When the bell rang for first period, the hallways of Blackthorn Academy weren't filled with chatter like usual.
Instead, silence lingered.
No one dared to speak of it—not out loud. Not about the Memory Plague.
But you could see it in their eyes. Every student carried it—like smoke behind the iris. A haunted look. A question they didn't dare ask: What's real?
It started three nights ago.
Dreams that weren't dreams. Memories that didn't belong to anyone… or maybe they did, once.
And now? Reality was beginning to blur.
*
In Master D'Arcy's History of Arcane Convergence, every seat was filled. Normally, it was the kind of class you slept through. Today, no one moved.
The chalkboard sat behind the professor, untouched. The torches flickered strangely.
Master D'Arcy adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat. "The Treaty of Ten Suns was signed on April 12th, Year 423—"
But the words never made it out of his mouth.
The room shuddered.
Torches flared, then turned violet. The tapestry above the board—an ancient sigil of the Thirteenth Flame—rippled, like something had exhaled behind it.
A chill swept through the room.
Books flew open on their own. Pages flipped rapidly, landing on spells no one had studied in years. The air turned heavy, smoky, and hot.
The Memory Plague had arrived—and it didn't knock.
Then the floor vanished.
Stone turned to scorched earth. Desks dissolved into logs. The room became something else—a battlefield. Twin suns scorched the sky. Ash fell like snow.
Lyra Corven stood frozen in crimson robes. Her heart pounded.
"This… isn't an illusion," she whispered.
All around them, soldiers ran screaming into smoke. Spells tore through the air like lightning. Wands blazed. Blood sizzled on steel.
A voice roared from the ruins: "Hold the line! For the Thirteenth!"
Lyra turned.
The voice belonged to Master D'Arcy—but not him. Not now. He stood in full armor, face older, weathered by war. And yet—it was him.
Rhoan Vale stood beside her, eyes wide. "We're not remembering it," she whispered. "We're living it."
Chaos surged.
Then—just as quickly—the scene vanished.
Stone reformed under their feet. Desks reappeared. The torches returned to normal. But no one spoke. No one could.
Master D'Arcy looked as if he'd aged ten years in ten minutes. His chalk trembled in his hand.
"…Class dismissed," he rasped.
No one moved.
Lyra sat down slowly. "It's not just dreams anymore," she whispered. "The plague is rewriting reality."
By noon, the Academy shut down all classes.
Whispers passed like wildfire.
"They're calling it a plague."
"Not disease. Memory magic. Old. Dangerous."
In the Thirteenth House, Rowan Vale called a meeting. Lyra, Rhoan, Avery, and Aurea—the returned Oathkeeper—sat in the circle of thirteen chairs.
"This isn't a curse," Rowan said, his voice low. "It's a breach. Something broke."
"Sworn magic," Aurea said. Her silver hair shimmered in the firelight. "Oaths that were once sealed are leaking."
"History is bleeding into now," Rhoan muttered. "And if we don't stop it, we won't know what's ours anymore."
"We need anchors," Lyra said. "Something to hold people in the present."
"And fast," Rowan said. "Before students lose themselves to someone else's past."
*
At midnight, they gathered in the sealed Wing of Ash—a place no student had entered in years.
Oath circles were drawn.
Aurea led the ritual. "Repeat after me. But without breath—anchor with silence."
Dozens of students mouthed the vow silently:
"I hold memory like clay. I shape it with truth, not let it shape me."
Chains of vow-ink lit up around their wrists—thin silver threads glowing with power.
Lyra and Rhoan passed around inked bookmarks, each one etched with a personal rune—symbols of the students' real names, their real pasts.
"This will keep you anchored," Lyra said softly. "When the storm hits, remember who you are."
But the storm didn't wait.
The walls cracked.
Darkness poured in—not shadow, but remnants.
Glass shards. Screaming trees. Broken oaths. Forgotten names.
Students cried out.
The circle wavered.
One by one, they gasped—losing the vow, losing their anchor.
Rowan moved instantly. "Breathe through me."
He touched each one, channeling the Thirteenth Flame. The vow-chains flared violet. Shadows recoiled.
Lyra traced binding sigils on the floor. Rhoan unfurled a scroll, voice shaking but steady:
"Memory may rise like tide in a storm,
But mind stands firm upon chosen shore.
Let breath not bind, but body warm—
And truth return forever more."
One by one, the plague retreated. Students collapsed, safe—anchored.
Aurea kneeled. "You're free. Your memory is yours now."
Rowan stood last. "It worked," he said, breathless.
"But only because we did it together," Lyra replied.
*
By morning, Blackthorn had changed.
New rules posted everywhere:
"MEMORY ANCHORING REQUIRED."
"NO SPELLCASTING WITHOUT SEALS."
History wasn't just a subject anymore. It was a battlefield.
Rowan stood before the school, thirteen banners fluttering behind him.
"We can't erase history," he told them. "But we can choose how we live with it."
He held up a bookmark—its rune glowing. "This is your anchor. When memory strikes, stay here. Stay you."
Students nodded, clutching bookmarks like lifelines.
That evening, in the Thirteenth crypt, they gathered around the sealed vessel of prophecy. Thirteen sigils pulsed faintly.
Aurea laid her palm on the stone. "The plague was its echo," she said. "A warning."
"We'll teach anchoring to everyone," Rhoan vowed.
Lyra looked at Rowan. "And rebuild this place—on truth."
He smiled, tired but fierce. "Let this be the last plague our world ever sees."
Above them, the thirteen sigils glowed in silent agreement.
And beyond the towers of Blackthorn, the dawn rose - soft, steady, and unafraid.