The next morning arrived not with sunlight but with the sound of bells.
Urgent, discordant, the Academy's emergency bell rang only for two things: invasion, or disappearance.
I shot upright, breath ragged. My clothes were damp from sweat, the Grimoire still warm in my lap. The runes under my skin pulsed faintly, and when I touched the base of my spine, I could still feel the memory of burning ink etched into flesh.
The bells rang again—three times. That meant containment breach.
I threw on my robe, strapped a side dagger to my thigh, and reached for the Grimoire. As my fingers brushed its cover, a message shimmered faintly across the leather:
"A pattern must evolve or be erased."
Charming.
