject when the Leviathan's name came up. But never a whole class, never with details.
"You're going to bore a hole in the desk," Blake murmured beside him, nudging him lightly with his elbow. "Relax a little."
Logan took a deep breath, stopped drumming his fingers, and tried to smile. It's hard to relax when the professor promised to 'reveal truths most kingdoms prefer to bury, he replied in a low voice. "That's never a good sign."
On the other side, Kassia watched the two with a half-smile, chin resting on her hands. Her blond hair, tied in a high ponytail, swayed slightly with every movement of her head.
"You two complain too much," she whispered.
Logan was about to respond, but the sharp sound of Nyrel's iron staff striking the stone floor cut through the whispers like a blade. The room fell silent.
"Very well, today we shall speak of a people the world insists on turning into legend so it can sleep in peace." He made a gesture, and the floating globe above the desk began to spin, revealing continents Logan vaguely recognized, but in different proportions—wider seas, altered coastlines.
"Thalacyans," Nyrel continued. "A civilization that flourished in the oceans over two millennia ago. To most, they are nothing but myth. To those who have studied enough… they are a reminder of how magic can redefine the concept of the impossible."
Logan noticed the professor didn't say "they were," but "they are" in a strange way, like someone refusing to accept that something so grand could simply disappear.
Nyrel touched the globe with the tip of his staff. Bluish mana spread across the surface, forming a translucent layer that then retracted, revealing submerged structures: entire cities of curved towers, spiral bridges, crystal domes reflecting the non-existent light of the deep sea. Some students shifted in their chairs, fascinated.
"The Thalacyans didn't 'live near the sea'," Nyrel explained. "They were of the sea. They are believed to be a hybrid lineage between humans and a vanished race of aquatic spirits. They breathed underwater, manipulated pressure and currents as easily as one breathes and walks."
He waved his hand through the air, and the salty smell of the ocean filled the room for a brief instant, accompanied by a cold, damp wind that raised the hair on Logan's arms.
"Their cities were built directly in oceanic trenches. While other kingdoms struggled to tame rivers and banks, they already dominated what exists below any horizon."
He lifted an ancient scroll, protected by a layer of mana. "This is one of the few remaining records from a human ambassador who visited Thalacya. He describes 'avenues of living coral that grow and bend to open paths for guests,' 'temples where the walls are solid water, dancing in runic patterns,' and 'abyssal libraries, where every shell is a sealed grimoire'."
Awed murmurs ran through the room.
"Professor," a girl in the front row raised her hand. "Did they use mana like us? Or was it something… different?"
Nyrel tilted his head slightly, as if appreciating the question.
"Excellent question, Miss Valen." He set down the scroll, clasping his hands. "The base is the same: mana. But the way they shaped it was unique. While most schools of magic rely on formulas, seals, and circles, the Thalacyans developed what we call Pressure Magic."
With a gesture, he conjured a sphere of water suspended in the air above the desk. Gradually, the sphere began to shrink, the droplets compressing until they were so dense that light barely passed through.
"They controlled density, pressure, and flow. For them, water was simultaneously blade, shield, path, and home. A single specialized Thalacyan could transform a calm tide into a wall capable of lifting an entire ship out of the water… or crushing an army in seconds."
The liquid sphere contracted until it became a bright point, then exploded into a fine mist that fell over the students as icy droplets. Kassia shuddered.
"That's terrifyingly effective," she murmured.
Nyrel smiled sideways. "And that was just the basics. The greatest Thalacyan mages developed what they called Tide Songs—spells chanted in long harmonic sequences, capable of altering entire currents or calming storms. To them, the weather was a musical score."
A boy at the back raised his hand, expression suspicious. "If they were so advanced, Professor… how did they disappear? And why don't we have allies from them today? Did no one survive?"
A heavy silence fell over the room for a few moments. Logan noticed how Nyrel's jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
"We will get there, Mister Draven," the professor replied with rigid calm. "First, we must speak of the Leviathan."
A chill ran down Logan's spine at the name. The image of the statue in the Temple of Altharion emerged sharply in his mind. Nyrel turned to the board and drew, with a few strokes, the shape of a colossal serpentine creature, covered in blade-like plates.
"Most children's books paint the Leviathan as a 'sea monster' that eats ships and swallows storms. That is a dangerous simplification."
His voice lowered, gaining a gravity that made everyone lean forward a little. "The Leviathan is an Ancestral Arcane Beast, just like Ignis, the Dragon, Fenrir, and the others you know from the temples. But while Fenrir rules inevitable chaos and the breaking of cycles, the Leviathan represents Depth, Memory, and Time. Everything thrown into the depths and forgotten on the surface… it keeps."
"For centuries, Thalacyans and the Leviathan coexisted in a tense equilibrium. They venerated the Beast as Guardian of the Trenches, Lord of the Abyss. They built temples near its routes, offered tributes, respected forbidden paths. In exchange, the Leviathan kept the depths stable, contained. Earthquakes were rare; tides, predictable."
Logan frowned. That sounded less like a relationship of blind worship and more like a deal.
"So what went wrong?" he asked, unable to stop himself.
Nyrel shifted his eyes to him, pupils fixing on him for a second longer than comfortable. "Ambition," he replied. "And a miscalculation that echoes to this day."
He tapped his staff lightly on the floor. On the maritime globe, red runes began to appear at certain points in the ocean.
"At some point, the Thalacyan mage-architects decided it was a waste to allow so much raw mana to lie dormant in the trenches and deep currents. They began developing extraction rituals on a large scale. 'Gentle,' at first. Like someone taking a cup of water from the sea." He paused. "But mana is not just fuel. It is structure. You meddle too much where you do not understand, and the very fabric of reality protests."
Kassia raised her hand.
"Did they try to… extract mana from the Leviathan? Or just from the environment?"
Nyrel inclined his head, approving the perspicacity.
"They started with the environment. But to comprehend the mana currents of the deep, the greatest Thalacyan sages 'anchored' part of their consciousness in them. It was inevitable that they would… touch the Leviathan." The word "touch" sounded more like "wound."
"And the Leviathan… woke up?" she ventured.
"Not exactly," Nyrel replied. "It woke up hurt."
The professor stepped away from the desk, walking slowly in a circle, as if reliving every scene.
"Imagine an ancient mind, made to observe millennia in silence, suddenly pierced by needles of impatient curiosity. Mages probing memories that were not theirs, trying to rip patterns from something that has existed since the beginning of time. The Leviathan didn't 'decide' to attack them. It reacted. Like the ocean reacts to a cut: with a tsunami."
The room lights flickered. Logan noticed the shadows on the walls seemed to lengthen, accompanying the narrative.
"Entire currents reversed direction in a matter of hours. Underwater cliffs collapsed. Cities that had remained stable for centuries were compressed like eggshells under the pressure. In some places, reports speak of columns of water ascending to the surface, dragging entire temples with them."
A student in the middle row raised his hand, pale.
"Did they… have any chance to defend themselves?"
Nyrel looked at him with something Logan couldn't tell if it was pity or respect.
"The Thalacyans were one of the very few civilizations that came close to facing an Ancestral Arcane Beast on a territorial scale. They responded fast. Reversed channels, raised shields, made the sea itself push cities to shallower zones. They fought with everything they had."
He took a deep breath, eyes wandering to some distant point beyond the walls. "But how do you fight something that is, in itself, the concept of 'depth'? The Leviathan didn't need to 'appear' physically everywhere. It only had to make a single complete turn around the oceanic crust."
Nyrel traced a circle in the air with his hand, and the globe reproduced the movement. The luminous outline narrowed until it became a thin line cutting through the seas. "Where it passed, the sea rose. And the cities fell."
Absolute silence. "And so they were extinct?" the same girl from the front asked, voice lower.
"Officially, yes. In less than three days, Thalacya ceased to exist as a power. Its greatest cities were crushed, becoming graveyards of voids. The few survivors who reached the shores of surface kingdoms… were murdered, by humans and magical creatures afraid the Leviathan would turn against them for helping a Thalacyan."
"And unofficially?"
"Unofficially," he said, "there are signs of Thalacyan resistance surviving, sealed in the remotest trenches. Perhaps some migrated to another continent on the surface, yet adjacent to water. The fact is: no one who returned from a recent abyssal expedition brought back consistent proof."
Blake swallowed hard.
"Professor," he raised his hand, voice a bit hoarse. "You speak of this as if… you saw it up close." Some students laughed, but Logan didn't. He had noticed it too.
Nyrel rested his gaze on Blake, then on Logan, then on the whole class. "History is not just something 'someone wrote'," he replied. "Many who study the past do so from a distance. Others… prefer to descend into the ruins, touch the walls, breathe the ancient air. I include myself in the second group." The way he said "descend" made Logan's heart race.
"You went to a Thalacyan city?" Marcus asked, leaning forward. "Even with the Leviathan still alive?"
"Yes." His eyes shone. "And I do not recommend even the smallest of fools repeat the experience."
He left the sentence hanging for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and resumed his professorial tone.
"There is another important point here. Many kingdoms, upon hearing of Thalacya's fall, celebrated. They considered them 'arrogant,' 'excessive,' 'playing gods with the sea.' Instead of learning from the mistake, they preferred to point fingers."
Logan thought of Sky Reaper, of Kael, of the Arcane Hunters. How people reacted to anything that smelled of an Arcane Beast with fear or greed.
Nyrel continued: "Today, official history usually summarizes it all as: 'They provoked the Leviathan and were destroyed.' It is more comfortable to believe the fault lay entirely with a specific people." He shrugged. "The truth is more uncomfortable: any civilization that tries to extract from an Arcane Beast something beyond what was offered… is digging its own grave." The last words echoed in the room like a personal warning.
A hand rose timidly on the side.
"Professor, if the Leviathan keeps memories and forgotten things…" the student cleared his throat. "Does that mean it also keeps… secrets of other Beasts? Of Fenrir, for example?"
Logan's heart raced. Unintentionally, the shadow aura around him became a bit denser, shadows on the floor seemingly elongating slightly toward his desk before receding. Nyrel noticed. Logan realized he noticed. But the professor just rested his staff on the floor, thoughtful.
"Theoretically, yes," he replied. "The Leviathan swims between planes, not just under continents. It is said there are scars of other Beasts marked on the inner skin of the abysses… memories of battles so ancient no book managed to record them. Some believe that if someone managed to converse with the Leviathan without hurting it, they could learn truths too great for any mind to bear."
"And has that ever happened?" Marcus insisted. "Has anyone ever tried talking to it instead of attacking it or ripping power from it?"
Nyrel hesitated. His eyes were lost, for an instant, beyond the walls, as if returning to a dark sky over a turbulent sea, to a colossal glow coming from the depths.
"There were attempts," he said at last, voice lower. "Most ended in silence or madness. But…" a corner of his mouth lifted slightly "…there are records of an ancient pact, made not in the name of a kingdom, but in the name of a single lineage. This pact involved not just the Leviathan, but all Ancestral Arcane Beasts. An agreement to limit how much each would intervene directly in the mortal world."
"And who made this pact?" Logan asked, not realizing his voice had come out a bit hoarse.
Nyrel stared at him for a second too long. "That, Mister Black, is a story for another class." He straightened his posture and tapped his staff on the floor. "We are almost out of time. Two more questions." Hands shot up immediately.
***
"That is enough for today," the professor said, collecting the scrolls efficiently. "Read chapters sixteen and seventeen for next week. And reflect"—he stared at the class, one by one—"on the cost of ripping answers from what was made to remain in silence."
Students began to stand, chairs scraping, murmurs rising. Blake stretched, letting out a theatrical groan. "There it is," he commented, putting away his notebook. "Another light and tranquil class to fuel our nightmares."
Kassia laughed. "At least now I know I'm never getting on a boat in my life."
Logan forced a smile, but his mind was still spinning. "You guys go ahead," he said, picking up his backpack with movements too slow to sound natural. "I'll meet you in the courtyard."
"Going to ask about something?" she whispered. "Fenrir? Thalacyans? Or how not to go crazy sleeping in a world where kingdom-sized monsters can literally roll over?"
"Something like that," Logan replied, laughing.
Kassia squeezed Logan's arm lightly. "If he makes you sick with more traumatic visions, call me. I'll throw a bucket of water on his head," she joked, but there was genuine concern in her golden eyes.
"I'll be fine," Logan assured her. "Go."
They left, merging into the flow of students in the corridor. The room emptied quickly, leaving only the remnant of magical sea breeze and a strange silence.
***
Logan remained seated for a few seconds, watching Nyrel put the last crystal into a padded box. The professor seemed oblivious to his presence, but Logan knew he wasn't.
He took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the desk. When he was a few steps away, Nyrel spoke without turning: "So, Mister Black…" the voice sounded almost distracted "…what did you think of the grimoire?"
Logan froze. For a second, everything he had heard about Thalacyans, Leviathan, and ancient pacts disappeared. All that remained was the sound of his own racing heart and the sensation of the shadow grimoire's cold cover weighing imaginarily in his backpack—even though the book was safely stashed in his room, sealed.
"H-how…?" He swallowed hard.
"How do you know I used it?" Nyrel finally turned. His eyes analyzed him with clinical calm. "The shadows around you are denser," he explained, as if talking about the weather. "Heavier. Your mana exudes the shadow element continuously, not just when you cast spells. And"—he pointed discreetly—"notice the edge of your own reflection."
Logan followed the gesture to the window glass beside him. For an instant, he saw only his silhouette. Then, he noticed: the outline of the shadows on him was darker, as if a second layer of darkness accompanied him.
"This isn't common in shadow users," Nyrel concluded, returning his gaze to him. "It is typical of someone who is becoming one with the element."
Logan felt his mouth go dry. "But my mother uses shadows," he argued, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "And there are others here at school with affinity for this element. Why would it be a problem?"
Nyrel rested both hands on the table top, leaning forward slightly. "Because there is a stark difference between controlling an element… and being one with the element."
He made a simple gesture with his hand. A small sphere of shadow appeared on his palm, swirling like liquid smoke. Then, the skin of his hand darkened gradually, as if the flesh itself were becoming solid shadow, until the fingers looked made of light's absence.
"See," he said. "This is control."
The sphere unraveled and reappeared, shaped into a blade, a chain, a rune.
"And this"—the darkness receded from the skin, revealing normal flesh and veins—"is when the element manifests outside the body, obeying a command." He closed his hand; the shadow extinguished completely.
"Now, being one with the element is different. It is not a spell, it is a state. The body ceases to be merely a channel and becomes a living extension of the primordial force itself. It's not just 'using shadows'; it is existing as a shadow that thinks."
Nyrel raised his gaze to the Fenrir stained glass high on the wall. "Dragons are the most obvious example of this," he continued. "They don't 'cast fire spells' every time they exhale flames. Fire is part of their blood, their organs, their scales. It grows with them. You don't see runes glowing around a dragon's mouth when it spits a sea of flames, do you?" Logan shook his head, fascinated despite the nervousness.
"For a common mage, fire is the result of an equation: gesture, focus, mana, output. For a dragon, fire is… breathing. It doesn't need to think to produce it. It just stops containing it." Nyrel fixed his gaze on Logan again. "The same goes for those touched by Arcane Beasts. The line between 'me' and 'my element' becomes very thin. To trained eyes, this is as evident as day and night."
Logan remembered how many times in recent days he had caught his own shadow moving a moment after him, as if needing extra fractions of a second to catch up. He remembered how the corners of his room seemed darker when he was irritated or afraid. He remembered the night training where the entire floor seemed to yield under a sea of gloom without him consciously conjuring anything.
"So… that means anyone experienced… can look at me and see this?" he murmured. "
Anyone who knows what to look for, yes," Nyrel confirmed. "To most, you will be 'just another student with shadow affinity.' But to trained hunters, priests of ancient temples, certain generals… and some very specific enemies…"—he paused significantly—"…the difference leaps out."
"Enemies like…" Logan swallowed hard, feeling the name weigh on his tongue. "Arcane Hunters?"
The professor didn't answer immediately. He simply rested his hand on Logan's shoulder with a surprisingly human gesture. "You are the prince of Sky Reaper," he said, in a low tone. "From children clueless about the magical world to leaders who would like to see your family destroyed… everyone watches you. Some, out of fear. Others… out of expectation."
The name Logan tried to avoid emerged on its own in his mind: Kael. The cold face and insane blue eyes hovering over the obsidian altar. The smell of blood. The pain of the forced awakening. A shiver went up his spine. His hands began to sweat cold. The floor seemed to move away for an instant, taking a step back.
Nyrel squeezed his shoulder a little. "You are here," he said, in a tone that allowed no contest. "Not in the cave, not in the past. Here. Breathe."
Logan drew in air; smelled chalk, old wood, a faint trace of enchanted sea breeze. The distant sound of student voices in the hall anchored him back. Gradually, the room came back into focus.
"The grimoire," the professor resumed, releasing him. "I gave it to you so you could protect yourself away from your father's eyes… and away from Sky Reaper's excessive protection."
"Did you manage to read it?"
"In parts," Logan replied. "Some pages seem to… react to my mana. Others stay blank, as if waiting for something."
"Natural," Nyrel nodded. "Living grimoires open as the attunement between the bearer and the bound entity increases. And, in your case, the entity in question is not exactly docile."
"Fenrir," Logan said, almost in a whisper. The name seemed to vibrate inside his chest.
"Exactly. Only those linked to Ancestral Arcane Beasts or elevated Elemental Spirits manage to truly be one with the element. Hybrids, Lyrians, vampires, draconians… many have alternate forms, but still use the element as a tool. Very few personify it."
Logan frowned. "But… there are many hybrids here at school, aren't there? And Lyrians too. How can they differentiate me from them?"
Nyrel brought a mana inkwell closer and, with a gesture, made the black liquid float in the air, taking shapes.
"A Lyrian, for example," he began, "is a stable hybrid between human and wolf. They possess three distinct forms: human, lupine, and hybrid." The liquid molded in sequence: first a simplified human, then a wolf, then a bipedal figure with snout, claws, and tail.
"The human form is almost indistinguishable from a common human, save for details like eyes, more attentive ears, slightly elevated strength and senses. The hybrid form is the middle ground: denser bones, reinforced muscles, claws, fangs, partial fur. And the wolf form is the full expression of the animal side, but still… contained." The three images rotated slowly.
"A Lyrian's mana pattern, however, is constant," he explained. "In any form, the flow remains organized: two cores in harmony—the human and the lupine—rotating in a stable spiral. That is why, even when they assume the hybrid form, the energy around them vibrates predictably. It is like looking at a well-contained bonfire: intense, but delimited." Nyrel made the liquid undo itself.
"Now, in someone connected to an Arcane Beast… it isn't like that. The core is not double, it is superimposed. Human mana and ancestral mana do not orbit one another; they compress in the same space. At rest, this creates a kind of calm… strangely tense. But under stress…" He left the sentence hanging, staring at Logan significantly. "…it all explodes at once," Logan completed, voice low.
Nyrel gave a slight nod. "Exactly. And that is what trained eyes feel when they look at you for too long. Like being at the edge of a cliff without seeing the bottom. Even those who don't know why, instinctively… recoil."
Logan rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable. "So the problem isn't me being a hybrid."
"No," Nyrel confirmed. "Hybrids are common. There are students here with dragon blood, phoenix blood, shadow elf blood. What draws attention to you is how the shadow behaves. It doesn't just follow you. It adjusts to the environment to keep you covered, even when you don't want it to. And, sometimes, it responds to threats you haven't even consciously perceived."
He pointed discreetly to the corner where the late afternoon light no longer hit. "Just now, for example. Your shadows moved half a step closer when I mentioned your enemies. It wasn't you who sent them… it was Fenrir reacting inside you."
Logan looked at the floor. The patches of shadow seemed a bit denser around his feet.
"I… understand." He wasn't sure if he understood everything, but he comprehended enough to know he needed to be more careful. "I'll be more careful with the grimoire. And with… what I let slip out."
Nyrel nodded. "Good." He straightened in his chair. "But know this: the problem isn't being a hybrid. Nor having an affinity for shadows. There are many here like that. The problem is not having control over your natural form—the hybrid one—and over the connection with the Ancestral. As long as that remains unstable, anyone with minimal sensitivity will feel… that there is something 'wrong' around you."
Logan clenched his fists. "How can they differentiate me from a Lyrian, then, if I stay in human form?" he insisted. "If I train not to let the shadow escape, I mean."
Nyrel made a slight gesture with his chin. "Most… won't differentiate. They'll just think you are darker, literally. But those who count—priests, hunters, some disguised Minor Beasts…—they don't look just at the outside. They feel patterns. And yours, Mister Black, is anything but discreet." He rested his chin on his interlaced fingers. "Still, do not panic. There are ways to disguise your signature, to build 'layers' over it. Some, you have already begun to tread with the Ancestral Qilin, I imagine."
Logan's eyes widened. "How do you…?"
"I would recognize Kaelor's touch anywhere," Nyrel interrupted, with a slight half-smile. "Your mana carries remnants of luminous stabilization. It's the kind of patch only a Qilin would make so you don't tear the fabric of reality every time you sneeze."
Logan blinked, then laughed unintentionally. The tension eased for a moment.
"Professor," he said, after a few seconds of silence. "Where did you get the grimoire?"
Nyrel leaned back in the chair, his eyes losing focus for a moment. "I received it from a bearer of Fenrir before you," he replied, serious. "I was saved by him. And I swore that if I ever found the next bearer, I would do my part so that… he wouldn't end up the same way."
Logan felt his stomach turn. "The same way…?"
"Dead before his time," Nyrel said, bluntly. "Hunted by those who saw in him only a shortcut to power. Bearers of Fenrir attract unlikely alliances… and even more unlikely enemies."
Something burned in Logan's chest. Fear, anger, curiosity.
"Do you know who he was?" he pressed. "Why have there been so many? Why me?"
Nyrel observed him in silence for a long moment. There was something almost… protective in his gaze.
"Some answers are not mine to give," he said, finally. "Others, you are not yet ready to hear. Not because you are weak, Logan, but because the world has already placed too many burdens on your shoulders in a short time."
"Control, Mister Black," he reminded, pointing to the shadows that, again, gathered around Logan's boots.
Logan breathed deep, sliding the mana inward, as Kaelor had taught. Gradually, the gloom around him normalized.
"Better," the professor approved. "Keep practicing that. Wear a mask of normality when you are in public. Laugh, if you must. Let them think you are just another prince with unresolved trauma and above-average talent." He shrugged. "The whole world looks at you. Some want you to be the next perfect King. Others want you to be the next perfect monster. Give neither of them what they want… until you are ready to choose for yourself."
Logan nodded slowly.
"Thank you, Professor." He turned to leave, but Nyrel's voice reached him before he crossed the door.
"Oh, and Logan?" He looked over his shoulder.
"Yes?"
"Avoid using the grimoire outside campus and Sky Reaper… unless there is no other option. I gave it to you so you could protect yourself… but the 'darker' your signature becomes, the easier it will be for certain things… to find you first."
Logan swallowed hard. "Understood."
The corridor of the North Wing was quieter than usual. Through the high windows, the sky was beginning to gain orange hues, and a fresh breeze blew. As he walked toward the courtyard where he had arranged to meet Blake and Kassia, Logan felt the invisible weight of the grimoire he didn't physically carry, but which seemed attached to his soul.
Nyrel's words echoed:
"Anyone who knows what to look for…"
"Previous bearers…"
"Pact between the Beasts…"
And, over all this, the questions Logan repeated to himself in silence:
"How did the professor know a bearer of Fenrir?"
"Who was he? Was it Thorne? Another?"
"How old is Nyrel, anyway?"
"Why so many bearers?"
"Why me?"
With every step, the feeling that the world around him was a board set up long before he was born only increased. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and accelerated his pace toward the courtyard, where familiar voices awaited him.
He had no more certainties than before the class.
He had only more questions—and an even greater determination to find every answer, even if it meant descending into the depths that had swallowed the Thalacyans… and facing, head-on, the gaze of an Ancestral Arcane Beast that held too many memories.