Nathan woke to the bells again. Not just the schedule chime—but the bells in his chest, the memory of the test. That faint hum of something unnameable vibrating through him, constant now. A presence. Not always loud, but never gone. He turned over in his bed, half hoping it was still night. But the rune hovering over his pillow was pulsing steadily, its glyph rotating between classes:

  TODAY: PILLAR CYCLE – FULL ROTATION

  Runes | Casting | Companions | Alchemy | Survival | History

  He groaned and let his head drop back onto the pillow. Lissandre, already awake and tying her curls up into a wild, wind-defying halo, grinned from her desk. “Up, sleepy symphony. The universe waits for no closet mage.”

  “I am not a symphony,” he muttered into his sheets.

  “You keep humming in your sleep.”

  He sat up too fast. “I what?”

  “Yeah,” she said, tossing him a roll. “Little half-melodies. Like a heartbeat that got bored.”

  He didn’t answer. Mostly because he knew exactly what she meant.

  Runes – Tower 2, Room 3C

  The Runes classroom had always felt like a library designed by a god who liked puzzles. The sandstone walls glowed faintly with sigils that shifted every few minutes. No one could memorize them. You weren’t supposed to. Professor Varis was already in place, as if he hadn’t moved all night. His robe looked freshly pressed. His hair—silver with streaks of iridescence—was still slicked back in sharp lines, and his stylus was hovering midair, spinning slowly. “Take your seats,” he said without turning. “You’ll need both hands to fail properly today.”

  Nathan slumped into his seat next to Lissandre, who was already tapping her stylus against the edge of the rune board like a drumstick.

  “Today,” Varis announced, “we move past pre-inscribed templates. You will construct your own glyphs. No tracing. No mirroring. No magical stabilizers. If your rune collapses, that’s your fault.” He snapped his fingers. Eight elemental symbols appeared in the air above the class—bright, rotating. “Choose your base element,” he said. “Then draw the rune that makes it speak.”

  Nathan stared at them.

  He knew the theory: Low-tier elements each had a standard casting shape, a unique glyph, and three common modifiers for action, scale, and boundary. You built spells like sentences: Subject. Verb. Intention. But when he raised his stylus, the glyphs swam. He tried drawing the fire base. Triangle, loop, curl. It flickered, pulsed weakly… then cracked down the center and fell apart. Across the room, Roremand etched the metal symbol with delicate precision. It rang softly when he finished, a clean silver resonance. The kind of note that made everyone turn to look. Nathan tried again. Water: a flowing spiral with a triple tail. He made it halfway before the rune reversed itself, spinning the wrong way like it was mocking him. The stylus sparked. A sharp, hot jolt ran up his arm, and the whole thing blinked out.

  Varis sighed. “Mr. Quinn,” he said. “If you plan to use brute force to carve runes, I suggest a hammer and chisel.”

  “I’m not trying to force it.”

  “Then try understanding it,” Varis said. “Runes are language. Yours is speaking gibberish.”

  Nathan looked down at his page. The ink shimmered faintly. Not gone, not stable. It almost looked like… ripples.

  Lissandre leaned over. “Want me to cause a distraction?” she whispered. “I can have my imaginary pet salamander fake a firebomb.”

  He smiled weakly. “I’ll survive.”

  “Shame,” she whispered. “I was gonna name it Phil.”

  Casting – South Arena Hall

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  By the time Nathan reached the arena, his fingers still tingled from the rune backlash. The casting space was a broad ring of reinforced tiles, sectioned by floating glyphs. The stone beneath their feet constantly rearranged itself—smoothing, raising, shifting depending on the exercise. Today’s focus: target casting. Professor Brannock’s silhouette stood at the far end of the arena, backlit by the morning light pouring in through the arched windows. His coat swirled with flame-etched patterns, each glowing faintly, responding to his elemental command. “You are not warriors yet,” he growled. “You are not artists. You are infants, armed with sharp objects. Let’s see if you can cut without killing yourselves.” He clapped his hands. Dozens of targets appeared—stone, cloth, wood, metal. All animated. They danced through the air on floating orbs of energy, weaving and spinning. “You’ll hit each one with your base element. One spell per target. Fire mages—burn. Water—freeze. Metal—fracture. You will not use area magic. You will not improvise. And you will not melt anything you can’t explain.” That last part was directed at Nathan. He could feel it.

  Roremand stepped into the lane next to him. His stylus was already in hand. Calm. Composed. Unbothered.

  Nathan moved into position. He drew the circle. Held his palm to the center. Tried to summon water. Nothing. He tried again. Circle. Palm. Focus. Still nothing. But something moved inside him. Not a spell—a shape. A sound. A pull. He didn’t even draw the rune. Just felt the motion—and the target across from him jerked sideways with a snap, like gravity had twisted midair. The wood dummy folded in on itself. No flame. No impact. Just compression. The entire arena paused.

  Roremand turned to him, eyes narrow. “That wasn’t any element I know.”

  Nathan’s pulse was racing.

  Brannock walked over.

  “Quinn,” he said, voice low. “Do you want to be benched for the rest of the term?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You didn’t understand,” Brannock snapped. “This is not instinct. It is craft. You don’t feel your way through casting, you learn it. Now go sit down before you pull the roof down.”

  Nathan backed away. Every eye was on him. Again.

  Companions – Tower 5, Room 8F

  The path to Companions class wound down from the eastern tower into a half-wild valley, where cultivated trails faded into soft glades and ringed clearings. Magic thrummed through the ground here—not structured like runes, but feral, restless. The kind of old magic that didn’t need permission. They were told to leave their weapons behind. Even styluses. “The creatures of this glade respond to intent, not force,” read the floating notice. “Attempting to impress them with raw power is discouraged. You won’t like the result.” Nathan walked at the back of the line of first-years, rubbing his palm absentmindedly. His casting circle had left a shimmer on his skin earlier—an echo of gold that hadn’t faded fully. He tucked it out of sight. The clearing opened like a story—wide, flat moss underfoot, surrounded by birch trees whose silver trunks bent slightly inward, as if they too were watching. No desks, no platforms. Just a circle marked faintly with intertwined runes burned into the soil. And at the center: Professor Caelinn. She stood barefoot, her staff rooted beside her in the earth. Hair braided with flowers and bits of vine, eyes sharp beneath a smooth brow. Her cloak trailed behind her like living ivy. “Welcome,” she said softly, yet every student heard her. “This is not a place of order. It is a place of invitation. Here, you will not summon companions—you will meet them. If they wish it.” She raised one hand, and a wave of magic pulsed outward through the moss. The air shimmered faintly. The light bent. “Today, we begin your first Bonding Attempt. No expectations. No promises. Simply… offer yourselves. And listen.”

  They spread out into a wide circle around the edge of the glade. Each student was given a small chalk-glass medallion inscribed with a summoning rune. When pressed against their chest, it would open a channel between caster and companion—a call without words. “If you are heard,” Caelinn said, “they will come. Do not grab. Do not speak. Let them approach. Bonds are built in silence first.” One by one, the students began.

  A girl near the center pressed her medallion. A shimmer answered—and a green-winged lynx, no bigger than a rabbit, padded out of the trees and sat beside her. A boy to Nathan’s left summoned a cloud of glittering insects that hovered near his shoulder, forming fractal shapes as he smiled in amazement. Krit’s medallion pulsed deep blue. Nothing came. But the ground beneath them cracked open ever so slightly, and a glowing vine unfurled, curling around their wrist, pulsing once, then fading. Krit opened their eyes, expression unreadable. Lissandre’s turn came. She pressed the charm to her sternum, eyes closed. A ripple spread through the glade.

  Moments later, a small creature emerged—half flame, half fur. A salamander of coals, with eyes like garnets. It climbed her arm without hesitation. She whispered, “Phil, You’re real.” and it settled on her shoulder.

  Then it was Nathan’s turn. He pressed the medallion to his chest. He closed his eyes. Called out—not with words, but intention. He pictured the shape of the glade, the echo in his bones, the golden thread of something still unspoken in him. The medallion warmed. For a second, he felt it—something stir on the edge of thought. A pressure in the air. A soundless chord.

  And then…

  Nothing.

  The warmth faded.

  The glade returned to stillness.

  No eyes in the trees. No footsteps. No bond.

  Nathan opened his eyes.

  Professor Caelinn was watching him.

  So were half the class.

  “Sometimes,” she said gently, “the right call does not come first. You may try again. But not today.”

  Nathan nodded, throat tight. He turned before anyone could speak and walked back toward the trees.

  No one stopped him.

  But as he left the circle, he felt it again.

  A flicker. Barely there.

  A shape. Large. Watching.

  It did not come forward.

  But it did not leave.