The bell was already tolling when Kael rushed up the tower stairs, a parchment clutched in his hand.
He glanced toward the narrow glass windows as he climbed. Wind battered the panes in relentless bursts, and beyond them the lake roared under the bruised sky. Waves churned like a living thing, black and furious, hurling them selves against the island's stone edges. Waves rose and collapsed in wild succession, striking the shores with a rhythm that felt deliberate, almost alive. Kael had always resented the endless climb of the White Tower, taller than any other structure on the island, a monstrosity of marble and echoing steps.
"Master Wennek!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the old man's door. Thunder answered him. He knocked again, louder, remembering the master's rule: When I do not answer, you may enter.
Kael pushed the door open. The chamber was empty.
The balcony door stood ajar. He stepped out, hoping to find Wennek watching the storm as he often did. Instead he found only a soft couch, damp with wind-driven mist, and one of the master's favorite books lying abandoned on the marble floor.
Where is he? Where could he have gone?
The sky overhead looked swollen and bruised, the clouds so heavy with rain it seemed they might drown the world.
Then came a low rolling thunder that split the sky open. He knew with certainty that an endless rain would bathe the island tonight.
And so the heavens wept.
He hurried through the grey cloisters of the tower. Apprentices and scholars scattered, running across the pavements below like frantic black ants. Lightning tore the sky into white shards. Near the stairwell to the lower levels, Kael found Lyra, panting, drenched, strands of auburn hair plastered to her face.
"He's gone below," she gasped. "He's gone to the Hall of Stars."
"What?" Kael did not believe his ears. "Were you with him?"
"No.'' She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath. "Sam saw him taking the iron cage down. He came straight to me, so I rushed up here to alert you." Her voice cracked. "Has he forgotten? No one is allowed to enter that place, not apprentices, not masters. Even Wennek. What is he doing, Kael?"
Kael's heart lurched. The old man had spoken of his dreams, recurring visions of fire, ruin, skies breaking. He had warned Kael of a time when he might be forced to act on them. "He means to perform the ritual," Kael whispered, the realization hitting him like a blade between the ribs. "We have to stop him."
Lyra stared at him, wide-eyed. "The… ritual? Kael -what ritual? What are you talking about?"
"We have no time," he said sharply. "Come."
They tore down the tower stairs, lightning and thunder chasing them. Kael's voice was low and urgent as they reached the lower floor. "He said the dreams came again," he muttered. "Something about the sky breaking. The world burning. He thinks this is the hour." Lyra swallowed hard but said nothing.
They reached the lower floor, Kael rushed to the iron wheel. He spun it, and the chains came to life with a clank as the iron cage rose from the depths. When the gate cranked open, he ushered her inside. Lantern-light flickered brightly, casting leaping shadows across the walls as the cage descended. Cold air funneled upward from the depths as if the Hall of Stars exhaled its warning, carrying the scent of rust and something older. The cage jolted downward into the dark.
The elevator shuddered to a stop in the lowest halls. Four torches burned along the corridor beyond, their flames bending in a cold, unnatural draft. The door to the Hall of Stars was wide open.
Together they sneaked through the archway toward the door, the air growing colder and heavier with each step.
The Hall of Stars spread before them, vast and impossible.
Kael's breath left him.
It was vast, older than the Sanctory itself, carved from the island's bedrock. The ceiling arched high above, covered in rune-carved stone etched with an ancient language spoken now only by the highest masters. In the center of the square hall stood a raised dais, encircled by six black pillars engraved with symbols no living tongue could name. Atop the dais shimmered a great mirror -taller than two men, framed in gold and obsidian.
The Mirror of the unbidden. What else could it be? Kael did not know exactly the story behind the mirror, save for the fact that no one should get near it, and certainly not touch it.
Master Wennek stood before it. His long grey beard and white robes whipped in the unnatural wind spiraling around him. Lightning sparks crawled across the glowing ceiling, trapped and refracted by the dome, casting wild shadows across his face.
"Master!" Kael shouted. The old man didn't turn. "You must stop this!" Wennek's hands trembled on his staff as he whispered words not meant for mortal tongues.
Runes on the pillars and ceiling began to glow, one after another, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Kael ran forward. "Master Wennek, please! The dreams were warnings, not commands!" He lied, anything to stop him.
The old man finally turned. His eyes burned fever-bright.
"You do not understand, child. The heavens have shown me the brink of the world. Fire, ashes, silence. We stand upon its edge." His voice cracked. "Only this will mend the wound." There was something wrong in his gaze, something had consumed him.
"Master," Kael pleaded, stepping closer, "this will break the world. Remember what you told me. You told me that no one should ever use this hall and the mirror."
For a moment, Wennek's gaze softened. He looked at Kael the way he had when the boy was small, when he had first arrived at the Island of Wisdom. A warm, fleeting smile. Then he turned back to the mirror.
"I could not save them," he whispered. "Not my mother. Not my sister. But I can save this world."
As Wennek raised his staff, whispering in the old tongue, Kael saw his right palm split open, blood running down his wrist. He noticed there were drops of blood on the dais as well. The runes drank it eagerly, pulsing brighter and brighter until they blazed white.
On the podium beside the dais laid a dusty book, its pages fluttering violently. Lyra went on and picked it up. 'Blood to open the seal, runes to call the gate, the mirror to reflect the heavens' answer' She muttered the words on the page, "leave it, Lyra" Kael urged.
Wennek slammed his staff into the center of the rune circle beneath the dais.
Kael's skin prickled. The air went utterly still.
"Master, stop!"
But Wennek's answer was swallowed by a blinding flash.
The mirror burst into light.
The old man gasped and fell to his knees, his staff clattering across the stone.
"Blessed be the Maker," he whispered. "You hear me. Oh, you hear me. You have come."
Kael turned to Lyra. She was trembling, staring into the glowing mirror.
"I've seen this," she sniveled heavily. "In my dreams. Everyone dies in that dream." In the mirror, three gemstones circled one another—one crimson, one blue, one silver.
Wennek's expression shifted. Joy collapsed into horror.
"The sky will break before dawn," he whispered.
Kael felt cold rise up his spine. "What do you mean?"
The ground began to quake. Shelves toppled. Lanterns shattered. Tomes and ancient artifacts smashed across the floor. The Hall of Stars trembled violently.
"We have to go!" Kael shouted, grabbing Wennek's arm. The old man was sobbing, whether from grief or madness, Kael could not tell. Lyra took his other side, and together they pulled him from the hall.
"The sky will break before dawn," Wennek repeated. Again. And again. His voice turned hollow, rhythmic, almost a chant.
Outside, the smaller tower had collapsed. Masters and apprentices shouted, ran, fell, screamed, and some were crying out loud prayers. Bells tolled in disharmony, somewhere between panic and warning. Masters barked orders over the clamor. The Sanctory had been engulfed in chaos.
"What now?" Lyra panted.
"Take Master Wennek to the Hall of Worship," Kael said. "It's the only structure that won't fall."
"What about you?"
"I'm going to the Grey Tower. Master Haldrin must see him." Lyra nodded and hurried away with the old man.
Kael ran through trembling halls, past collapsing structures and panicked apprentices. Wind clawed at his robes, carrying the scent of the lake. One corner of the Sanctory was aflame. He forced himself onward.
Please let him live. Maker, don't take him.
As he reached the Grey Tower, the trembling stopped. The island fell eerily silent, except for the chattering. Even the storm had weakened to a misting drizzle. Panic shifted to murmured confusion.
Relief should have come. It didn't.
Kael sensed the wrongness instantly, a hollow pressure behind his ribs. He clenched his fists, as if grounding himself could steady the world.
A deafening sound tore the air apart.
His vision went white. His ears screamed. When sight returned, the sky had changed, neither night nor day, but a strange twilight in between.
Then the heavens split.
Three streaks tore across the firmament like burning spears.
One crimson, bleeding fire.
One blue, bright as a sapphire flame.
One silver, pale as the mother of stars.
Stars, three stars, moving as one.
No… falling.
Kael watched them part in the sky. The silver and the blue veered east. The crimson hurtled straight toward the island with the speed of a hawk diving for prey, but quicker.
He stood frozen, terror hollowing him out. The crimson star swelled, too fast, too bright, until the world became nothing but red and gold and the colors of flame.
The island, the towers, the halls, the stone, the flesh, the prayers, all unmade in a heartbeat.
And just before the light and heat consumed him, Kael thought he saw a shape inside the giant burning sphere, something vast, reaching-
As if the falling star had hands.