The spires of the Academy loomed against the horizon, their runes flickering faintly in the pre-dawn light. Lyric stood at the edge of a rooftop overlooking the city, his hood pulled low against the biting wind. The streets below were quiet, the hum of magic dimming as Arcanis slipped into the uneasy stillness that came before morning.

He hadn’t returned to the Whistling Tankard or sought refuge in the lower district after leaving the alley. Instead, he had spent the last few hours weaving through the city’s backstreets, staying ahead of the gnawing sense that he was being watched. He had no intention of going back to the Academy’s hallowed halls—not after their rejection—but something in him tugged toward the archives hidden deep within its walls.

If anyone knew why the stranger was so interested in him, it would be the Academy.

Lyric adjusted the straps of his satchel and slipped silently down a drainpipe, his boots landing with a soft thud on the cobblestones below. The Academy was surrounded by a sprawling campus, its carefully manicured gardens laced with enchantments meant to deter intruders. He would need to tread carefully.

The city’s skyline began to pale as Lyric approached the perimeter of the Academy grounds. He crouched behind a crumbling stone wall, his fingers tracing the runes etched into the barrier. The faint hum of protective wards vibrated against his skin, subtle but unmistakable.

He took a deep breath, twisting his torso slightly to let the wind spiral through the holes in his ribs. The resonance sharpened, amplifying his senses as he scanned the wards for weak points. Most mages relied on sight or sound to navigate magical defenses, but Lyric had learned to feel the vibrations that pulsed beneath their surface.

There—a faint disruption in the pattern, just wide enough to slip through.

Lyric adjusted his cloak and darted forward, keeping low to the ground as he passed through the gap. The wards hummed faintly, brushing against him like static electricity, but he moved quickly enough to avoid triggering an alarm.

The campus was eerily quiet, the grand buildings casting long shadows over the cobblestone paths that wound between them. Lyric stayed to the edges, his movements silent as he made his way toward the central tower.

The archives were housed deep within the tower’s lower levels, their knowledge jealously guarded by the Academy’s elite. Lyric had only been inside once before, during his earliest days as a student. He doubted the mages in charge would remember him, but he wasn’t willing to take that risk.

The entrance to the tower was guarded by a single mage, their azure cloak marking them as a Resonance adept. They leaned lazily against the doorway, their eyes half-lidded as if the weight of their Harmony had left them perpetually exhausted.

Lyric stayed hidden in the shadows, studying the guard’s movements. He didn’t have the raw power to overwhelm them in a direct confrontation, but he didn’t need to. Resonance adepts were attuned to sound and vibration, but their sensitivity often made them vulnerable to subtle disruptions.

Reaching into his satchel, Lyric pulled out a small rune-etched stone—one of the tools he had purchased from the barkeep. He twisted the stone in his hand, activating its enchantment, and rolled it across the ground toward the guard.

The stone emitted a faint, erratic hum as it moved, its frequency designed to clash with the natural rhythm of a Resonance adept’s Harmony.

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The guard flinched, their hand going to their head as they staggered slightly. Lyric took his chance, darting past them and slipping through the heavy wooden door before it could creak shut behind him.

Inside the tower, the air was cool and damp, the faint glow of rune-lamps casting long shadows along the stone walls. Lyric moved quickly, his boots barely making a sound as he descended the spiraling staircase toward the archives.

The deeper he went, the heavier the air seemed to grow, the hum of magic intensifying until it pressed against his skin like a second heartbeat.

At the base of the staircase, Lyric paused, his eyes narrowing as he took in the massive iron door that guarded the entrance to the archives. Its surface was covered in intricate runes, their patterns shifting faintly as though alive.

He approached cautiously, his fingers brushing against the door’s surface. The vibrations were complex, layered in ways that made his head spin. Breaking through this barrier would take more than brute force—it would require precision.

Lyric closed his eyes, letting the wind spiral through his ribs as he attuned himself to the door’s resonance. He could feel the subtle variations in its pattern, the faint discordance where the layers of magic overlapped.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed his palms against the runes and released a focused burst of resonance. The door shuddered, its layers of enchantments flickering like a candle in the wind. Lyric gritted his teeth and pushed harder, the vibrations building to a crescendo until the runes dimmed and the door swung open with a low groan.

The archives were vast, their shelves stretching far into the darkness. Scrolls, tomes, and artifacts filled the space, their presence a testament to centuries of accumulated knowledge. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and dust, and the faint glow of enchanted lanterns cast a ghostly light over the room.

Lyric moved quickly, his eyes scanning the shelves for anything that might hold a clue about his abilities—or the stranger who had taken such a keen interest in him.

He pulled a scroll from one of the lower shelves, its edges frayed with age. The text was written in an unfamiliar script, its meaning hidden behind layers of magical encryption. Lyric frowned, rolling the scroll back up and placing it carefully back in its spot.

Time was running out.

As he moved deeper into the archives, a faint vibration caught his attention. It wasn’t coming from the shelves or the artifacts—it was coming from the far end of the room, where a single pedestal stood beneath a shaft of pale light.

Lyric approached cautiously, his pulse quickening as he saw what lay atop the pedestal: a small, rune-etched cube that pulsed faintly with energy.

The vibrations emanating from the cube were unlike anything Lyric had felt before—chaotic and unrefined, yet strangely familiar. It was as if the cube was vibrating in tune with the resonance he had carved into his own body.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cube’s surface. The moment he touched it, a sharp jolt of energy shot through him, and his vision went white.

Images flooded his mind—fragments of memories and sensations that weren’t his own. He saw a man standing atop a crumbling tower, his body wreathed in wind and light as he fought against a shadowy figure. He felt the pain of the carvings etched into his skin, the same pain that had defined Lyric’s journey.

And then he heard it—a faint, mournful hum that resonated deep within his chest. It wasn’t a sound, but a vibration, carrying with it a single, undeniable truth: You are not the first.

Lyric staggered back, the cube slipping from his hands and landing on the pedestal with a soft thud. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind reeling from what he had just experienced.

Before he could process what had happened, the vibrations in the air shifted. Someone was coming.

Lyric shoved the cube into his satchel and darted toward the exit, his movements fueled by adrenaline. He slipped through the iron door just as heavy footsteps echoed down the staircase, his heart pounding as he sprinted back toward the surface.

By the time he emerged from the tower, the first rays of sunlight were breaking over the city. Lyric didn’t stop running until he was far from the Academy grounds, his chest heaving as he collapsed against a wall in a narrow alley.

He pulled the cube from his satchel, its faint vibrations pulsing against his skin. Whatever this artifact was, it held answers—and Lyric was determined to uncover them.

But as he stared at the runes etched into its surface, a single thought lingered in his mind:

If he wasn’t the first, then who—or what—had come before him?