In the tallest spire of the Null Collegium, five figures sat in stillness around a blackstone table veined with pale silver. The walls were alive with faint reflections—echoes of meetings long past, their memories woven into the glass. No names were spoken. They had no need for them.
"The realm's edge is thinning," said the figure in grey. "The mist is receding too quickly for this time of year."
A second voice, precise and sharp, replied, "How many incidents?"
"Four confirmed. Aberrant activity. One involved a corrupted wyrm form. Stone-scorch patterns suggest Paragon or above level."
"Any casualties?"
"None reported. But two patrols are missing. No trace. No final messages."
A silence passed—short, but heavy.
"We've also received reports of rogue Brandbearers in the south. Veilmarked, likely. Possibly more."
The third voice—low and smooth—spoke from the far end. "Are they coordinated?"
"Not yet. But they're getting bolder."
Another silence.
Then, from the eldest figure, cloaked in ash-grey: "The Fate Current is stirring."
"It always stirs," muttered one. "The question is what's waking it."
The discussion shifted.
"What of this year's initiates?" asked a new voice, lighter, amused. "Any actual talent, or just another round of legacy sponsors?"
The grey-robed one answered. "Three notable entries."
"Let's hear them."
"First, a Mirror-Touched—Eiran Arvane. Noble line. Gifted with perception, stable under pressure. He projected a full Grief Echo during intake without flinching."
A nod. "The Arvanes always breed sharp minds."
"Second, Flame-Bound. Valen Cindral. From the Cindral war-clan. Raw power. Dominance response in his Rite nearly reached Adept-level projection."
A second voice muttered, "And I'm sure his house has nothing to do with his placement."
"Regardless, he's dangerous. And third—Veilmarked. Ilira Veyne. Daughter of the South Veil's Enforcer Council leader."
"She is able to mask her presence from other initiates easily. Seems like her mother is making sure the Enforcer Council gets another strong member.
Then the eldest voice again, soft but final. "Watch those three. Quietly. The wrong kind of promise draws the wrong kind of attention."
The next day in the training hall, Instructor Veyra stood in the middle and the initiates sat circling around her.
Kaelen sat in silence, fingers lightly pressed to the surface of a broken mirror shard resting on velvet cloth. The shard wasn't his. It was an assigned relic—one of hundreds scattered across the Hall of Impression, each one holding the faintest echo of a time long past.
Veyra paced behind them, hands folded behind her back, the silvered edges of her veil catching the torchlight like cold fire.
"Memory doesn't die," she said. "It just waits."
The hall was cold. The walls of blackglass pulsed faintly, responding to the presence of the Mirror-Touched initiates. Dozens sat cross-legged before their assigned objects—ribbons, coins, carved wood, shattered ceramics—each paired with something once touched by emotion and fate.
"The task," Veyra continued, "is not to see what you want to see. It's to find what remains."
Kaelen breathed slowly, letting the ambient silence pull him inward. His hands were steady, but his mind wasn't. The Brand between his brows pulsed faintly, responding to the shard.
He saw—
A hallway made of stone.
Footsteps echoing.
A woman standing alone, holding the mirror shard and whispering something he couldn't hear. The light bent around her—impossible angles. A man entered. His face wasn't visible, but his voice cracked the memory open.
Then—
Shatter.
Too fast.
Kaelen pulled back, breath catching in his throat. The vision dissolved into ash.
To his left, someone sobbed softly.
To his right, a boy whispered: "Nothing. Just cold."
Across the hall, Veyra moved among them like a wraith. When a girl dropped her relic and gasped aloud, the instructor caught it mid-fall without ever looking. She laid it back down gently and whispered something no one else heard.
The training ended in quiet.
No applause.
Just more silence.
"Okay," said Talen, clapping his hands together as they regrouped in the reflection yard that afternoon. "Now that we've stared into objects and cried in public, how about we try something fun?"
He tossed a smooth stone in the air and caught it. "Memory tag. Loser has to clean our alcove floors with that weird purple soap."
"You mean the soap that smells like disappointment and fear?" Corwin muttered, adjusting his glasses.
"Exactly," Talen grinned.
They formed a rough circle beneath the hanging witchlights. The reflection yard was empty save for a few wandering students and the ever-present fog pressing against the glass arches.
Talen went first, and his projection was—unsurprisingly—a raucous memory of falling off a training tower while screaming someone else's name.
Corwin caught it first, then winced. "You broke your ankle."
"And my pride."
Seren went next.
He projected a silent memory. A stone stairwell. A flickering light. No people. Just the feeling of something missing.
Talen shivered. "Ugh. Yours always feel like a dare."
"I don't do subtle," Seren replied.
Corwin projected next—a fragmented lecture hall, voices echoing with excitement. A long-forgotten debate over doctrine.
Kaelen went last. He projected a very distant memory when he was six or seven years old, helping his mother wash dishes and cook food.
Their practice session ended but the loser could not be decided. Talen was chosen to mop the floor after unanimous vote, much to his dismay.
Kaelen was lying on his bed when he decided to practice what he learnt in the morning session on his pendant.
He held up the pendant—his mother's—and pressed it to his forehead. The Brand responded instantly, glowing with soft blue light.
He breathed in—
And saw—
Blurs.
Not memories. Not quite.
He saw a shape standing in front of the mirror.
Then the same shape again—older. Or was it younger?
Then flame. Then silence. Then nothing.
The memory refused to settle. It spun in his mind like a wheel without an axle.
Kaelen held his head in pain. "It's like it's hiding itself from me."
He pocketed the pendant with more care than usual.
That evening, the dining hall felt… different.
Buzzing.
No one said it outright, but everyone was looking at the same thing: the three newcomers who walked in together like they belonged in a different world.
Valen Cindral led, broad-shouldered and fire-marked. His red cloak draped behind him like a banner, and his presence radiated dominance even in stillness. He didn't look around. He didn't need to.
Beside him, Eiran Arvane moved with precise control—sharp eyes, silver threads sewn into his dark robes. His mirror sigil glowed steady and controlled.
And to their right walked Ilira Veyne, silent as fog, her cloak buttoned to the throat, her Veilmark hidden beneath a choker of polished obsidian. Her expression was unreadable.
"They're nobles," someone whispered.
"Cindral's family commands three Emberlegions."
"Arvane's father was the high archivist of Mirrorlands. Rumor says he changed the memories of many Rogue Brandbearers and made them work for the Mirrorlands.
"And Veyne? She's Church-bound. Her family hunts rogue Veilmarked."
Kaelen watched them sit together at the corner of the high table, a spot normally reserved for visiting lecturers or senior students.
"They're not like us," Corwin said, voice low.
"Good," Seren muttered. "Let them have their own drama."
Talen leaned in. "Ten coins says one of them challenges someone by next week."
Kaelen cracked a smile. "Only ten?"
"Fine. Fifteen. I'm confident."
Even Corwin chuckled.
It didn't change the tension in the room. But it cut through it.
For a little while.
Far from the Collegium, beyond the border ridgelines and into the mists of the Shrouded Vale, a squad of twelve stood ready beneath a blood-red sky.
Their armor was ash-forged.
Their Brands glowed with heat and fire.
Commander Syra Merros paced before them, her halberd resting against her shoulder. The Flame-Bound insignia burned brightly on her chest—a Paragon level warrior. One of the few who'd survived fighting a Sovereign level Aberrant and lived to train others.
"Target is real," she said. "Aberrant. Unmarked. No precedent match. Possibly a group of Spiked Bear Aberrants."
She paused, letting that sink in.
"We go in clean. You hold your lines. You do not get clever. You stay with your pair. And when it breaks out of the fog—"
"We burn it," said the youngest soldier, practically glowing with excitement.
Merros gave a grim smile. "Yes. You burn it. With everything you have."
The fog ahead shifted.
Shapes moved.
And the squad lowered their weapons—
—ready for war.