No one remembered the name of the man who had sealed it.
Not truly.
His name had long been stripped from the tongues of men, lost to the grinding of time and the decay of memory. They spoke of him only in quiet murmurs, in half-forgotten tales told near smoky hearths where the fires burned high and the wind rattled at old wooden shutters.
They called him The First Scribe.
A title, not a name.
And titles—they linger longer than names.
Some said he had been a man of no nation, a wanderer, a scholar who wandered too far into places where words twisted and the rules of magic began to fray at the seams. Others whispered he'd been a sorcerer of unmatched genius, or perhaps not a man at all, but some strange thing that had worn the shape of a man for a time.
The stories, as they often do, twisted and curled into shapes that no longer fit together.
But there was always one thing they agreed upon:
He had found something.
Not gold.
Not kingdoms.
Not spells of fire and ruin.
But something far more dangerous.
A page.
Just one.
Blank, they said.
And it had changed everything.
---
Some tales said the page devoured whole cities, swallowing them into silence without a single trace left behind. Others claimed it whispered to those who touched it, offering power in soft, poisoned words until they lost themselves completely. There were even those who believed it could rewrite fate itself, scribbling away futures like ink spilled across old parchment.
The details were always different.
But the ending was always the same.
The First Scribe vanished.
The page waited.
Because pages—they always wait.
They wait for the one who will turn them.
---
It had waited long.
Longer than any alive could know.
And far from the grand cities, far from the polished marble halls of the Nobles and their glittering courts, tucked away in a valley few maps even bothered to name, it waited still.
---
Veylan Town — Grimoire Day
The town of Veylan was the kind of place the world forgot.
It wasn't marked on most maps, and those who passed through rarely stayed long. The streets were narrow, lined with uneven cobblestones and crooked timber houses with sagging roofs. Moss crept up the walls, and the air was always damp, smelling of old wood, smoke, and earth.
But today—today was different.
Today was Grimoire Day.
---
The town square was packed, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, a low hum of nervous chatter hanging in the air.
Banners hung from every window, faded but proud, each bearing the sigil of the Mystic Legions—thirteen in all, stitched with ancient symbols and colors that still shone despite the wear of years.
On this day, every child who had reached their thirteenth year would stand beneath the Arch of Binding.
And if fate was kind, they would be chosen.
---
The streets were divided.
Commoners filled the square, dressed in their best clothes—simple, worn, but neatly kept for the occasion. They stood close to the stage, their faces lit with hope and fear.
Nobles lounged in raised balconies, draped in silks and velvet, their faces half-hidden behind ornate masks carved with jewels and precious metals. They watched from above, cold and distant, as if they were viewing a play rather than the futures of the children below.
And then there were the Outcasts.
They didn't stand in the square.
They were allowed only at the edges, kept behind the black iron fences that ringed the square like a cage.
---
Zayn Calder was among them.
---
He stood apart even from the Outcasts, perched high on the crumbling wall of an old bell tower overlooking the square.
Wind tugged at his dark cloak, his hood pulled low over his face. He was still, watching the ceremony with eyes that didn't blink, didn't waver.
His fingers traced the faint curve of the birthmark that wound up the side of his neck—a strange, curling shape like ink spilled across pale skin.
A mark that had always drawn stares.
A mark that had never faded.
---
"Zayn."
The voice was quiet, but it carried in the wind.
He didn't turn.
She climbed up beside him with ease, moving with the quiet grace of someone who had done this more than once. Lyra Vellin—silver hair glinting in the sun, eyes like stormlight.
"You shouldn't be up here," she said, brushing her hair behind one ear. "They'll see you."
"I don't care."
"You do." Her voice softened. "You always care."
---
Below, the bell tolled—once, then twice, deep and loud enough to make the ground shiver.
The Grimoire Ceremony had begun.
---
They watched in silence as the first child was called.
A boy from one of the richer merchant families. He walked stiffly, chest puffed out, trembling beneath the Arch of Binding.
Light gathered.
A Grimoire descended, wrapped in blue fire.
There were cheers from the crowd.
The boy clutched the book like it was a lifeline, his face breaking into a grin so wide it looked painful.
---
More names were called.
Grimoires fell like rain, each wrapped in the magic of its wielder—fire, water, lightning, wind.
Some children wept in joy.
Others fainted from the weight of it.
---
Lyra watched with quiet eyes, but Zayn could see the tightness in her hands, the way her fingers dug into her sleeves.
"It'll be your turn soon," he said, voice low.
She glanced at him, then away. "I know."
---
He didn't ask if she was afraid.
They were all afraid.
---
More names.
More Grimoires.
The square burned with light.
---
And then—
"Lyra Vellin."
The name rang out, clear as the bell.
Zayn didn't speak as she stood, smoothing her cloak with steady fingers.
Her steps were sure, graceful, but he saw the tightness in her jaw.
---
She walked beneath the Arch of Binding.
The runes flared, brighter than before.
Gasps filled the air as a Grimoire appeared—deep green, entwined with silver vines that pulsed softly like veins beneath skin.
Seventh Legion, Zayn thought.
Order of Verdance.
A Legion known for magic of growth, poison, and life itself.
---
She took the book in trembling hands, bowing low as tradition demanded, though her eyes flicked to Zayn's before she turned away.
---
Then the hall grew quiet again.
Because there was only one name left.
---
"Zayn Calder."
---
Silence.
---
No one moved.
Whispers broke like waves.
"An outcast?"
"They're letting him stand"
"He shouldn't be here___"
---
Zayn moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His steps echoed in the sudden hush.
---
He passed through the crowd without looking at anyone, his hood falling back to reveal the mark curling up his neck, glowing faintly under the magic-heavy air.
People drew back as he passed.
He walked beneath the Arch of Binding.
---
Nothing happened.
Seconds stretched.
The Masters of Ceremony whispered to one another.
Still—no Grimoire came.
Snickers began to rise from the Commoner children.
Even the Nobles leaned forward, watching in amusement, waiting to see the Outcast shamed and sent away.
---
And then—
The Arch shattered.
---
The air split open, black lines tearing through the sky above the square like claws raking through silk.
From the depths of that dark wound, a book emerged—not descending gently like the others, but dragged upward from the shadow beneath Zayn's feet.
---
It was bound in cracked black leather, scarred and ancient, wrapped in heavy iron chains that melted away as it rose.
The crowd froze, too stunned to even scream.
---
The book landed in Zayn's hands.
Cold.
Heavy.
It breathed beneath his fingers.
---
He opened it.
---
Inside, there was nothing.
Only empty pages.
Except for one.
---
A single page near the center held markings that moved, shifting and twisting, crawling like living things across the parchment.
---
The birthmark on his neck flared.
Gold light seared across his skin, blooming like wildfire.
---
People began to scream.
Nobles stood, shouting.
Some captains reached for their weapons.
---
But Zayn didn't move.
He simply stared at the book.
---
And far beneath the screams, beneath the chaos, he heard it.
A voice.
Soft.
Laughing
---
"Welcome back".