A week passed since the duel, but echoes of it still rang through Arcanum's halls like whispered scripture. Rowan Edevane was no longer the academy's weakest mage. He was its most unpredictable.
And unpredictability, in a world defined by spell equations and magical logic, was far more terrifying than raw power.
The professors grew quiet around him.
Students started leaving offerings near his practice bench—coins, joke cards, even fragments of illusion scrolls. Not out of reverence, but confusion. Uncertainty. Fear mixed with curiosity. They didn't know what he was.
Neither did Rowan.
---
That morning, Rowan received a sealed letter under his door. Black wax, no crest.
He opened it.
> "A child speaks your name in dreams. She draws your sigil in dirt. They call her the Prophet. Come to the village of Wyrmhearth. Alone."
Rowan folded the letter neatly.
Then he smiled.
"Finally," he said. "Someone who might be even crazier than me."
---
Wyrmhearth Village – three days' ride from the academy, nestled at the edge of the Spellscar Wastes. A place of twisted roots, bent skies, and wild mana remnants from ancient wars.
Rowan traveled under a false name, wearing a plain cloak and a ring of subtle misdirection—a curse-gift from Lilith.
When he arrived, the village was already waiting.
Men and women stood in silence as he walked past. Eyes wide. Faces pale. Some bowed. Some crossed themselves.
At the heart of the town was a shrine—not to a god, but to a symbol: a jester's mask cracked down the middle.
Rowan stared.
"You must be the Chosen," said a voice.
A girl stepped forward. No more than ten. Her eyes were white—not blind, but glowing. She held a stuffed rabbit missing one ear.
"My name is Mira," she said. "I see you in the Between."
Rowan knelt to her level.
"And what do you see?"
"You unmake things," Mira whispered. "But you don't destroy them. You change the shape of real."
Rowan blinked. "Have you always been like this?"
She nodded. "I started speaking in rhymes after the Red Moon. Then they started listening."
"They?"
She pointed up. "Not the gods. The ideas. They have faces now."
---
That evening, Mira took Rowan to her dream-place: a hollow beneath an ancient tree, filled with sketches. Pages upon pages of drawings—Rowan's face, scenes from the academy, fragments of illusion spells no villager should know.
And in the center, a prophecy.
> "When the Laughing Flame meets the Blade of Glass, the world will split by laughter."
Rowan's hand brushed the paper.
Selia.
Mira sat beside him. "They call me Prophet. But I'm just a mirror. You're the joke that bends the punchline."
---
Later that night, Rowan sat by the village well. Mira slept inside.
Faye appeared beside him, stepping from the shadow of the shrine.
"She's touched by something ancient," she said. "Not divine. Not cursed. Just… conceptual."
Rowan nodded. "A mirror to my madness."
Faye handed him another letter. "From Arcanum. The Headmaster wants a meeting."
"Let him wait."
"He suspects the cult is spreading through faculty now. The Gilded Mask may have planted someone."
Rowan sighed.
"Let's say I go back. What then?"
Faye looked toward the moon. "Then you choose. You either escalate this prank into revolution… or you burn it all to keep the lie alive."
Rowan stood.
And somewhere, in the dark beyond the Spellscar Wastes, a low laugh echoed.
Not his.
---
Meanwhile, within Arcanum's hidden east wing...
Selia sat across from Headmaster Valden. Her Seer Eyes were dimmed by a suppression glyph. Her posture was tense.
"He can't be allowed to continue," she said.
Valden remained still. "And yet, you hesitate."
"He's dangerous."
"He is change," Valden replied. "And change is always dangerous. But you've begun to believe, haven't you?"
Selia clenched her fists.
"No. But I doubt myself. That's worse."
Valden turned toward the window.
"Prepare yourself, Seer. The next act begins soon. And I fear none of us will leave the stage unchanged."
END OF CHAPTER 12