Rain had a talent for humiliating Caelan Veyra.
It always fell at the worst moments—like now, as he crossed the academy courtyard with a split lip, blood mingling with rainwater on his tongue. The sting was sharp, metallic, familiar.
Laughter followed him, loose and careless, fading only as the downpour swallowed it whole.
"Duke's Disgrace."
"Hollow Child."
The words barely registered anymore. He'd heard them since the first year, spoken with the same certainty as facts written in textbooks.
His body trembled as he climbed the marble steps toward the central library. Not from pain—pain he could endure—but from exhaustion. His mana circuits had burned cold again during the spar, cutting him off at the moment he'd needed them most.
The doors parted with a whisper.
Silence wrapped around him, merciful and complete. The rain vanished. The world softened.
Inside, parchment and candlewax replaced blood and stone. The library felt untouched by failure, as though it didn't care who he was or what he lacked. Caelan breathed easier as he slipped between the towering shelves, torn uniform clinging to his shoulder, dark hair plastered to his brow.
He hadn't meant for the spar to become anything serious.
It never was—until his opponent shoved him back and spat, "You're a waste of noble blood."
Then his body had betrayed him again.
Cold instead of heat. Silence instead of flow.
Helplessness, laid bare before an audience.
Caelan's jaw tightened as he moved deeper into the library, toward the forgotten stacks where dust gathered undisturbed. No one searched for failures here. No one bothered remembering what had already been written off.
His fingers brushed old spines as he passed: Treatise on Mana Fusion.History of the Western Wars.Noble Etiquette of the Fourth Era.
Then he stopped.
One book didn't belong.
Its leather spine was cracked but clean, as if handled recently. No title marked it—only a small silver emblem pressed into the cover: a teardrop encircled by two wings.
Caelan frowned.
He pulled it free. The weight surprised him. Warm—unnaturally so—resting in his hands like something alive.
Curiosity overrode caution. He carried it to a secluded table beneath a stained-glass window. Noon light spilled across the surface as he opened the cover.
The writing wasn't printed.
It was handwritten—precise, elegant, steady. Ink that shimmered faintly, untouched by age.
This is the tale of two who defied the cycle of war.
May their names someday be remembered.
Caelan's breath caught.
The pages read like history, not myth. A great noble war. Armies of light. A leader whose strength stabilized battlefields simply by standing upon them.
And then the sealing.
A lord entombed because his existence exceeded the world's limits.
The date was scrawled in the margin.
Year 1 of the Reclamation Era.
Five thousand years ago.
His brow furrowed. Why was this here? Why now?
He read on, unease blooming slowly into something heavier. The text described betrayal framed as necessity. A union deemed too powerful. A containment beneath a Pool formed from tears.
His chest ached.
Not memory—something deeper. Recognition without understanding.
Then he saw the name.
Caelan Ardentis.
The world went still.
His fingers tightened on the page.
Coincidence, his mind insisted. A borrowed name. A story lodged somewhere in childhood and resurfaced by chance.
But the script felt familiar. Too familiar. Like reading his own handwriting after forgetting how it looked.
He turned the page.
When the heavens trembled, the Lightborn was betrayed by his kin, sealed for the world's safety, and bound to return through his own blood when the time was right.
Cold crawled up Caelan's spine.
Thunder rolled outside, distant but heavy. The stained glass darkened as storm clouds thickened overhead.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered to the empty rows.
Yet his heart beat slow and deep, unnaturally steady.
He kept reading.
Names appeared—houses long thought ancient history.
Veyra.
Damaris.
Their crests were rendered in exact detail: a sapphire wing, a golden sunburst.
He saw them every day carved into academy stone.
The coincidences piled too neatly to ignore.
Then the handwriting changed.
Jagged. Desperate.
To the one who bears his face—
If you have found this, the chain stirs again.
What sleeps in your blood is not weakness.
It is waiting.
The page glimmered.
Caelan recoiled, slamming the book shut. The silence felt sharper now, shadows pressing closer between the shelves.
"Just an enchantment," he said aloud. "Some noble relic."
Behind him, a soft voice answered.
"So you've found it."
Caelan turned sharply.
Master Renar stood there, thin and stooped, robes smelling faintly of tea. His eyes flicked to the book with quiet interest.
"You know it?" Caelan asked.
"A relic," the old librarian said. "Kept more from habit than purpose. Few ever notice it."
"Who wrote it?"
"No record remains." Renar studied him for a moment longer than necessary. "You look tired, young Veyra. The library has a way of warming thoughts best left cold."
Caelan hesitated, then tucked the book beneath his coat. "I'll return it."
Renar smiled faintly. "History has a habit of returning itself."
Twilight settled by the time Caelan left.
The rain had stopped, puddles reflecting mana-lamps like broken stars. Students laughed as they passed, untouched by the weight settling in his chest.
In his dorm room, he stood before the mirror.
Black hair. Bruised skin. Mana lines that refused to ignite.
Failure, reflected cleanly.
He opened the book again.
What slumbers in your blood is not weakness.
The words pulsed.
For a heartbeat, his reflection shifted—hair paling near the temple, eyes flashing faint white before returning to normal.
Caelan blinked.
Gone.
Exhaustion claimed him soon after. He left the book on the bedside table.
Thunder rolled again as he drifted toward sleep.
A whisper followed him into darkness—two voices, entwined.
Remember…
He woke to light.
Not sunlight—something deeper, older.
He stood beside an endless pool, its surface luminous like liquid crystal. White feathers—or petals—drifted across it.
A woman stood on the far shore.
White hair. Golden eyes. Familiar sorrow carved into her gaze.
"Caelan," she said softly.
His chest tightened. "Who are you?"
"The one you promised to find again."
She reached out.
Light surged between them.
Caelan woke before dawn, gasping.
Tears streaked his face for reasons he couldn't name.
On the desk, the book lay closed—harmless.
Then letters slowly formed across its cover.
One has awakened.
Caelan stared at the words, heart pounding.
For the first time in his life, something inside him answered back.
Not power.
Not yet.
But certainty.
Something was no longer sleeping.