The halls beneath Blackthorn Academy were too quiet—the kind of quiet that made every step feel like a warning. Lyra Corven and Rhoan Vale moved in near silence, their boots echoing against damp stone carved with ancient, crumbling runes. The torchlight above burned violet, casting soft, eerie shadows. It was the first real sign the Thirteenth House's magic was truly waking—and maybe the only light left down here.
Lyra's grip tightened around her wand. Her heart hadn't stopped pounding since they stepped inside. "You're sure this is it?" she whispered.
Rhoan stopped beside a moss-covered inscription chiseled into the wall:
Here lies the Ironroot's Heart.
He nodded. "The sigil blinked right here last night. Twice as bright as the others."
Lyra frowned. "So why would their remnant be hidden in a place no one talks about?"
They didn't have an answer—just a destination. The tunnel opened into a vaulted chamber that felt both sacred and forgotten. Thick stone arches curved above them like gnarled roots frozen mid-reach. In the center stood a lectern, petrified into something black and cold, with silver veins running through it like old sap. An open book rested on top—its pages alive with shifting runes that danced when you weren't looking straight at them.
But it wasn't the book that made Lyra freeze.
Below, rising from the dais like something out of a dream, was a statue. A student. Completely turned to stone—caught mid-step, as if they'd been walking to class when the earth decided to keep them. Crystalline roots spiraled up from the ground, fusing into the stone body, locking them in place.
Lyra stepped closer, breath caught in her throat. "It's… beautiful."
The figure's face was peaceful—eyes closed, a small smile still lingering. But the body told another story. Cracks lined the arms and chest, fractures like scars. As if whoever this was had fought against turning to stone, and lost.
Rhoan stepped forward carefully. "Ironroot magic always tied its people to the land. They called themselves Guardians of the Lineage. When the Accord erased them… this is what they left behind."
Lyra's voice shook. "They didn't just erase their House. They locked them in stone. Alive."
She reached out and brushed a crack along the statue's arm. The air shifted—deep, low, and dangerous. The book on the lectern trembled. Somewhere behind them, a voice called out:
"Lyra? Rhoan?"
Lyra turned. "That's Rowan."
Rhoan held out her hand. "Come on. We need to tell him."
They left the chamber in silence. Behind them, the torchlight flickered against the roots, making them look like they were breathing.
—
Outside, the night felt warmer—heavy with the smell of wet earth. Rowan stood waiting on the Moonlit Terrace, pacing beneath a sky still lit with thirteen unfamiliar constellations. His robes fluttered in the wind, but his expression didn't move until he saw them.
"They haven't moved yet," he said. "The stars are still watching."
Lyra dropped to her knees in front of him. "We found it."
Rowan's eyes sharpened. "The remnant?"
Rhoan knelt beside her. "A student. Completely petrified. Still in their sanctum."
Rowan's jaw clenched. "And the sigil? The vision?"
Rhoan nodded. "Ironroot's mark lit up like fire. It led us straight there."
He turned to Lyra. "Show me."
She put a hand on his arm. "We need to be careful. The place is sealed tight. The sigil cracked something down there—just enough to let us in. If we push too hard, the whole vault could come down."
Rowan's expression softened. He knelt. "Tell me what you saw."
Lyra took a breath. "They weren't just a statue. They looked… alive. Like they cast the spell themselves. To protect something. To protect their House. There was sorrow. But also strength. Like they knew the world would forget them—and they did it anyway."
Rowan reached for her hand. The Thirteenth's sigil pulsed faintly on her palm. "They tried to root themselves into memory."
Rhoan looked pale. "I touched the book. I could feel the spell—part of it. Something about awakening the stone. But they're gone. Their mind… their soul…"
"They're not gone," Rowan said quietly. He turned to Rhoan. "Your ink magic—could you reverse it?"
She hesitated. "Maybe. I'd need blood. Focus. Energy. And… it might cost something else. Something I haven't figured out yet."
"Something from the Flame?" Lyra asked softly.
Rhoan nodded.
Lyra didn't hesitate. She took Rhoan's hand. "Then we'll face it. Together."
Rowan rose. "Let's go back. It's time."
—
Back in the Vault
The air was thick, damp, and humming with magic. They walked slower this time, every step echoing off the walls. Mushrooms bloomed suddenly along the stones, reaching for the sigils glowing faintly on Rowan's skin. By the time they reached the chamber, the statue was exactly where they'd left it—still, waiting.
Lyra raised her wand, eyes closed. "Earth," she whispered, "give back what you took."
The roots shivered. Cracks lit up with violet fire, pulsing along the statue's chest and arms.
Rhoan stepped in, laying her palm against the cold stone. Ink spread from her fingers, curling like vines. She whispered a word none of them had ever heard.
The fire flared—bright, wild—and then something broke.
Stone cracked. Pieces fell away from the statue like dead bark. A hand. A foot. A breath.
Lyra gasped. "Rowan—help!"
He dropped beside the figure, crafting a ring of flame that hovered—not burning, but holding. The roots pulled back, hissing like they were alive, spitting shards of ironwood onto the floor.
Rhoan's voice filled the room, her magic burning brighter. The sigil on her hand pulsed once—then leapt into the statue's chest, like planting a seed.
The figure twitched. Then breathed.
The girl gasped—dry and ragged. Dust poured off her robes. Her eyes flew open, glowing with violet light.
Rowan caught her before she fell. "It's all right," he said softly. "You're safe."
She blinked, dazed, touching her own hands as if she didn't believe they were hers. "I… remember."
Lyra let out the breath she'd been holding for what felt like years. "Welcome back."
Rhoan stepped closer, offering a trembling hand. "I'm Rhoan. This is Lyra. And that's Rowan."
The girl looked between them. "Rowan Vale… the Flamebound?"
He nodded.
Her lip trembled. "You… brought me back?"
Rowan helped her sit up fully. "And you are Ironroot's heir. Your House isn't gone."
She placed a hand over her chest. The Thirteenth sigil pulsed faintly beneath her skin. "The Flame… it's in me?"
"It's in all of us," Rowan said.
She looked around at the ruined chamber. The shattered lectern. The withered roots. And something lit behind her eyes—grief, yes, but also purpose.
"Then we rebuild."
—
Aboveground
By the time they reached the Moonlit Terrace again, word had already spread. Students clustered outside the Vault, whispering, shouting, holding their breath. The constellations above pulsed like they were watching too.
When Rowan, Lyra, Rhoan, and the girl stepped out into the open, the world seemed to pause.
Her name was Mira Thorne, Lyra whispered.
The crowd parted. Some gasped. Some cried. And then—cheers, hesitant but growing. Mira stood tall, earth-dusted, draped in a cloak of bark and stone, and raised one hand in greeting. It trembled—but it was enough.
Rowan leaned toward Lyra. "This is the start."
She nodded. "One memory brought back. So many left to find."
Rhoan squeezed both their hands. "There's always a cost."
Rowan looked down at their palms—his, Lyra's, Rhoan's—all marked, all changed. "Then we pay it together."
Above them, twelve constellations blinked out—erased again. But one remained: Ironroot. Its star glowed softly, guiding them.
Avery stepped forward, eyes wide. "What now?"
Rowan didn't look away from the sky. "Now we find the next one."
Lyra's voice was clear, steady. "The House of Breathless Oaths is calling."
Rhoan smiled through her exhaustion. "Then let's go answer."
Together, they stepped forward - into the dark, into the unknown, toward the pieces of a forgotten world waiting to be found.
Follow me on instagram @favouronwudiwe_