The day felt longer than it should have.
By the time the next class began, the sky outside the windows had turned a soft grey, the light filtering through in pale streaks. The air inside the lecture hall carried the scent of dust and parchment, heavy with the weight of old knowledge.
"The Archon Codex," Professor Jerem announced, adjusting the scrolls spread before him. "A compilation of celestial law — the oldest surviving fragments of order itself."
Rynna sank into her seat near the middle row, her mind still tangled in thoughts of the morning. The Spire. The hum. The look in Kael's eyes when he said it's coming.
She tried to focus on the professor's words, but every sentence about ancient decrees and divine restrictions only seemed to echo deeper questions she wasn't ready to face.
Across from her, Kael sat motionless — pen untouched, gaze fixed on nothing. His presence alone felt heavier today, as if the quiet surrounding him had taken shape.
Eren was beside her, leaning back, clearly lost already. Liran occupied the seat behind Kael, idly spinning a quill between his fingers, pretending to listen but observing everything.
Jerem voice carried through the hall like a ritual chant.
"The Codex was said to have been written by the First Archons — guardians who defined balance between mortal and divine. Violation of these decrees brought ruin… and flame."
At that last word, Kael's fingers twitched.
Rynna noticed — a small, involuntary movement, but sharp enough to stir her pulse. The memory of the fire in the Spire burned at the edge of her mind, whispering fragments she couldn't understand.
Liran leaned forward, whispering low enough for only Kael to hear.
"Flame and ruin. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
Kael didn't answer. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, but Rynna saw a faint flicker in them — the kind that wasn't just reflection.
"The Codex also speaks," Jerem continued, "of the Celestial Edict — a law that forbids interference between vessels and mortals. The crossing of those lines was said to invite awakening… or annihilation."
A heavy silence followed. Even the scratching of pens paused.
Rynna's heart thudded. Vessels? The word echoed like a forgotten chord. She glanced at Kael — his jaw had tightened, his hands clasped under the desk. The flicker in his eyes had dimmed to embers.
Eren, oblivious, leaned toward her and muttered, "Vessels? Like cups? Because I swear if this turns into more mythology—"
She shot him a look that silenced him instantly.
Jerem moved toward the front board, drawing a sigil that looked like intersecting circles surrounded by glyphs. "This," he said, "is the Seal of Ascendancy. It marked those chosen by flame, storm, or shadow — fragments of the divine bound in human form."
Kael's breath caught, almost inaudibly.
Liran noticed this time too. His gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.
"Legends claim," Jerem went on, "that the seal vanished after the Fall of the Fifth Dominion. Yet traces of it remain… buried in bloodlines that should no longer exist."
Rynna's fingers clenched around her pen. Buried in bloodlines. The words rang too close to the truth she'd glimpsed.
Her pulse raced as her mind replayed the night before — Kael standing in the Spire, the fire bending toward him like it knew him.
The room felt colder now.
Even the light through the windows seemed distant, filtered through unseen ash.
"Class dismissed," Jerem said abruptly, rolling up his scroll. "Your assignment: transcribe the first passage of the Codex and reflect on what balance means to you."
Chairs scraped. Voices rose. The fragile spell broke — but only for the others.
Rynna gathered her things slowly, still staring at the sigil drawn on the board. The Seal of Ascendancy. She felt as if the symbol itself was staring back.
Eren slung his bag over his shoulder. "That was… something. I didn't get a single word of it, but I feel enlightened."
Liran smirked. "That's one word for it."
Kael rose last. He didn't speak, didn't even look at them — just stared for a long moment at the sigil, then turned sharply toward the door.
"Kael?" Rynna called softly.
He paused — not turning fully, just enough that she saw the faint glow flicker at the edge of his eyes.
Then, in a low voice, he said, "The Codex isn't just history, Rynna. It's a warning."
And he walked out.
The door closed behind him, leaving the faint scent of burnt air in his wake.
Liran stared after him, brows furrowed. "What's his deal?"
Rynna didn't answer. Her heart was still racing.
Outside, thunder murmured somewhere beyond the hills — soft, distant, but undeniably there.
The fire remembers.
And now, so did she.