Morning broke across Velmire City with the pale hush of a sky still recovering from unseen violence.
In the quiet district of Westgrove, where mana monitors were rare and arcane patrols rarely bothered to pass, a small corner bookstore opened precisely at 9:00 a.m. Its bell rang softly as the front door creaked open, letting in the scent of paper, old ink, and fresh rain.
Kairo Vale stepped inside, a steaming cup of cheap black tea in one hand and an expression of practiced neutrality on his face. He wore a clean shirt, slacks, and the same ink-stained apron from yesterday, now patched up with a strip of duct tape and a pinned nametag that read "Manager (Acting)."
No one else was scheduled to work that day.
The alley was silent. The crater was gone.
Cleaned. Repaired. Erased.
Like it had never happened.
He stepped behind the counter, flipped the OPEN sign, and placed a stack of magical history textbooks on a display with mechanical ease. The mundane routine kept his fingers moving, but not his mind.
The flames were still there, dormant, coiled beneath his skin. He could feel them in his palms, a low hum in his chest. Not painful. Not wild.
Just waiting.
Beneath that, deeper, the entity slumbered. A presence at the edge of thought. Breathing without breath. Watching without eyes.
Kairo knew it hadn't left.
It had bowed.
And that changed everything.
He glanced to the side. The shop's wall mirror still worked, despite the age of the building. In its reflection, his eyes were the same dull gray-blue as always.
Until, for just a moment, they weren't.
Black flame flickered in his irises, then vanished.
He exhaled slowly and poured himself another cup of tea.
Midday came.
A soft chime signaled the arrival of his first customer.
The door opened with a quiet creak, and a familiar voice rang out.
"Kairo!"
Ren Vale burst in, backpack swinging from one shoulder, school uniform sharp but untucked, the gust of wind trailing after him like a faithful dog. His eyes, the same pale green as their mother's, sparkled with pride.
"Guess who ranked top ten in Wind Division sparring today?"
Kairo offered a faint smile. "Let me guess. The guy who threw up mid-exam from mana overuse?"
"That was one time!" Ren groaned, walking up to the counter. "You gotta stop bringing that up."
"Never," Kairo said, sipping his tea.
Footsteps followed. A second figure entered with sharp grace, taller, crimson-haired, eyes like polished garnets.
Freya Vale.
She said nothing at first, walking to the bookshelf labeled Advanced Pyromancy and skimming the titles with a huff.
"I heard," she said, without looking, "someone tried to sign up for the academy late again."
Kairo didn't reply.
She turned, gaze sharp. "You know it's pointless, right? They won't accept someone past the age. It's not just about mana anymore. You missed the window."
Kairo met her eyes. Calm. Unbothered.
"They said I could try the supplementary exam next week. Not for full enrollment, just placement review."
Ren's smile returned. "Seriously? That's great!"
Freya scoffed. "They're humoring you. They'll toss you in a corner and give you a participation badge."
Kairo didn't respond. He merely poured himself another cup of tea.
Freya turned back to the books, her voice softer now. "You're nineteen, Kairo. You had your chance."
They left twenty minutes later.
Ren gave him a thumbs-up. Freya didn't say goodbye.
The silence returned.
And with it, the awareness.
Outside, hidden above the city, mana sensors flared again.
Not far away, in a towering structure veiled by glamor wards, a figure stood by a wide window, watching the eastern skyline.
Elira Dawn narrowed her eyes.
She was dressed in deep violet robes trimmed in silver, a long coat slung over one shoulder. Her lightning-etched mana signature drifted around her like a storm held barely in check.
She had felt it again, subtle, brief, but undeniable.
A pulse of black flame. Hidden beneath layers of control. Suppressed almost perfectly.
But not perfectly enough.
She picked up a folder on her desk, new applicants for the late entrance review.
Her eyes stopped on one name.
Kairo Vale. Age: 19. Bloodline: Unknown. Affinity: Unawakened.
A spark danced across her fingertips.
"Unawakened," she murmured. "Liar."
Deep underground, in a labyrinth no map dared trace, the Abyss Syndicate convened.
A dozen black-robed figures knelt before a glowing altar shaped like a jagged crown. Blood pulsed through runes beneath their feet.
Their leader, face concealed behind a bone-carved mask, raised a hand.
"The vessel has survived. Worse, he has claimed the flame."
Murmurs rose.
"He was never supposed to awaken," one hissed. "That bloodline was purged."
"Silence."
The masked man turned, shadow magic writhing behind him.
"There is no mistake. The Voidbound live. The blood of the First Fire has resurfaced."
The fire behind the altar roared to life.
"Begin the Rite of Unmaking. He must not be allowed to reach full strength."
Back in Westgrove, the sun dipped below the rooftops.
Kairo locked the door, turned the sign to CLOSED, and stood alone in the bookstore's quiet heart.
The flames whispered.
And he listened.