Night had long since fallen over Blackthorn Academy, but under a strange bruised-purple sky, the world felt like it was holding its breath.
Students and professors gathered in hushed clusters around torchlit courtyards, whispering rumors no one wanted to say too loud. Whispers about the sky. About the stars. About the past refusing to stay buried.
It started at dusk.
One star blinked into existence—brighter, sharper, and more violet than any real star should be. Its glow cast eerie shadows on the crimson leaves of the flame trees. Then came another. Then another. Thirteen in total—points of spectral light that shimmered like old magic written across the sky.
When Rowan, Lyra, and Rhoan reached the Moonlit Terrace, the highest courtyard in Blackthorn, they stopped in their tracks.
Above them, the sky wasn't just beautiful—it was impossible.
Thirteen constellations burned with unnatural clarity. But they weren't the constellations from books or maps. These were shapes no one should've remembered: an open book, a hollow flame, mirrored shards, silent bells, iron roots, blood-drops, broken oaths. Symbols of Houses that history had erased.
All around them, students looked up in awe and fear. Some sank to their knees. Others reached for their wands, torn between reverence and terror. Even the professors seemed shaken, drifting into the terrace like ghosts—robes fluttering behind them like spilled ink.
Rowan stared at the sky, heart racing.
Snippets of panicked conversation drifted past.
"That's the House of Echoes—weren't they the ones who created sound magic?"
"Ironroot… weren't they purged for breaking the Pact?"
"Breathless Oaths. I thought that was just a rumor…"
Lyra stepped closer, her silver eyes fixed on the glowing sigils. "They're not random," she whispered. "They're ordered. In the sequence they were destroyed."
Rhoan pointed at the sky. "The first two… they're flickering. The House of Buried Truths. The Flamebound. They fell first."
Suddenly, the first constellation shimmered—then melted away like smoke.
And on the stone beneath where it had glowed, a sigil bloomed to life. Violet fire traced it across the cobblestones: beautiful, pulsing, alive.
The crowd gasped and backed away.
Rowan stepped forward, hand trembling, and touched the glowing mark.
Heat lanced through his palm—but it didn't burn. It showed.
He saw a grand hall. Robed figures chanting in a language older than time. Their magic rising in light—and then consuming them in silence, erasing their names from history.
He stumbled back, breath catching. "Lyra… this isn't just memory. It's their final moment."
Lyra knelt beside him, running her fingers along the burning lines. "It's how they fell… but also how they lived." Her eyes fluttered shut. "I can feel laughter. A song. A promise made."
Rhoan watched the next constellation appear: a hollow circle split by fire. "House of the Hollow Flame," she murmured. "Archivists of memory. They were locked away. Too dangerous."
More students turned to flee, fear rising.
But then Avery appeared, wounded arm wrapped tight, leaning on his staff. "They're waking up," he said quietly. "Every forgotten House."
From behind them, Professor Caelan emerged, her usually composed face pale. "If they all return… the Pact will shatter."
"Good," Lyra said, standing. "Let it."
Gasps rippled through the courtyard.
Then the next constellation blazed to life, and with it came sound—thirteen tones ringing out in perfect sequence, like chimes only the soul could hear. Students clutched their ears as the music seemed to echo in their bones.
A new sigil appeared: an open book, its pages blank.
"House of Unwritten Laws," someone whispered.
The crowd barely had time to react before masked enforcers pushed through the northern arch, wands raised. Rowan saw them, and without thinking, raised his hand.
A wall of violet flame rippled into existence—blocking them with memory, not violence.
Professor Liris stepped forward. "Do not harm them," she said firmly. "These are not threats. They are truths."
The lead enforcer hesitated. "Our orders—"
"Orders are written by the forgetful," Rowan said. "Tonight, we remember."
Above, the constellations swirled. The Hand of Binding. The Veiled Star. The Iron Moon. And with every one, another sigil etched itself in violet light across the stones.
Soon the whole terrace shimmered—stone beneath flame, past beneath present.
Then—
"Look," Lyra said, pointing.
On the eastern battlements, a group of first-years huddled. A little girl in ink-stained robes stepped forward, wide-eyed. She reached out and touched the sigil of the House of Ink.
And instead of seeing the past, she created.
Ink floated in the air. Her hands moved like Rowan's had below the library. She laughed, soft and delighted.
The sigil flared brighter.
Rhoan's voice broke. "It's choosing her."
Everyone turned.
The constellation above her glowed like a crown. Ink and flame.
"The Flame's Hollow," Rowan said softly. "It's speaking to her."
Avery frowned. "She's just a kid."
"She's not being given anything," Lyra said. "She's being recognized."
Rowan knelt and held out his hand. The girl took it.
The sigil pulsed once—and a mark of ink-fire shimmered onto her cheek.
Gasps echoed around them.
Rhoan touched the mark, dazed. "It's part of me," she whispered. "But not all."
Above, only thirteen constellations remained: twelve restored, and the Thirteenth burning brighter than all.
Rowan stood. "These are our Houses now," he said. "Not assigned. Reclaimed. We'll learn their histories. We'll teach their magic. This is what it means to remember."
A sudden spark shot from the sky.
A pale violet star streaked downward and landed gently in Rowan's hand—a crystal, glowing with memory.
He turned it in his palm, stunned. "A gift," he said. "From what was lost."
Even the enforcers lowered their wands now.
Professor Caelan stepped forward. "You mean to rebuild Blackthorn… with thirteen Houses?"
Rowan met her gaze. "No. We're rebuilding it with thirteen truths."
She gave the faintest nod.
Avery stepped beside Rowan. "So… what now?"
Rowan looked at the constellations. "Now we let them guide us. And we prepare for the Accord to return."
"They will," Lyra said.
Rowan nodded. "But this time, we stand under thirteen stars. And we will not be afraid."
All around them, students stood taller. Professors bowed their heads. Something had shifted. Not just in the sky, but in their hearts.
Thirteen banners fluttered above the terrace.
Thirteen candles burned below.
And then, in the quiet, a voice rose:
"I remember."
One by one, others joined.
"I remember."
"I remember."
Until the night was filled with thirteen hundred voices—loud, proud, and unafraid.