The torches lining Blackthorn Academy's Grand Hall sputtered and hissed like they were trying to hold back the darkness. Smoke curled into the vaulted ceiling, slipping into every crack like it was searching for something lost. Once, the banners of the Twelve Houses had hung proud along the walls. Now, a new standard stirred in the flickering light—a banner of deep violet crossed with a silver sigil no one recognized. The Thirteenth. It had appeared overnight. No one had dared touch it.
At the center of the ruined hall stood a throne—not a symbol, not a seat—but a statement. Hewn from obsidian memory, it shimmered like a mirror of everything forgotten. And in it sat Rowan Vale, not as a boy who had survived the storm, but as a man who had become it.
Around him gathered the remnants of power: the heads of Houses, senior professors, and student champions. Some gripped their wands too tightly. Others touched their embroidered robes like they needed reassurance that their sigils still meant something. The air was so quiet, their breathing sounded like war drums.
Lyra Corven stood to Rowan's left, her silver eyes catching firelight like mirrors. On his right, Avery Morn leaned slightly on his cane—still recovering from the battle, but watching the hall like it might turn on them at any moment. His eyes kept drifting to the thorn-crowned symbol stitched across Rowan's chestplate.
When Rowan rose, it felt like time slowed to meet him. His presence filled the space like something ancient waking.
"I didn't call you here to claim a throne," he said, voice calm but thunder-deep. "Or to demand your loyalty. I called you to remember what we were made to forget."
Silence stretched thin. Even the most hardened of them—like Archon Valen from House Stone—couldn't look away.
"You were taught there were twelve Houses. Twelve pillars of magic. That was never the whole truth." He raised a hand.
The torches dimmed. The hall vibrated like it was breathing.
From the shadows behind him, figures emerged—not quite alive, not quite gone. A girl in ember-red robes. A man with hair like spun starlight. A child with a midnight-blue mark on her brow. They flickered like memories trying to hold their shape.
Rowan lowered his voice, yet it rang through the hall. "These are the Forgotten. Not killed in war, but erased—by design. Their names struck from the Archive. Their histories buried by a pact no one remembers signing."
Gasps broke through the crowd. The figures stepped forward, one by one, flickering into fuller being.
Then one moved—a woman cloaked in ash-gold light. She raised a finger.
Fire bloomed in the air.
"Maren Veil."
The name hit like a bell toll. Rowan flinched—but only slightly. He'd whispered that name once in his sleep. It had followed him ever since.
Beside him, Lyra gave a small nod. Rowan took a step forward.
Another specter emerged, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Caelith Dawen."
Every name lit the room a little more. Every face felt like a truth clawing its way to the surface.
A girl in the crowd raised a trembling hand. "If they were so powerful… why did they disappear?"
Lyra answered, her voice soft but sharp: "Because they told the truth. And truth—real truth—undoes the lies we build worlds on."
A teacher from House Glass spoke, arms crossed tight. "Even if this is real, they don't belong. They're not part of our history."
"They are the history," Rowan said. "They carved the runes in these walls. They shaped these towers. They didn't vanish. They were hidden—because their magic welcomed what the Twelve feared: difference, wildness, truth."
Another ghost stepped forward.
"Isane Grove."
Her voice, barely a whisper: "We were never gone. Just buried under fear."
The hall shook—like the Academy itself was listening.
Rowan turned to the Forgotten. "Go. Speak your names. Tell your stories. Let them remember why the Thirteenth matters."
The spirits bowed and vanished, each leaving behind a banner of fire and shadow—twelve new standards to hang beside the Thirteenth.
Silence fell again. Then—
"To unleash them is to break the Pact," said Professor Liris of House Vellum, her voice clear and cold. "You risk unchaining powers we don't understand."
Rowan looked at her. "Better to face truth than to build a kingdom on silence."
From deep in the hall, the head of House Thorn murmured, "What if the world can't survive all its truths?"
Lyra stepped forward. "Then we build one that can."
Above them, the new banners pulsed with violet light. The Thirteenth star at the apex of the ceiling began to glow.
Rowan raised an empty hand. "This isn't about choosing a side. It's about choosing to see. If you can't stand for the erased, at least don't pretend the erasing never happened."
He stepped off the dais.
At first, no one moved.
Then—one student. Then another. Then House by House—Ember, Glass, Storm, Stone—joined him. Professors followed. Champions. Scholars.
Until only one place remained empty.
Lyra took Rowan's hand.
"You did it," she said quietly.
He shook his head. "We did. For them."
The thirteenth banner flared to life—violet flame roaring like dawn.
Outside, the storm broke. Sunlight pierced the clouds.
Rowan looked out at the hall. "You remember now," he said softly. "And that's where power begins."
One by one, voices rose - not chanting, but naming.
"Maren Veil."
"Caelith Dawen."
"Isane Grove."
"I remember…"
The Grand Hall wasn't quiet anymore. It was alive.
The Convocation of Thirteen had begun.
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