The Stirring Grounds had become more than a hideout—it was a pulse beneath the Academy, a heartbeat of forbidden mana that no suppression seal could silence. Every night new tamers arrived: students, ex-guard cadets, even an instructor or two who had seen too much.
By the fourth night, the amphitheater thrummed with quiet energy. Sigils glowed faintly on the walls, shaped by Umbra's shadow and sustained by the combined resonance of the Unbound.
Yet beneath the unity, tension brewed.
Arden slammed a parchment onto the council table they'd built from scavenged stone. "We can't keep pretending we're invisible. The Council's already traced mana fluctuations to this sector. If they find us, the rebellion ends before it starts."
Across from him, Rhea—the strategist from Division 3—folded her arms. "You think the answer is what? Marching into the Council Tower? They'd erase us."
"We hit their archives," Arden shot back. "Velan's last words—the Eighth Crest. Whatever that is, it's what they fear most."
Lyn listened, silent, eyes fixed on the broken fragment of the sigil they'd recovered from the ruins. It was older than the Academy itself, its lines etched in patterns that seemed to shift under the light.
Umbra's presence rippled through his thoughts. —This is no crest of mortal design. These markings belong to the First Covenant—the age when spirits and humans shared a single will.
Lyn frowned. "Then why would the Council hide it?"
—Because it was never meant to be bound. The Eighth Crest unites rather than commands.
He rose, setting the fragment on the table. "Umbra's right. This isn't just another power. It's proof that the bond between tamer and spirit was once equal. If the Council learns we have it—"
"They'll hunt us down," Rhea interrupted. "Which means we can't stay together. We need separate cells, different signals, multiple exits."
Arden glared. "You want to scatter the only organized resistance we've got?"
"I want us to survive long enough to matter."
The argument crackled like lightning. Voices rose, conflicting ideals clashing beneath the steady hum of mana. Some demanded action; others whispered retreat. Lyn could feel the unity of the Unbound begin to splinter.
Umbra's tone deepened. —Even the strongest chain breaks from within.
He slammed his hand against the stone, silencing the room. "Enough! The Council isn't our enemy because of their power—they're our enemy because they made us believe obedience was strength. If we tear ourselves apart now, we become exactly what they built us to be."
The echo of his words hung heavy in the air.
From the corner, a quiet voice spoke up. It was Tessa, the youngest among them, her crest glowing faintly blue. "Then we find the truth first. Before they twist it again."
Rhea exhaled slowly. "The archives are sealed. Only someone with a Council key can access the deep levels."
Lyn reached into his cloak and produced the blackened sigil Velan had left behind—the burned mark from his death. "Then we already have our key."
Umbra's shadow flared briefly, wrapping around the mark. —It still carries his blood trace. Enough to fool their wards once.
Arden smirked. "You planned this, didn't you?"
Lyn gave a half smile. "Call it preparation for betrayal."
The group leaned over the fragment again. Together, they traced its runes into the dirt, connecting broken lines until a complete pattern emerged—eight crests interwoven around a single core.
But the moment the final stroke was drawn, the symbol pulsed with light. A projection burst from it, shimmering above the table—a memory, or perhaps a warning.
Figures in ancient armor stood beneath twin moons, surrounded by ethereal beasts. A voice—neither human nor spirit—echoed through the chamber:
"When the eighth flame awakens, the balance shall fracture.Bond will break from bond,And the chained shall rise."
The image faded, leaving silence behind. The only sound was the drip of water from the cavern ceiling.
Rhea's expression darkened. "That wasn't prophecy. That was instruction."
Arden turned to Lyn. "What does it mean—bond will break from bond?"
Lyn didn't answer right away. He looked down at his crest, which flickered faintly—two overlapping sigils instead of one. Umbra's voice whispered inside him, almost mournful.—It means what was once shared cannot stay whole.
For a heartbeat, he felt Umbra's power waver—the same faint distortion from the mimic's duel weeks ago.
He clenched his fist. "We don't have much time. The Eighth Crest isn't just knowledge—it's a weapon, and the Council's already searching for it."
He looked up at his gathered allies, voice steady despite the weight in his chest. "We find it first. Even if it divides us."
Umbra's eyes glowed faintly in the dark. —Then the rebellion's true test begins.
Outside, the storm rolled over the mountain again, thunder rumbling like a warning from the gods themselves.