The amphitheater was steeped in a tense, echoing silence. The aftermath of the failed Fate Resonance Ritual hung heavy in the air, a stain of exposed truths and shattered reputations. Marcus Valen stood at the edge of the dais, watching as the sky above the academy darkened with an unnatural stillness. It was not storm clouds gathering, but something far more dangerous—the scent of fate shifting in ways that only a very few could perceive.
Professor Aelia Serin had summoned him to the council hall under the pretense of a review. He knew better. The moment he entered the hallowed chamber, he saw him—a silver-haired man standing beside Aelia like a shadow born from prophecy. In that instant, Marcus understood that the game had escalated beyond mere mortal politics.
"Master Eric Novian," Aelia introduced, her voice measured and tight. "Observer of the Magic Parliament's Fate Bureau."
Marcus inclined his head, his expression a carefully constructed mask of blank indifference. Within, his mind raced. Fate Bureau? Observer? He had heard whispers before—rumors buried in ancient grimoires, references scattered in forbidden scrolls. There were those who walked the very threads of destiny itself, ancient custodians tasked with ensuring the grand design remained unbroken. And now one of them had come knocking on his door.
"You are young for such... unusual circumstances," Novian said, his eyes glinting with an unnerving light that was equal parts curiosity and calculation. He felt ancient, a being outside the normal flow of time.
"And you are intrusive for one claiming neutrality," Marcus replied smoothly, the words a polite but firm challenge.
Aelia stiffened at the audacity, but Novian merely smiled—a thin, knowing expression. "Let us speak privately, Prince Valen," the observer said.
They met in the sanctum beneath the library, where the walls were lined with rune-sealed tomes that seemed to whisper even in the suffocating silence. Novian conjured a sphere of light, its glow pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm that resonated with the unseen forces of the room.
"You've been tampering with fate," he said without preamble, his voice calm but absolute.
Marcus did not flinch. "I've merely recalled what was lost."
"'History Recall'," Novian mused, tapping a finger to his temple. "A fragment of true time magic. Dangerous, yes, but not enough to warrant my presence on its own." His gaze sharpened, piercing through Marcus's defenses. "But then there's the other anomaly. You are accumulating something—a power outside the known systems. I can see it in the weave. Your fate is no longer a straight thread. It bends, twists… it resists."
Marcus leaned back slightly. "You believe me a threat?"
"I believe you're being watched," Novian corrected, his voice dropping. "Not by me, not by the Parliament. But by something far older. Something woven into the very laws of this world that does not appreciate being defied."
At that, Marcus's pulse quickened. Watched.
As if sensing his unease, the Dark Grimoire—the Codex—stirred against his soul. Within his mind, a single page fluttered open, revealing a fragmented memory he had never lived: a battlefield wreathed in violet fire, screams echoing through a gray void, and a cold, dispassionate voice whispering: Judgment has begun.
Marcus mentally slammed the book shut, but he knew Novian had sensed the flicker of internal power.
"I'll be observing your progress," the observer said, rising from his seat. The trial had already started. "And remember, boy—every step you take against the current of fate leaves a mark. One day, something will come to tally the score."
When Marcus returned to his quarters, the shadows of the academy seeming to press closer than before, Valk Taron was waiting for him.
"The north yields ghosts," the exile said, his voice a low growl. He held up a blood-stained parchment, sealed with a noble crest long erased from the official histories of the Empire. "And secrets best kept buried."
Marcus took the letter, his fingers steady as he broke the seal. As he read the elegant, spidery script, his lips curled into a smile colder than winter steel. The letter, a final testament from Valk's father, detailed the true fall of House Taron—not as traitors, but as scapegoats. They had uncovered a hidden ledger proving the imperial court had orchestrated the devastating Elemental War as a means to purge rival houses under the guise of political necessity. Worse yet, it named the individuals within the current parliament who had ensured their destruction—names still spoken with reverence in the capital today.
"You found this in the ruins?" Marcus asked, his voice quiet.
Valk nodded grimly. "The deeper ones. Where no one dares go. My father called it the Vault of Truths. He believed it would change everything."
Marcus handed the damning evidence back. "Then we shall make sure it does."
Valk hesitated for a single, charged moment, then knelt, placing a fist over his heart. "My house was destroyed by lies. You fight with truth. I offer myself to your cause. Whatever price you ask, I will pay it."
Marcus placed a hand on the man's shoulder, the weight of the gesture sealing a pact forged in shared shadows. "Your debt begins not with blood, but with loyalty. Rise, Valk Taron. From this night forward, you are no longer prey. You are the hunter."
Later that evening, as the moon cast its pale light over the academy, Marcus sat alone in his chambers. The Dark Grimoire lay open on the table before him. Nine pages were now filled, each bearing fragments of past lives, stolen fates, and whispered truths that could topple an empire.
He ran a finger along the margin of the ninth page. The ink shimmered with a restless energy.
Then, as if drawn by the unseen force Novian had spoken of, the ninth page turned on its own.
In its place, a single line of text appeared, written in letters of crimson flame that burned but did not consume the parchment:
MARK ONE. THE FIRST TRIAL IS TO SURVIVE THE TRUTH YOU UNLEASH.