The thunderous rain hadn't let up by the time Ezra slipped back into his dorm room — a small corner space on the academy's highest floor, with a solitary window looking out over the training grounds and forests that surrounded Eldoria. The drops fell in silver lines against the glass, blurring the world outside into shimmering chaos — much like Ezra's own mind.
He turned the rune-inscribed box over in his hands. The artifact glowed faintly, its magic pulse growing and fading in a slow, deliberate rhythm — a magical heartbeat. Inside, something pressed against its gold casing, eager to break free. Felton Harper had kept this box a secret, and now it fell into Ezra's care. The question was: what was it?
He pressed his finger against a small rune that glimmered faintly at the corner of the box. The rune responded with a spark of purple-black magic — a spark that seemed alive — a manifestation of something ancient, something powerful. Ezra reluctantly drew his magic inward, adding his own power to it, trying to stabilize whatever was within. But something pushed back, resisting him. The box remained locked — its magic a labyrinth he hadn't yet solved.
He placed it safely in a hidden compartment within his trunk, adding additional wards for protection, then turned his focus inward. Felton Harper was gone, without a chance to say goodbye, without a path forward. The academy's greatest mage, a man who had taught him everything he knew, had been stolen away. And nobody seemed to care — or even realize — that something was profoundly awry.
He fell back on his mattress, staring up at the gold-leafed ceiling. His pulse slowly fell back toward normal, his magic stabilizing alongside his nervous system. His mind turned toward Felton's last words — "leave… now"— a warning. Whatever Felton had stumbled upon, it was something much bigger than a simple conspiracy. It was something that struck at the very heart of magic itself.
The following morning, Ezra slipped out of his dorm, careful to avoid the professors' routines. His destination was the academy's Forbidden Archive — a labyrinthine chamber rumored to hold knowledge that fell outside the understanding or control of ordinary magic users. Few knew its entrance, and even fewer possessed the authorization to view its contents.
He made his way toward the abandoned south wing — a section closed off due to structural weaknesses and a magical incident decades prior. The floors were uneven, the stones disrupted by a catastrophic rune backlash. Large tapestries fell in tatters from the walls, their colors fading. The silence was oppressive, punctuated by the occasional drop of water seeping through a crack in the ceiling.
He pressed his hand against a rune-marked section of wall — a rune that glimmered faintly under his magic's pulse — and whispered the unlocking chant Felton had taught him in their private lessons: "Veritas per arcanum" — "the truth through magic." The rune glowed briefly, then fell inward, creating a doorway that opened into a descending spiral staircase made entirely of obsidian.
Flames sprang to life in a circle of wall sconces, casting a ghostly orange glow down into the abyss. Ezra drew a deep breath, tightened his grip on his satchel, and began his descent.
Step by step, the air grew thick with magic. His skin began to prickle; his senses grew sharper. The raw power that flowed through these stones seemed alive, a creature that might appreciate or destroy him in equal measure.
At the bottom, a colossal wooden gate stood before him, bound by chains forged from enchanted metal. The chains glimmered faintly with rune magic — a last barrier, a lock meant to keep danger from spreading upward. Ezra pressed his fingertips against the chains. His magic flowed through them, unlocking their wards. The chains fell away with a heavy clatter.
He pressed forward, entering the Forbidden Archive. Inside, row upon row of ancient tomes, scrolls, and artifact cases filled the space — a vast repository of knowledge that many considered prohibited or even dangerous.
He turned down a row, following a faint pulse he felt from the box safely stashed in his pocket — a pulse that seemed to respond to something within the archive itself. His path drew him toward a pedestal made of obsidian. At its center rested a tome bound in dragon skin, its pages shimmering faintly with gold script.
He opened the tome — and what he saw made his pulse accelerate. The text glowed as he turned its fragile pages, a shimmering form slowly lifting from within — a manifestation of a forgotten magic, a magic that Felton Harper had died trying to protect.
Ezra tightened his grip. Whatever was bound within these pages, whatever Felton Harper had kept from the world, it was something he was destined to unveil.