Sylas had a bad feeling. The kind of bad feeling usually reserved for cursed tombs, ex-girlfriends with unresolved issues, and dinner with the Headmaster.
This time, the dread came with an extra side of prophecy.
It started with an invitation. Not a polite parchment scroll or a fancy sigil-sealed letter. No, Sylas woke up to a raven pecking his forehead with all the elegance of a drunk pigeon.
It dropped a blood-red card on his chest.
You are cordially summoned by the Oracle of Iltheria. Refusal is inadvisable.
He stared at the card.
"...Well that's comforting."
The Oracle's chambers were buried beneath the oldest wing of the Academy, past two moving staircases, a door that demanded a riddle (he guessed correctly out of spite), and a hallway that reeked of lavender and impending doom.
Vivienne followed silently, blades hidden, presence sharp.
"You sure you're up for this?" she asked.
"Nope," he replied cheerfully. "But I've recently made peace with being consistently in danger."
"Therapy?"
"Denial. Cheaper."
They stepped into the chamber.
The Oracle was waiting—veiled, ancient, and definitely glowing faintly. Sylas did not trust anything that glowed. Not since that one time with the cursed toothpaste.
"Ah," the Oracle rasped. "The fractured one arrives."
Sylas flinched. "Okay, let's not start with cryptic insults, grandma."
Vivienne elbowed him.
The Oracle chuckled. "You bear two souls. One that has forgotten. One that should never have awakened."
Sylas blinked. "Okay, but which one has better fashion sense?"
The Oracle extended a hand toward his chest. "You are the gate."
He looked down. "To what? Trauma? A bad sequel?"
"To the key that should never be turned."
Vivienne stiffened. "You mean the cube?"
The Oracle's voice dropped an octave. "It is not a cube. It is a prison."
Sylas stared. "Why is everything in this world a prison or a prophecy? Can't we have one magical item that's just, I don't know, a toaster?"
"You are chosen, Sylas Vermund. Not because of what you are, but because of what you were."
He felt it then—that pull.
The echo of footsteps that weren't his. A voice in his head that wasn't quite his own. His body cold, like something ancient had just stirred awake within his spine.
"You will face a choice," the Oracle said. "When the past knocks, you must choose—open the door, or burn the house down."
Sylas swallowed. "...Do I get a script for this, or?"
The Oracle smiled faintly, and for the first time, he saw a flicker of humanity beneath the veil.
"No one gets a script. Only the consequences."
As they left the chamber, Vivienne was quiet. Which was terrifying.
"So," Sylas said, trying for casual, "how cursed do I look right now? Scale of one to full apocalypse?"
She glanced at him.
"Just... mildly apocalyptic. But I've seen worse."
"Thanks. That's oddly comforting."
She stopped. "Do you trust her? The Oracle?
He hesitated. "I don't even fully trust my reflection at this point."
Vivienne nodded slowly. "Good. Because if she's right… we're not fighting just history."
Sylas turned to her, something cold and old settling behind his eyes.
"We're fighting me."