The next morning, Arin awoke to find a letter slid beneath his door.
There was no name on it, only a wax seal shaped like a broken crown.
He stared at it for a long time before picking it up. It was cold to the touch, unnaturally so, as if it had been kept in frost. As he cracked the seal, the parchment unfolded itself in his hands like it was alive.
"He watches you still. The blood remembers. The flame does not choose without cost. Come to the Hall of Mirrors at dusk if you want answers. Come alone."
That was it. No signature. No indication of who sent it.
He almost tossed it away.
But something deep within not instinct, not fear, but something older urged him to go.
The day passed in slow motion. Every class felt like a distraction. Even Lyra noticed.
"You're not telling me something," she said bluntly as they sparred in their magical combat class.
Arin parried a bolt of frost with a flicker of fire from his palm, then lowered his hand. "I got a message."
"From who?"
"I don't know. It had a broken crown seal. Told me to meet them at dusk."
Lyra dropped her hands. "You're not seriously thinking about going, are you?"
"I have to."
"What if it's a trap?"
He hesitated. "Then I'll walk into it with my eyes open."
She stared at him for a moment, then looked away. "You're too brave or too stupid. Maybe both."
"Maybe," he said softly. "But I need answers."
The Hall of Mirrors sat on the far eastern edge of the Academy a forgotten chamber rarely visited, except by history students or overly curious fools. It was said to be built by the Mirrorbinders, a long-lost sect who could see into potential futures.
As Arin entered, the air shifted cold, dense, almost humming.
Mirrors lined the walls, each one reflecting more than just his appearance. In one, he saw himself in chains. In another, a version of him with burning golden eyes and a crown of ash.
And in the largest mirror, directly across the chamber, stood a figure.
Cloaked in deep indigo, their face hidden beneath a silver mask shaped like a dragon's skull.
"You came," the voice said feminine, layered with echoes. "That means you're ready to remember."
"Remember what?"
The figure raised a gloved hand, and suddenly, the mirrors around them shimmered. Dozens of scenes burst to life some from Arin's past, others unfamiliar.
A burning village.
A crying child marked with a sigil.
A woman's voice whispering, "You must hide him. If they find out what he is, they'll destroy him."
Arin staggered backward, his breath stolen from him. "What is this?"
"Truth," she replied.
"You know what I am?"
She nodded. "You are not simply Flameblood. You are Heirborn."
The word slammed into him like a hammer.
"I don't know what that means."
"You carry the remnants of a lost bloodline one tied to the Flameborne Crown, long destroyed in the War of Ashes. Your sigil marks you as a potential claimant to power sealed for centuries."
"Why tell me this now?"
"Because others know. The Watch. The Council. The Woken Thirteen. They all want the power that sleeps inside you or to destroy it before you unlock it."
Arin's voice dropped. "Who are you?"
"I am the last Mirrorbinder," she said. "And I've waited seventeen years for you to awaken."
Back in his room that night, Arin said nothing to Lyra. But he couldn't.
Not yet.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the word echoing again and again.
Heirborn.
He had come to the academy hoping to find purpose.
Now, he had found destiny one soaked in fire, lies, and danger.
And somewhere in the shadows, more pieces were moving.
More enemies were watching.