A Pulse That Was Never Meant to Resurface
The Lyceum's scan chamber wasn't built for ceremony.
It was built for truth.
Polished obsidian floors reflected the ceiling's spiral latticework—a full harmonic array that traced the bloodline of every Veilmark wielder since the archives were sealed. Glyphs hovered midair like translucent scrolls, spinning in quiet orbit. The walls pulsed with memory—waiting.
Waiting to name the one who dared step forward.
Zephryn stood at the center of the platform, arms relaxed at his sides, cloak still dusted from the forest. The hum beneath his boots felt familiar. Too familiar.
Kaelen, Yolti, and Selka stood behind the chamber glass.
A single scribe tapped a crystal slate. "Subject unregistered. Proceeding with core glyph mapping."
"You may feel pressure," the scribe said, not looking up.
"Try not to resist. The system favors stillness."
Zephryn nodded once.
"I'm used to pressure."
The scan began.
Light etched across the platform.
Glyphs unfolded from the air like blooming glass flowers.
Then—static.
A flicker in the system.
The flowers froze.
One cracked.
The projection shimmered.
Then pulsed.
A shape appeared midair—not one glyph. Two.
Twisting around each other like a mirrored flame.
The color was wrong. Not gold. Not white.
Silver.
Shot through with faint threads of blue.
The scribe froze.
"…That's not possible."
Kaelen leaned forward.
"What does that mean?"
The scribe tapped frantically at the panel.
Yolti narrowed her eyes. "Why's it echoing?"
The glyph—whatever it was—began to hum.
Not loud. But not silent either.
A frequency that sounded like a memory trying to speak.
Selka took a step closer to the glass.
The hum caught in her chest.
She remembered it.
The night on the cliff.
The scarf in her hands.
The way the wind bent when he vanished.
"It's him," she said.
The scribe stumbled back. "There's no record of this pattern. No pulse match. No elemental alignment. It doesn't even register as fractured—it's as if the system… skipped him."
"It didn't skip him," Kaelen muttered.
"It buried him."
The glyph vanished.
Not faded—cut off.
The projection dimmed. The platform sparked once—then shut down entirely.
Silence.
Zephryn stepped down from the scan plate.
The scribe didn't look up. He just slid a dorm key across the panel.
"Room 7C. Lyceum access level granted. Training rotation pending."
Zephryn took the key without a word.
The doors opened automatically.
As he left, the system sparked again—one brief surge of static.
Behind the glass, the backup monitor flickered to life:
UNKNOWN PULSE IDENTIFIED
—CODE NAME: SILVER FLAME—
RECORD LOCKED BY ORDER OF THE HOLLOW CHOIR.