Draven exhaled, tense but relieved, finally allowing himself to move closer. "She's… stable," he said, voice low, still wary of any sudden flare. "For now. But whatever that is—it's beyond anything I've seen in a first-year."
Veynar's lips curved faintly. "Indeed. And yet… this storm has only just begun."
For a heartbeat, the infirmary was silent—unnervingly so. The air still tasted charged, like the space after a lightning strike, humming with the memory of power that should not have existed in a student barely into her training.
Then the room seemed to exhale with them. Healers lowered their hands. Apprentices sagged in relief. A few whispered quiet prayers of thanks that the building was still intact.
Draven didn't share their ease.
He stood over Anna's cot, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. Even unconscious, she radiated something—an echo of power that tugged at the edges of the room, as if her very presence was rearranging the atmosphere around her.
Veynar stepped beside him, folding his hands behind his back. His owl familiar—Nokh—blinked slowly, golden eyes reflecting the dim lantern light with eerie clarity.
"She contains more than she knows," Veynar murmured, voice calm, almost reverent. "More than any of you were prepared for."
"Spare me the riddles," Draven muttered. "Why is she absorbing spells like they're… fuel? Mana that dense should have torn her apart."
Veynar's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. "Because she is not being torn apart," he said softly. "She is becoming."
Draven stiffened. "Becoming what?"
Veynar did not answer immediately. Instead, he crouched, studying Anna's sleeping face with a scholar's fascination and something darker—recognition.
"Tell me, Draven," he said at last, "have you ever seen a ley line thread itself into a mage?"
Draven's breath caught. Not in fear—he didn't do fear—but in something sharper, colder.
"…No," he admitted quietly. "That should be impossible."
"Yes." Veynar stood, cloak whispering like smoke. "And yet here she is."
Veynar rose slowly, cloak whispering across the stone floor like a living shadow. He kept his gaze on Anna, eyes narrowing with something between awe and calculation.
"It's more than raw power," he murmured. "More than a surge or a flare or the reckless instinct of an untrained mage."
His fingers brushed the air above her—never touching, but sensing, reading.
"It's as if…" He paused, choosing the words with rare care. "…as if she's a living branch of the ley lines themselves."
Draven's head snapped toward him. "That's not possible."
Veynar's answering look was calm, maddeningly serene. "Neither is resonance awakening in a child, and yet we stand here, watching the laws we cling to crumble at her feet."
He turned back to Anna, expression softening—not with kindness, but with understanding.
"The lines are reaching for her," Veynar said quietly. "And she, in turn, is reaching back. She's not just channeling resonance—she's connected to it. Rooted in it."
He exhaled, almost a whisper.
"Like a sapling born from ancient roots… destined to grow into something the world has forgotten how to fear."
Veynar's expression shifted again—this time sharpening, as though he'd just noticed a note of discord in an otherwise flawless melody. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he examined the faint pulse of energy beneath Anna's skin.
"But…" he murmured, more to himself than to Draven. "There's something else."
Draven tensed. "What do you mean, 'something else'?"
Veynar lifted a hand, letting the tips of his fingers hover an inch above Anna's sternum. The air rippled—faint, restrained, like a river forced through too narrow a channel.
"It's throttled," he said quietly. "Her resonance. Her connection. Something is holding it back."
Draven's jaw clenched. "You think she's suppressing it?"
"Perhaps," Veynar allowed. "Her body may be instinctively limiting what she can channel. A natural safeguard to prevent her from burning herself alive." A beat. His eyes darkened.
"Or…" His tone dipped into something colder, more dangerous. "…something else is restraining her. Something old. Something intentional."
Draven's brows knit. "A seal?"
Veynar's eyes remained fixed on Anna, but something in his expression—some tension at the corner of his jaw—betrayed the gravity of what he was thinking.
"…A seal?" Draven pressed.
Veynar exhaled slowly, the sound thin and thoughtful. "I'm not certain," he admitted. "But it is possible."
He lifted his hand again, letting the faintest thread of his own magic trace the invisible pressure coiled inside Anna. The air shimmered—just for a heartbeat.
"That kind of restraint…" he murmured, "it isn't accidental. It isn't natural. And it isn't weak."
Draven's voice dropped. "Then why is it surfacing now?"
Veynar finally looked at him, eyes gleaming like an owl's in torchlight. "The only reason her powers would manifest so violently," he said, "is if something is changing."
"Changing how?"
Veynar stood straighter, cloak whispering behind him like a shifting shadow.
"If there is a seal—" he said, "—then this surge means only one thing."
Draven swallowed, bracing.
"It's breaking," Veynar finished softly. "Piece by piece. Crack by crack."
He glanced back at Anna, lying so small and still on the infirmary bed.
"And when it finally gives way… the world will feel it."
The infirmary doors slammed open so hard they ricocheted off the walls.
"Elara! Talia—hold on—!" a medic tried to warn, but the two girls were already sprinting past him.
Elara nearly skidded on the polished floor, breath ragged from the frantic chase up four flights of stairs. Talia stumbled in right behind her, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with terror.
"Anna!" Talia's voice cracked as she rushed to her sister's bedside.
Elara reached her a half-step later, her hands shaking as she hovered over Anna's still form. "Gods—Anna, please—" Her voice faltered, breaking into a whisper. "We lost you in the courtyard—then Draven just—vanished—"
Draven stepped aside instinctively, giving them room without a word. His posture was still tense, shoulders squared, but his eyes softened—just slightly—watching the two sisters fold protectively over the unconscious girl.
Talia brushed a strand of hair from Anna's face with trembling fingers. "She's cooler… she's not burning anymore." She exhaled shakily, relief flooding her tone. "Thank the stars…"
Elara finally tore her gaze from Anna long enough to look around—and froze when her eyes landed on Archon Veynar.
Her breath caught. Standing this close, the Archon's presence pressed against her senses like a storm front—quiet, immense, impossible to ignore.
"Archon Veynar?" she breathed.
He inclined his head politely, though the intensity in his gaze never wavered from Anna. "You arrived in time to see the aftermath," he said calmly. "Your sister is stable. For now."
Talia swallowed hard. "For now…?" she echoed, fear creeping back into her voice.
Talia's fingers curled into the blankets, her fear sharpening into something hot and defensive. Elara's eyes narrowed, shoulders rising as if to shield Anna from a predator rather than an ally.
"For now?! " Elara repeated, voice tight with anger brewing beneath her grief. "What is that supposed to—why are you even—"
Draven's voice cut through sharply, firm enough to halt both sisters mid-breath.
"I called him."
Elara blinked, thrown off balance. "You… what?"
Draven stepped forward, posture rigid but his tone leaving no room for argument. "I called Archon Veynar. And he is the only reason your sister isn't tearing herself apart from the inside right now."
Talia froze. The color drained from her face.
Elara's anger faltered, stumbling back into fear. "What do you mean?" she whispered.
Draven gestured toward the faint, lingering shimmer along Anna's ribs—the last trace of uncontrolled resonance. "Every spell cast on her was being consumed. Healing magic. Stabilizing magic. Even shields. Nothing could reach her."
His eyes darkened, jaw tense. "She was absorbing it. Instinctively. Uncontrollably."
Talia sucked in a sharp breath, her hand flying to her mouth.
Veynar inclined his head slightly, confirming Draven's words with quiet gravity. "If I had arrived even a minute later," he said, "she may very well have collapsed the entire room's mana flow into herself. Her body could not have endured that."
Elara's knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, eyes wide and horrified as she looked down at Anna.
Talia whispered, voice breaking, "So… you saved her?"
Veynar's expression was unreadable—ancient, knowing, and far too calm for the chaos around him.
"I stopped her," he corrected softly. "For the moment. But saving her?" His gaze returned to Anna, piercing and full of quiet weight. "That will depend on what comes next."
Draven shot the sisters a steadying look—firm, protective, and uncharacteristically gentle.
"Right now," he said, "you both need to understand one thing: whatever is happening to Anna… she's not alone. And she's not in danger anymore.. Not for now."
Talia turned toward Elara, fear still trembling in her voice, but now sharpened by resolve. "We need to call Mother," she said, the words rushing out in a breath. "She has to know about this—now. We can't keep this from her."
Elara swallowed hard, throat bobbing as she stared down at Anna's still form. Her hand hovered just above her sister's wrist, as if reassuring herself that Anna was truly breathing, truly here.
Then Elara nodded—once, firm. "Yes. Mother needs to know immediately."
They both turned toward the doorway, fully prepared to sprint out and demand a secure comm line—
—but Veynar's voice halted them mid-step, smooth and calm but carrying a weight that made the air itself pause.
"Informing the Empress is not the question," he said, eyes still fixed on Anna. "The question is how."
Draven crossed his arms, expression grim. "Selene won't react well if she thinks her daughter nearly burned out without her knowledge."
Talia bristled. "Which is exactly why she needs to know!"
"Yes," Veynar agreed softly. "But shaken queens make rash decisions." He finally lifted his gaze, meeting Talia's with unsettling calm. "And Anna's situation requires anything but rashness."
Elara's voice lowered. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying," Veynar replied, "that the Empress should hear the truth—but she must hear it from someone who can explain it without causing panic."
Talia's fists clenched. "She's our mother."
He nodded. "And she is also the ruler of an empire that has spent centuries controlling what it does not understand. Resonance magic… is very much something it does not understand."
Silence crackled between them.
Draven exhaled sharply. "I'll contact her. Directly. She'll listen."
Veynar's brow rose, almost amused. "Will she? You've never been particularly persuasive with her."
Draven glared. "She'll listen about this."
Talia's eyes flicked between the two men, then back to Anna. Her voice softened, breaking around the edges.
"We just… don't want to lose her."
Elara's hand found hers, squeezing tight.
"You won't," Veynar said quietly—almost gently. "But if you wish to call your mother… do so with clarity. Not panic."
Talia's voice wavered as she looked from Anna to Veynar, desperation flickering beneath the thin layer of composure she was trying to hold.
"Maybe…" She swallowed hard. "Maybe if you tell her. With us." Her fingers tightened around Elara's. "Mother listens to you, Archon Veynar. And if she hears this from your mouth—what happened, what Anna is becoming—she won't think it's an exaggeration or some mistake. She'll understand how serious this is."
Elara nodded quickly, eyes pleading. "Please. She trusts you. And she'll take it better if the explanation comes from someone who knows what they're talking about."
Veynar paused.
For a moment, the room seemed to still around him. The flickering lamplight caught the edges of his cloak, and his gaze drifted from the sisters… to Anna.
Then he exhaled softly, almost like a sigh carried from a much older world.
"You ask for something heavy," he said at last. "But not unreasonable."
Talia's breath hitched. "So you'll do it?"
Veynar's eyes softened—not warm, but steady, grounding. "If the Empress summons me, I will answer. And if she demands the truth, I will give it."
Draven snorted under his breath. "She's going to demand a lot more than that."
Veynar ignored him, gaze still on the girls.
Veynar's gaze flicked briefly to Draven, then back to the sisters. A slow, thoughtful hum left him—followed by a spark of something almost mischievous in his eyes.
"…Or," he said lightly, "I have a better idea."
Draven stiffened immediately. "Veynar. Don't—"
"How about," Veynar continued smoothly, "we all go."
Elara blinked. "All… of us?"
Talia's eyes widened. "Right now?"
Draven's scowl darkened. "Absolutely not. We are not barging into the imperial—"
He didn't get the chance to finish.
Veynar lifted one gloved hand.
Outside the window, perched silently in the shadows, his owl bond stirred—its golden eyes flaring like twin lanterns. The air warped, a pulse of resonance rippling outward as the creature unfurled its wings.
Before Draven could take a single step back, the owl's feathers blazed with runic light— and the world snapped inward.
"VEY—DON'T YOU DARE—!" Draven barked, reaching for the floor to anchor himself—
Too late.
A ring of shimmering glyphs spiraled around their feet. Wind rushed upward. The floor disappeared. Space folded like paper.
Elara yelped, clutching Anna tighter. Talia grabbed her sister's arm. Draven cursed every ancestor Veynar ever had. And Veynar simply placed his hands behind his back, perfectly calm, cloak fluttering in the arcane gale.
In a heartbeat, the infirmary vanished in a burst of violet light.
And all of them—Draven, Veynar, Elara, Talia, and the unconscious Anna— were gone.
Reality snapped back into place with a thunderous crack of displaced air.
They reappeared—not gradually, not gently, but all at once—in the center of the imperial throne room.
Anna's infirmary bed slammed down onto the marble with a metallic clang, rattling the wheels. Elara and Talia stumbled, barely managing to keep their balance beside their unconscious sister. Draven landed in a half-crouch, teeth bared, fury radiating off him like heat.
Veynar, of course, landed perfectly upright, hands still clasped behind his back as though nothing remotely unusual had happened.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
At the far end of the hall, seated upon the twin obsidian-and-gold thrones, Emperor Valerius and Empress Selene stared down at the sudden intrusion—silent, wide-eyed, nearly disbelieving.
Valerius surged halfway to his feet, voice sharp and echoing through the vaulted chamber.
"What is the meaning of—"
He didn't finish.
Selene's eyes had already locked onto the bed—onto the small, pale figure lying in its center.
"Anna?!"
Her voice cracked on the second syllable.
Then she was running.
"ANNA!!"