Chapter 5 When Moon Turns

The veil of time that once blanketed the academy in a fragile, structured illusion now unraveled like mist caught in the breath of an awakening storm, and within that broken rhythm, Caelan wandered through corridors that pulsed like veins of a slumbering god, aware now that the normal world-the one filled with ringing bells, muttered gossip, and the scratch of quills-had become nothing more than a dream forgotten upon waking, a ghost memory overtaken by the throbbing heartbeat of something more ancient stirring beneath his feet.

He did not know how long he had been moving, only that each turn of the hallway led him through a new memory, a new echo, a new fragment of a reality that refused to be linear, and with each flicker of the crimson-lit windows he passed, he saw alternate versions of himself-some smiling, some scarred, some dead-and he realized that this existence had splintered in all directions, and that he now walked not forward but through.

Beside him, Astra moved like a marionette undone, her gaze perpetually fixed ahead as if her eyes no longer belonged to her, as if some other force puppeteered her limbs, and Caelan couldn't shake the sensation that her soul was still caught in that mirror, that what had emerged was only a shadow filled with borrowed light, a ghost bound to her flesh by the thin thread of memory.

The Arcarium, that vast breathing library of shadows and truth, had shifted as well, its hallways no longer anchored in geometry or logic but flowing like rivers of ink, staircases ascending into inverted ceilings, corridors looping into themselves like serpents devouring time, and books whispering not in words but in grief, singing of futures that should not come and pasts that had never ended.

It was on the sixth Veil drift that Caelan found a chamber not listed in any map-an obsidian room encased in reflections of himself from different ages, surrounded by floating orbs of blue fire that pulsed in tandem with his heartbeat, and at its center lay a cradle of roots, within which rested a book bound in his own skin, etched with glyphs that burned the eyes to read.

He recoiled at first, but the mark on his wrist glowed in silent demand, and when his blood touched the pages, they did not open but wept-a slow, ink-thick tear that formed words he had not known but somehow understood, words that described the forging of the first Marked, of those chosen to keep the silence of the school and to feed the hunger beneath it.

From that moment forward, Caelan felt something shift inside him-not a transformation, but a remembering, as though a part of him long buried had clawed to the surface, breathing for the first time in centuries, and with it came an understanding that the mark was not a blessing, not a curse, but a bond-a pact forged with something that had waited longer than gods.

Astra's silence had become unnerving, her lips moving in sleep to whisper in forgotten tongues, and once, Caelan found her writing symbols in ash upon the walls with her fingers, smiling as if each line written was a memory returned, and though he called her name, she no longer responded as Astra but as "She Who Remains," a title older than any he had ever read.

Elion returned again like smoke slipping through cracks, grinning with eyes too bright and teeth too sharp, his coat stitched with sigils that moved on their own, and in his hand he carried a black bone key that pulsed with heartbeat and frost, declaring that the Door of Echoes had chosen its time, and only three could pass before it closed for another century.

Sorell, who now drifted between visibility and shadow, nodded once without a word, her double-marked wrists humming with resonance, and Caelan realized that whatever she had become, she no longer feared the descent-they had all crossed thresholds too deep to retreat, their souls already stitched to the school's sleeping heart.

Together, they stood before the Door, a towering archway carved from salt and bone, adorned in memories that wept aloud as they approached, each stone pulsing with sorrow, and as Elion fit the key into the lock, it wasn't a click that followed, but a scream-a scream that came from inside Caelan's skull, echoing with the names of every Marked who had died before them.

The space beyond the Door was not space at all but void, a canvas of shifting constellations and collapsed timelines, where rivers flowed skyward and trees bled golden smoke, and they stepped into it not as students or survivors, but as echoes of something newly born, walking upon the bones of forgotten gods toward a tower made entirely of sound.

The Archive welcomed them with silence so complete it crushed their ears, but beneath that silence was a rhythm-the beat of the Arcarium's heart, slow and thunderous, vibrating through stone and soul, and Caelan realized they were no longer simply in the school but in its memory, wandering through what it dreamed when it slept.

Each chamber of the Archive was a trial-of self, of sorrow, of surrender-and in one, Caelan stood before a mirror that showed not his reflection but his regrets: every word he had not said to his mother, every betrayal he had silently witnessed and done nothing to stop, every time he had chosen safety over truth, and as he watched, the mirror cracked, and blood ran down his cheeks though he had not cried.

In another, Astra stood before her sister-not as she had remembered her, but twisted, unrecognizable, her voice reversed, begging in a language that tasted of iron and loss, and Astra reached to touch her, but her hand passed through nothing, and her eyes filled with stars that no longer belonged to this world.

Sorell vanished in a moment between heartbeats, her body swallowed by a tide of voices that screamed her true name until only silence remained, and the mark on her wrists burned into the floor, forming a map they would follow with their bones.

They climbed the tower of sound, each step a note in a melody only the Marked could hear, and at its peak sat a throne of stars wrapped in shadow, a place not for ruling but remembering, and as Caelan approached it, the sky split, revealing a memory he had never lived but always carried-that of a child chosen before birth, marked in the womb, and promised to the Deep.

He sat, and the throne did not reject him.

It consumed him.

He screamed.

And awoke in his bed.

But the sky outside was no longer crimson.

It was black.

The stars were gone.

Time had returned-but not fully.

The school moved again, but no one saw him.

No one except a girl he did not recognize.

She smiled.

And showed her wrist.

A new mark.

A new beginning.

The moon turned once more.

The chapter would continue...