By the time the third moon hung low over Blackthorn Academy, silence had taken root in its halls. The Memory Plague had passed—but just barely. And Aelan's warning still echoed in the air like an unanswered dare.
Rhoan Vale couldn't sleep.
Something was tugging at her.
Not just fear, not even magic—but a memory. A lullaby she didn't remember learning. The scent of rain on stone. Laughter—hers? Someone else's?
It led her to the western wing of the Library, where wandlore tomes slept on metal shelves. She came searching for answers. Instead, she found a scroll—old, brittle, tucked behind a book on starmetal wands. The scroll shimmered when she touched it, burning one silver sentence into her mind:
"Where words were never whispered, the first wands still sleep."
She didn't understand it. But she couldn't let it go.
That night, in the Tower of Thirteen, she showed it to Lyra and Rowan. Candlelight flickered across the table as they leaned in.
Rowan's face went pale. "This… wasn't even in the Chronicle."
Lyra squinted at the parchment. "It's real, isn't it? The Vault of Unwritten Wands."
"Thirteen wands," Rowan whispered. "Forged before the Houses were formed. Never claimed. Never tamed."
"Hidden so no one could ever use them," Lyra added. "Not without fate's permission."
Rhoan met their eyes. "I saw the path. In a dream."
She unrolled the scroll. A map appeared—spiraling tunnels, a marked pillar, and faint glowing symbols near the base of the catacombs.
Rowan gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Then go. But be careful. Those wands aren't just old—they're bound. You touch the wrong one… and it might unmake you."
Lyra reached out, her hand warm on Rhoan's shoulder. "We'll go with you."
Rhoan shook her head.
"No. The dream didn't show us. Just me."
The silence that followed said everything. They didn't like it. But they trusted her.
—
She left before dawn.
No one saw her slip out, just a note left on Lyra's pillow: I'll come back.
She followed the scroll's directions through cold corridors until she reached the sealed stairwell behind the catacombs. No students went there. No one had for centuries.
The further down she went, the colder it got.
She found the Pillar of Lost Names—tall, ancient, scorched clean of every sigil. She pressed the scroll against it. A low click. The stone groaned aside, revealing a narrow tunnel cut from obsidian.
Her heart thudded.
She stepped in.
The deeper she walked, the more the tunnel felt alive—like it knew her. Wards flickered in silver and blue. Shadows whispered in her ears. Old dreams stirred.
She whispered thanks to the wards. They whispered back.
Finally, the tunnel opened into a chamber.
Round. Domed. Celestial maps engraved in the ceiling.
And in the center: thirteen pedestals.
Twelve were draped in velvet. One… wasn't.
Rhoan held her breath.
This was it.
The Vault of Unwritten Wands.
—
One by one, she pulled back the veils.
Each wand was different—beautiful, terrible, ancient.
Glassheart — lightwoven glass, shimmering with illusion.
Stonevein — carved from mountain's core.
Stormweaver — still crackling with thunder.
Bloodchain — red as a heartbeat.
Shadowlace — darker than shadow itself.
Starcall — inlaid with star-forged runes.
Rootbinder — petrified wood, iron running through its grain.
Echoflute — hollow, humming softly.
Glassshard — jagged but thrumming with defensive power.
Ironbloom — rust-colored, pulsing with life.
Timepierce — thin as light, whispering of futures.
Bloodsilver — shining, with the shimmer of stolen memories.
Twelve pedestals.
Then the thirteenth.
No wand. No veil.
Just a ring of violet fire pulsing softly.
Rhoan stepped closer.
—
The fire didn't burn. It called.
When she pressed her hand to the pedestal, her mark glowed. The air dropped ten degrees.
And then—
A single velvet sheet fell from above, slow as snow.
It landed on the empty pedestal.
She lifted it.
Beneath it lay a wand unlike any other—pure obsidian, etched with runes from every language, every age. Some she recognized. Most she didn't. It pulsed like a heartbeat.
She touched it—
—
The moment her fingers closed around the wand, the fire flared—branding a glowing ring into her palm.
Memory hit like a tidal wave.
Thirteen lifetimes. Names. Oaths. Wars. Joy. Grief. Betrayal. Truth.
She screamed.
And that's when Rowan and Lyra burst in.
"Rhoan!" Lyra shouted, running toward her.
Rowan raised his staff, defensive—but afraid.
Rhoan collapsed to her knees, wand vibrating in her hand like a living, hungry thing.
Her voice—when it came—was not hers alone. "I… remember."
Lyra crouched beside her, eyes wide. "Can you hold it?"
Rhoan clenched her jaw. Tears—black with ink—ran down her face.
"I am Rhoan Vale," she whispered. "I am not the echo. I am me."
And slowly… the wand calmed.
The magic settled.
Rowan exhaled. "You held it."
"I think it held me," Rhoan said softly.
—
Back in the Tower of Thirteen, the others gathered around.
Aurea, Avery, Kael—all silent, staring at the wand on the table.
"The Wand of Origin," Aurea whispered. "That's what it is, isn't it?"
Kael touched a rune. "It predates the Twelve. It was made for the Founder."
Rowan nodded. "It can rewrite magic. Memory. History."
Rhoan stared at it. "Then we keep it hidden. Guarded. No one should wield this alone."
Rowan met her eyes. "Then let us guard it together."
"The Thirteenth Convocation," Lyra murmured, smiling faintly.
Kael frowned. "Aelan will come for it."
"Then let him try," Rhoan said.
—
That night, Rhoan stood alone on the Tower balcony.
The wand pulsed against her chest.
She looked out at Blackthorn, cloaked in mist. Above, the thirteen stars of the Founder's Constellation burned bright.
She whispered, "I am Rhoan Vale. I am not your echo. I am real."
The wand stilled.
But deep in her bones, she knew: the hunger wasn't gone.
It was waiting.
And someday soon, it would wake again.
But when it did, she would be ready.
Because she had touched the origin of all magic—and survived.
And now?