Morning came too early.

  I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my parents’ faces—their relief, their fear, their pride all tangled together. Heard my father’s voice: You’re my son. That’s all that matters. Felt my mother’s arms around me, holding on like I might disappear.

  Part of me wanted to stay in that moment forever. The other part knew I couldn’t.

  The Pact was failing. Dragons were waking. And I was apparently the kingdom’s only hope, despite having no idea what I was doing.

  No pressure.

  I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the washbasin. Through the bond, I could feel my pack already stirring—Ralen definitely awake and probably already training. Kaelen and Sienna still deeply asleep. Brenn’s steady presence like bedrock. Mira’s soft, drowsy awareness. And Liora…

  Liora was already moving. Already thinking. Probably headed to the Sunlit Archive again, continuing the research we’d started yesterday.

  The girl never stopped.

  A sharp knock on my door interrupted my thoughts.

  “Up and dressed in five minutes, Alaris,” a familiar voice called through the wood—crisp, no-nonsense. “Training yard. All of you. Don’t be late.”

  Proctor Kane’s voice—but different somehow. More… commanding.

  Footsteps retreated down the hall.

  Through the bond, I felt the pack’s collective confusion. We’d all heard it. All felt the shift in tone.

  What’s going on? Mira’s thought filtered through.

  Guess we’re about to find out, Kaelen answered.

  Five minutes later, we converged on the training yard—all six of us, sleep-deprived and bewildered.

  The morning sun was just breaking over Aurelián’s walls, casting long shadows across the stone. The yard was empty except for Proctor Kane standing in the center, arms crossed, waiting.

  She looked different—still the same woman who’d overseen our trial: mid-thirties, athletic build, dark hair pulled back in a severe braid. But something had changed. The way she stood. The intensity in her eyes. During the trial, she’d been professional, efficient, doing her job. Now she looked like she was preparing us for war.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Kaelen checked his pocket watch. “We’re thirty seconds early—”

  “Early is prepared. On time is late. Late is unacceptable.”

  She swept her gaze over us, and I saw the shift clearly now. This wasn’t Proctor Kane overseeing bureaucratic procedures. This was someone else entirely.

  “As of this morning, your training regimen has changed. High Master Valthorne has placed me in charge of your combat instruction.”

  She paused, letting the words hang. “And before any of you ask—yes, this has the Highmaster’s sanction. The resonance surge from your trial was reviewed in full. Despite its magnitude, the Pact’s lattice didn’t so much as flicker. No reaction from the royal seals, no feedback in the wards. That means your Radiant magic,” her eyes flicked to me, “isn’t destabilizing the binding itself.”

  Relief washed through me—sharp, fleeting.

  If the explosion that nearly killed me hadn’t shattered the Pact, then ordinary use couldn’t either. At least, that’s what I needed to believe.

  “But we already—” Sienna started.

  “—have adequate foundation training from academy instructors,” Kane interrupted. “They teach you forms and theory. Pretty techniques for pretty demonstrations. Useful for understanding the basics.” She took a step forward. “I’m going to teach you how not to die when those basics aren’t enough.”

  Ralen straightened instinctively. “Proctor—”

  “Not Proctor,” she said. “Not for this. Here, I’m Valeria Kane—Valthorne’s second-in-command and master combatant. You’ve seen me handle paperwork and ward protocols. Now you’re going to see what I actually do.”

  A pause. Her expression was carved from stone.

  “What I do is make sure Aurelián’s most valuable assets survive when people come after them. And you six just became very valuable. And very targeted.”

  The weight of that settled over us.

  “Lucien Alaris,” Valeria said, focusing on me. “Step forward.”

  I did, trying not to look as nervous as I felt.

  She didn’t circle me this time—she knew me, had watched me nearly die during the trial. Instead she just studied me with those sharp eyes.

  “You have power. I saw that firsthand. What you don’t have is control. Discipline under pressure.” She paused. “You proved that when you nearly destroyed yourself and everyone around you.”

  That stung. Because it was true.

  “The Conclave is coming,” Valeria continued. “They’re going to test you. Push you. Try to break you down to understand what you are. And if you can’t control your power under that pressure, they’ll use it against you.”

  She finally looked at the rest of the pack.

  “All of you. They’ll push. They’ll probe. They’ll try to isolate Lucien, separate you, find weaknesses.” Her voice was hard. “During the trial, I kept you alive through paperwork and protocols. Now I need to keep you alive through what’s coming next.”

  Mira’s wisp flickered nervously. “What is coming?”

  “Politics backed by power. Questions backed by threats. Investigation that looks like persecution.” Valeria’s jaw tightened. “The Conclave doesn’t believe in the Dragon Wars. To them, it’s ancient propaganda—Alaris myths to justify lost glory.”

  That shocked me. “They don’t believe—but the wars were real—”

  “To us, yes. To history, yes. To them?” She shook her head. “Two centuries of peace with no dragons means the threat must never have existed. Just stories.” Her expression hardened. “But they do believe in sealed bloodlines. And they’re very interested in how yours awakened.”

  “Why?” Liora asked.

  “Because if you bypassed a seal—any seal—it means other sealed bloodlines might be vulnerable too. Every house that lost magic in the past will want to know if it can be restored.” Valeria looked at me. “They’ll want to determine if you did it accidentally, or if you represent something that could unseal others.”

  “But I don’t know how it happened,” I said.

  “They don’t care what you know. They care what you might be able to do.” She gestured to all of us. “My job is to make sure they can’t take him. Can’t pressure him. Can’t break any of you. Understood?”

  We nodded, silent.

  “Good. Let’s begin.”

  Training with Valeria was completely different from what we’d done before. Not because the techniques were new—we’d learned most of them already—but because the intensity was different. The purpose was different.

  She wasn’t teaching us to fight. She was teaching us to survive.

  “Barrier,” she ordered. “Now.”

  I threw up a Radiant shield—golden light forming in front of me.

  She struck it with a blast of fire magic—not holding back like our instructors usually did.

  The barrier held. Barely.

  “How much power did you use?” she asked.

  “Uh… enough?”

  “Wrong answer. You used everything you had. Left nothing in reserve.” Another blast—this one twice as strong. My barrier shattered. “In a real fight, you don’t get to use everything on the first attack. You need to judge, adapt, conserve. AGAIN.”

  We did it again. And again. And again.

  But this time, she was teaching me to think while defending—to measure my opponent, to calculate minimum necessary force instead of maximum possible force.

  “Better,” she said after the tenth attempt. “You’re learning to fight smart, not just hard.”

  She moved to Sienna next.

  “During the trial, I saw you maintain flameweave for nearly ten minutes straight while under pressure. That’s impressive stamina,” Valeria said, her tone approving. “But you were panicking—pouring power everywhere hoping something would work. Show me what you can do when you’re not panicking.”

  Sienna conjured flame—controlled, precise spirals.

  “Now maintain that while I attack you.”

  Valeria launched a series of strikes—water-weaving, the opposite of Sienna’s element. Each attack designed to disrupt, distract, break concentration.

  Sienna held. Adjusted. Kept her flames steady even as she dodged and defended.

  “Excellent,” Valeria said. “That’s the difference. Power under pressure—not despite it.”

  She moved through all of us systematically, but not like a stranger learning our abilities. She’d seen us during the trial. Knew exactly where our weaknesses were.

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  Mira’s spirit-binding—“Your wisp saved Lucien’s life by absorbing excess energy. Now show me you can do it intentionally, not just instinctively.”

  Brenn’s earth-forging—“You anchored the containment structure when everyone else was falling apart. You’re the foundation. Act like it. No hesitation.”

  Liora’s runeweave—“Your containment structure was brilliant. Also took you three minutes to construct. I need you to do it in thirty seconds.”

  Then she turned to Ralen and Kaelen.

  “You two are different,” she said. “You’re not weavers like the others. You’re defenders.”

  Ralen nodded. “Warriors and rogues. We guard while they cast.”

  “Exactly. And right now, your defensive skills are adequate for academy sparring—not for what’s coming.” Valeria gestured them both forward. “Ralen, your job is to hold the line. Kaelen, yours is to eliminate threats before they reach the line. Show me what you can do.”

  She put them through their paces—Ralen’s axe-work, his footwork and defensive stance, how to protect multiple allies at once; Kaelen’s stealth, speed, and precision strikes, how to identify and neutralize threats before they closed distance.

  “Better,” she said finally. “But you’re thinking like academy students. Training exercises. Clean rules.” She shook her head. “Real combat is dirty. Chaotic. No rules. You defend your pack or they die. That’s it. We’re going to drill that until it’s instinct.”

  By mid-morning, we were exhausted, frustrated, and covered in bruises.

  But we were also better. Noticeably better.

  Valeria knew exactly what we needed because she’d seen exactly what we could do.

  “That’s enough for today,” she said finally. “We’ll continue tomorrow. Same time.”

  As we moved toward the water fountain, she called after us.

  “One more thing. What you did during the trial—the pack weave, the synchronized casting, the bond that let you coordinate—that’s your greatest strength. But it’s also your greatest vulnerability.”

  We turned back.

  “If the Conclave understands how your bond works, they can exploit it—use it against you.” Her expression was grave. “So we’re going to train you to fight as individuals and as a unit. Make you dangerous both ways. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” we said together.

  She almost smiled. Almost. “Good. Dismissed.”

  The pack scattered—Ralen to meditate, Sienna to the baths, Brenn for food. But Valeria called me back.

  “Lucien. A word.”

  I waited as the others left, though I could feel their attention through the bond—staying aware, ready to return if needed.

  Valeria studied me in the now-empty yard.

  “You’re holding back,” she said quietly.

  “I’m not—”

  “You are. I saw it during the trial, and I’m seeing it now. Every time you channel power, there’s a moment of hesitation.”

  I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  “The surge scared you,” she continued. “Almost losing control. Almost killing your friends. You’re terrified it’ll happen again.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Yes.” Her expression softened—just slightly. “Fear is smart. Fear is what kept you from pushing further during the trial, kept you from burning out completely. But fear that paralyzes you is just another way to die.”

  She stepped closer, voice dropping.

  “The Conclave is coming. They’re going to push you harder than I ever could. Test your limits, your control, your stability. And if you flinch every time you reach for your power, they’ll see it. They’ll know you don’t trust yourself. And they’ll use that.”

  “How do I stop being afraid?”

  “You don’t. You accept that power is dangerous. That control is practice, not perfection. And that fear is fine as long as it doesn’t stop you from acting when you need to.”

  She placed a hand on my shoulder—the same way she had after the trial, when she’d quietly told me I’d done well despite the disaster.

  “During the trial, I watched you make an impossible choice: stay safe and let your pack die, or risk everything to save them. You chose them.” She squeezed once. “The Conclave is going to test whether you’ll make that choice again. Be ready.”

  “I will be.”

  “Good. Because High Master Valthorne trusts you. Your parents trust you. Your pack trusts you. And after watching you nearly die to save your friends…” She met my eyes. “I trust you too. Now you need to trust yourself.”

  That afternoon, a formal summons arrived.

  Valthorne called us to his office—me, my parents, and the pack. The High Master looked grim as we filed in.

  “The Conclave is coming,” he said without preamble. “Official notice arrived an hour ago. They’ll be here in five days.”

  My mother tensed. “Five days? That’s faster than normal protocol.”

  “They’re claiming urgent circumstances. First awakening of sealed magic in two centuries—they want immediate investigation.” Valthorne’s tone was carefully neutral.

  “What do they want with Lucien?” Ralen asked.

  Valthorne’s pale eyes swept the room, resting on my face. “They want to test you. Document your abilities. Understand how sealed magic manifested. Their primary concern is whether this represents a broader phenomenon. If one seal can fail—or be bypassed—others might too.”

  “They think I can unseal other bloodlines?” I asked.

  “They think you might be able to—whether by accident or design. Every major house that lost magic will want answers.” Valthorne leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Listen to me. The Conclave knows nothing of the Valthor Binding—the Pact that sealed the Alaris line and exiled the dragons. They believe your magic merely went dormant centuries ago. They must continue to believe this. The Pact is the secret that keeps this kingdom safe. If they learn you hold the key to its unraveling, you won’t be a curiosity—you’ll be a weapon or a prisoner. Do you understand? The word Pact cannot be spoken.”

  “Understood,” I said, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

  “That makes you valuable. And dangerous. And a target,” Valthorne finished, his tone softening. “We’re walking a narrow line, Lucien. But you won’t walk it alone.”

  He stood, glancing between my parents and my pack. “Theron, Sera—your presence lends legitimacy. Stay as long as you can. And the rest of you…” His gaze softened. “You’ve already proven your loyalty in the yard. Keep proving it. Together.”

  Ralen nodded, voice firm. “You don’t have to tell us twice.”

  Valthorne’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Good. Then we’ll face them as one.”

  For a moment, the room fell still—just the faint hum of the wards in the walls, the pulse of something vast and unspoken moving beneath the Spire.

  Then Valthorne dismissed us, his hand briefly brushing my shoulder as I passed. “Whatever happens when they arrive,” he murmured, “remember who you are. And who you stand with.”

  That evening, Liora and I went to the Sunlit Archive. The others wanted to come, but Liora insisted on just us—too many hands would slow her system for cataloging centuries of secrets.

  “We need to understand your magic,” she said as we walked Aurelián’s corridors. “Why it isn’t sealed.”

  “You think the Archive has answers?”

  “If answers exist, they’re here.” She adjusted her glasses. “Yesterday was a start. Tonight, we dig deeper.”

  The Sunlit Archive was silent, its main chamber glowing with soft gold from mana-lamps. The restricted section’s door loomed, Valthorne’s key turning smoothly.

  Inside, the air smelled of old paper and preservation wards. Shelves stretched into shadow, lamps flaring as we passed.

  “Incredible,” Liora breathed, heading to her marked shelves. “Pre-Pact documents, some three hundred years old.”

  I pulled a tome—Alaris Family Registry, 1247–1289. Names of ancestors, their blood in my veins. Strange to think I carried their legacy.

  “Here,” Liora called, spreading documents on a reading desk. “King Thorne’s final campaign against Valthor. Battle reports, casualties, strategies.”

  I scanned the pages. Thousands dead. Lands scarred by dragonfire. “This is grim.”

  “And this,” she pulled another, “announces the Pact. Three months after Thorne defeated Valthor in single combat.”

  I read: ‘By decree of King Thorne Alaris, a binding agreement with Valthor, Patriarch of Dragons, secures exile to the Elder Peaks, ending hostilities. This peace is forged by ancient magic, witnessed by—’

  The page was torn, the rest gone.

  “Witnessed by whom?” I asked.

  “Exactly.” Liora laid out three more documents. “Every account mentions witnesses but never names them—or how the Pact’s magic worked.”

  I studied them. She was right—results described (peace, exile, sealed Alaris magic), but the method? Missing. Deliberately.

  “Why hide it?” I asked.

  “Someone didn’t want the truth known.” Liora pointed to a passage. “Here: ‘The sealing of spiritual capacity while maintaining bloodline affinity requires layered binding—access locked, individual unchanged. Such bindings demand precision and an anchor beyond standard wards.’”

  My stomach tightened. “That sounds like…”

  “The tome we found in the Grand Library,” Liora finished. “Three days ago, after the Veil breach. We returned the day after to find scorch marks where it had been, like it was summoned away.”

  “You think it’s here now? In the Archive?”

  “I think it was called back to the restricted section. That kind of magic—summoning a text—means it’s protected. Important.”

  “You think it’s the Pact’s mechanism?”

  “I think it’s part of it. Three casters—rune-weaver, spirit-binder, radiant source. Like Valthorne said about the Pact.” She tapped her quill. “But the real question: how did they get Valthor to consent? Dragons don’t exile themselves willingly. Yet the Pact is an agreement, not a cage.”

  We searched another hour, finding only fragments—references to “binding structures,” more torn pages. Then, as my hand brushed a vacant, dusty spot on a lower shelf Liora had already swept past, the very air in the restricted section snapped.

  A deep, golden thrumming resonated in my chest—a powerful surge of my own Radiant magic reacting to the immense wards. The sound was like the wards suddenly unfurling and violently locking back into place.

  In the space that had been empty, a thick, nameless tome materialized, its cover a dark, plain leather, still faintly shimmering with residual golden light. The book felt weighty, anchored. The shelf behind it bore a single, faint scorch mark—instantly recognized from Liora’s description.

  “Liora!” I breathed, my heart hammering.

  She spun, eyes wide, her glasses catching the last flicker of the gold light. “The wards didn’t register a transfer. It just… appeared.”

  I reached out and grasped the book. It was solid, real, and still warm. “It’s the missing book,” I confirmed. “It wasn’t just summoned away from the Grand Library—it was summoned back here, to the Sunlit Archives. Called home by the Archive itself.”

  Liora’s scholarly composure broke; she snatched her quill, her eyes burning with triumph. “The Archive is a repository of all that is Alaris and Radiant magic knowledge,” she declared. “It recognizes its own. Now, let’s see how the mechanism works.”

  She didn’t even wait for me to open the front cover; she flipped halfway, her eyes scanning the dense, rune-laced parchment.

  “Wait, this is incredible!” Liora gasped, tracing a complex glyph. “This is the Rune-Weave Frame itself! It details a highly specialized ritual that requires three master runeweavers—one to stabilize, one to weave, one to seal. It binds the spiritual capacity of a single consenting individual—King Thorne’s own magic—by using his core as a conduit. That’s what created the Great Dimming.”

  I nodded, feeling the significance of the find. “So that’s how he sealed his power. This is a massive piece of the puzzle.”

  Liora’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly. It’s elegant, but it’s personal. This ritual couldn’t bind a bloodline—it’s designed for one person only. Which means this book explains Thorne’s sacrifice, not the broader curse. If Valthorne was right, this is only one-third of the Pact’s structure—the Rune-Weave component. We’re still missing the Spiritual Anchor and the Radiant Source.”

  The relief of finding the book remained, now tempered by a fierce new focus. The mystery hadn’t ended—it had simply narrowed.

  “The lie is in the omission,” I whispered. The book felt weighty, anchored. Like the air itself was holding its breath. “We have the framework for the individual’s binding, but not the key that sealed the line itself. Still… this is a win, Liora. It proves Valthorne was right about the three disciplines. We just found one of them.”

  That night, I couldn’t sleep.

  Kept thinking about that tome in the Grand Library—the spiral runes, the gold glow when I’d touched it. A binding technique to suppress magic, to seal it inside someone.

  Three casters required.

  The Pact used three weavers.

  The pieces were there. Right in front of us. We just couldn’t see how they fit together yet.

  Through the bond, I could feel my pack sleeping—peaceful, safe.

  But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were running out of time. That the answers we needed were scattered across libraries, texts, and fragments…

  And that someone—maybe the Archive itself—was trying to show us the way.

  If we were just smart enough to see it.

  Five days until the Conclave arrives.