The torches along Blackthorn Academy's Grand Hall cracked and hissed, their flames shivering like they wanted to go out. Smoke coiled near the ceiling, twisting in the rafters like it had nowhere else to run. Once, the banners of the Twelve Great Houses had lined these walls in perfect symmetry. Tonight, a new one had appeared—uninvited, unannounced. A deep violet flag marked with a silver sigil no one dared name.
The Thirteenth.
It fluttered like it had always belonged there, like it had just been waiting.
At the heart of the hall stood the dais. Broken. Blackened. Still stained with blood. And on it sat Rowan Vale—straight-backed, quiet, crowned not by gold, but by sheer presence.
He didn't look like a boy anymore.
He looked like something older than the school itself.
The throne beneath him—obsidian-dark and carved with magic older than any House—almost seemed to breathe with him.
Around him stood everyone who mattered. House heads. Professors. Student champions. Most looked like they didn't know whether to bow or run. Some clutched their wands like weapons. Others just stared at Rowan like he'd stepped out of a story no one remembered telling.
To his left was Lyra Corven, silver-eyed and still as glass. To his right, Avery Morn, limping from a wound that hadn't stopped him from coming anyway.
Rowan stood.
It was a quiet movement, but somehow it made the torches tremble.
"I didn't call you here to celebrate," he said, voice low but sharp enough to cut silence. "And I'm not asking for loyalty."
His eyes swept the room, holding each gaze just long enough to make people shift.
"I called you here to remember."
A beat. Then a second. No one moved.
"You know the story. Twelve Houses. Twelve pillars of magic. That's what we've always been told."
Rowan let the weight of those words hang. Then he raised his hand.
The air changed.
It hummed—low, deep, like something old had just woken up.
From the shadows behind him, figures stepped forward. Not solid. Not ghosts either. Something in between. A girl in ember-red. A man with starlight in his hair. A child with a midnight-blue sigil glowing faintly on her brow.
They looked like they didn't know if they were supposed to exist.
But they stood.
"The Forgotten Ones," Rowan said softly. "Students. Scholars. Founders. People the Archive pretended never lived. Not because they fell in battle. But because someone wanted them erased."
The room didn't gasp. It exhaled—loud, shocked, afraid.
One of the figures stepped forward. A woman cloaked in golden ash. She raised a single finger, and a name appeared in the air, blazing like fire:
Maren Veil.
Someone whispered the name back, barely loud enough to hear.
Rowan's throat tightened. He knew that name. He'd dreamed it. Over and over.
Lyra moved beside him. No words. Just support.
One by one, the other Forgotten stepped forward. Each one placed a name in the air. Each name burned. Caelith Dawen. Isane Grove. Names with weight. Names that had once meant everything.
A voice finally broke the silence. It was Archon Orla Marrow, her face pale and tight. "Why now? Why tear open something that was sealed for a reason?"
Rowan didn't flinch. "Because sealing it didn't protect us. It silenced them. And magic doesn't survive in silence. It grows twisted."
Avery stepped forward. "I saw their names in the Chronicle. Hidden in the margins, like someone tried to scratch them out. But magic remembers."
A student from House Ember—barely seventeen—raised her hand. Her voice shook. "But if they were that powerful… why did they vanish?"
Lyra answered, soft but clear. "Because they spoke truths the Houses didn't want to hear. And truth, when it's inconvenient, gets buried."
Another tremor ran through the floor. The torches wavered.
Professor Caelan of House Glass narrowed her eyes. "Even if they were real, they're relics. They don't belong here anymore."
Rowan's voice snapped like thunder. "They made this place."
He stepped down from the dais. Closer to the crowd. "They carved the runes. Built the towers. And when they spoke of unity, they were cast out. Why? Because unity threatens power."
Another specter floated forward—a girl with ice-cracked lips and sorrow in her eyes. Her name burned above her: Isane Grove.
Her voice was almost a whisper. "We didn't vanish. We were hidden beneath fear."
Silence.
Rowan turned to the apparitions. "You are no longer forgotten. Go. Let them hear you."
One by one, the ghosts bowed and disappeared—but in their place, banners bloomed into the air. One for each of the lost Houses. Twelve new standards to join the Thirteenth.
Now, the ceiling glowed with thirteen banners, each one a spark against the dark.
Professor Liris stepped forward, voice trembling. "You're breaking the Pact. There were reasons it was signed. Reasons magic had to be contained."
Rowan looked at her. "And what if that containment cost us everything? What if forgetting is the real danger?"
No one answered.
Then the head of House Thorn murmured, "What if the world can't survive the truth?"
Lyra moved to Rowan's side. "Then we build a world that can."
Above them, the banners pulsed.
Rowan lifted his hand, palm open. "I'm not here to rule. I'm not asking you to believe. But if you've ever questioned the stories you were told… if you've ever felt something missing—then this is your chance to choose."
He stepped back.
"This is your Convocation. Not just of the Twelve. Of Thirteen. Of all of us. Forgotten or not."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Then, one by one, students began to step forward.
House by House. Cloak by cloak.
Not because they were sure.
But because something in them remembered too.
By the time the last professor joined, only one place remained—beneath the Thirteenth banner.
Lyra reached for Rowan's hand.
"You did it," she whispered.
He shook his head. "We did."
The violet sigil above them burst into flame—warm, wild, alive.
Outside, the sky cracked open. Dawn poured through.
And inside the hall, someone began to speak a name.
Then another.
And another.
"I remember Maren Veil. I remember Caelith Dawen. I remember Isane Grove…"
The words spread like a song, like a vow, like magic itself.