The wind at Blackthorn Academy carried more than cold that night. It carried voices.
Lyra Corven stood alone in the middle of the Archives Tower, torchlight flickering as the ancient tapestries rustled—whispers without a source. This place was sealed. Nothing should've been moving.
"Rhoan?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Where are you?"
From behind a bookshelf, Rhoan Vale stepped out, eyes wide, hands over her mouth. "Read this," she hissed, shoving a glowing scrap of parchment toward Lyra.
The torchlight wavered as Lyra took in the scene. Dozens of parchment pieces lay scattered across the stone floor, glowing faint violet. Words scratched in an ancient hand—Rowan's.
"…when the Flame meets its first sunset…"
"…the thirteenth seed will crack stone…"
"…four shall be bound by echo…"
Rhoan was shaking. "They fell through the air like leaves. I tried to catch them, but—they're heavy. Heavier than they look."
Lyra crouched, fingertips brushing one of the glowing fragments. The parchment pulsed like it was alive.
She read aloud:
"When the Flame meets its first sunset,
the last root will bear no fruit,
until three names rise from dust
and bind a world with truth."
The ground trembled. Torches along the walls flared, then flickered. Lyra's heart dropped.
"What does it mean?" Rhoan whispered.
Lyra pulled her cloak tighter. "A prophecy. One I've never seen before. But it's Rowan's handwriting."
They ran deeper into the tower. Scrolls unrolled themselves. Cabinets rattled. Students in nightcloaks peeked from corners, watching.
At the end of the corridor, they reached the Central Wall. Usually blank, it now glowed. The parchment pieces were rising—floating—adhering to the surface like puzzle pieces. As they connected, lines of verse emerged.
"Four will speak where none have tongues,
their echoes crash on silence's shore.
Lost spells will wake in sleeping lungs,
till memory burns the lie no more."
The torches burned ash-white. Lyra stepped back, pulse hammering in her ears.
A final fragment floated down—larger than the rest, edges scorched.
"Beware the echo's final call:
a silent torrent, sharp and swift.
It will unwrite the smallest soul,
or grant the Thirteenth its true gift."
Lyra felt a chill crawl up her spine. "Erase… or give?" she murmured.
"It's warning us," Rhoan said. "This prophecy isn't just a message. It's alive."
From the shadows, a deep voice spoke. "It has woken."
Professor Kael stepped forward, his storm-cloak trailing sparks, his white hair glowing faintly in the torchlight. "We felt the shift in the winds. These verses—are older than Blackthorn itself."
Lyra stood, tense. "But it's Rowan's Chronicle—"
Kael shook his head. "Not just his. This is the part they erased. The part written before the Pact."
Rhoan stepped closer. "But why is it returning now?"
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Because something called it back."
Then the walls began to hum—low and strange. Scrolls snapped open and shut. Books shivered. The prophecy was still growing.
Lyra whispered, "We need Rowan."
Kael nodded. "But be warned—these echoes spread. They infect dreams."
—
That night, the whole academy stirred.
Students whispered of the Chronicle's Echo—of glowing fragments and magic never seen before. Some were terrified. Others were already dreaming.
Erin of House Glass woke in a sweat, scribbling verses she'd never learned:
"Hark the lost, recall their worth,
break the chains of buried earth…"
Tobias of House Ember dreamed of fire reshaping steel. His training dummy—a lifeless golem—stood tall by morning, reforged with glowing runes.
Healer Maren found her patients whispering ancient charms—spells from the First Era. Lost knowledge was returning.
By sunrise, Blackthorn was buzzing.
"They speak in dreams," someone said.
"They burn through your mind," said another.
"They're not just prophecy—they're magic."
—
Up in the Tower of Thirteen, Lyra and Rhoan found Rowan asleep, a faint starlight glow around him. The Crown of Hollow Flame rested on his brow.
Lyra touched his shoulder. "Rowan. Wake up."
His eyes opened slowly. "The voices… I heard them."
Rhoan held out the largest parchment. "It's real. The Chronicle's Echo is back."
He sat up fast. "Show me."
As they rushed through the halls, they passed rooms glowing with the light of untamed dreams. Students were already changing.
At the Archives, Kael waited. His staff buzzed faintly with echo energy.
"You shouldn't have entered the dreams," he said. "But now you're part of it."
Lyra looked at the wall. "It's spreading."
Kael nodded. "Memory-magic leaks. And the more students dream these verses, the stronger they get. Eventually, they won't stop at dreams."
Rowan clenched his jaw. "Then we capture it."
—
The Vessel of Echo
In the scriptorium, under Kael's guidance, they built it—a vessel strong enough to contain living prophecy.
Rhoan laid out special glass-leaf vellum, bound in wards. As she copied the verses, the parchment shimmered, the words burning into the page.
Each line pulsed like a heartbeat.
"Thirteen voices lost to sleep…"
"Eight oaths broken in blood and promise…"
"Four flames quenched by silent tears…"
By the time she finished, the Vessel of Echo glowed faint violet.
Kael sealed it in runes. "It's safe. For now."
Rowan held the scroll. "And if it breaks?"
Kael's expression darkened. "Then it won't whisper in dreams anymore. It'll scream in reality."
Rowan nodded. "Then we guard it. And prepare."
Lyra touched his arm. "At least now, we choose which dreams to follow."
Rowan looked back at her. "And which ones to resist."
—
That night, Blackthorn didn't sleep.
Students dreamed of magic long forgotten:
A girl whispered the name of a lost House: Breathless Oaths.
A boy saw roots of silver growing from the floor: Ironroot reborn.
A shadowwalker vanished into a cloak of living night.
And beneath the school, in a chamber no one dared visit, the Vessel of Echo glowed quietly in the dark—waiting.
Waiting for the next dream to open its seal.