The sharp clinking of glass echoed in the dimly lit office as Seikan Blackthorn set down a half-full vial onto his cluttered desk. The glow of enchanted runes etched along the stone walls flickered faintly, casting long shadows that danced across the room. Stacks of parchment and old tomes crowded every surface, each one detailing fragmented reports and hastily scribbled notes on the school’s current state.

Seikan leaned back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his sharp emerald eyes scanning over a fresh report. His expression remained unreadable, but the taut line of his jaw betrayed the simmering frustration beneath.

A soft knock at the door broke the stillness.

“Enter,” he called, his voice cool and even.

The door creaked open, revealing a young, nervous-looking prefect standing in the doorway, a folded parchment trembling in their hands.

“Professor Blackthorn, a message from Professor Wickham,” the prefect stammered. “It’s about Salem Blackthorn.”

Seikan’s eyes sharpened, his posture straightening as he extended a hand. The prefect hurried forward, placing the parchment in his grasp before quickly retreating from the room.

Seikan unfolded the message, scanning its contents swiftly. His grip on the parchment tightened briefly before he composed himself.

'Salem is safe.'

The words were simple, but they carried immense weight. Wickham had confirmed that Salem, along with the rest of Bunjil House, had been relocated to the Thylacea common room after the breach. No injuries. No further incidents.

Seikan exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening a fraction.

But relief was fleeting.

His eyes drifted back to the chaotic sprawl of reports and maps on his desk. Basilisk sightings. The indestructible rune-covered beast. The breached walls. The scattered, unexplained runes appearing across the grounds. And now, the lockdown had driven students into cramped, vulnerable quarters.

It was all spiraling.

Seikan’s fingers traced absentmindedly over a set of ancient rune diagrams sprawled beside him. The marks were faintly similar to those that had been spotted on the beast’s horns—a dark magic with an all too familiar runic structure—one he was not quite ready to accept.

A flick of his wand summoned another parchment from the pile. This one detailed old ward structures and their vulnerabilities, but it offered no further consolation.

A sharp knock pulled him from his thoughts.

“Blackthorn,” a familiar, authoritative voice called.

Seikan’s gaze snapped to the door. “Enter.”

The heavy oak door swung open, and Headmaster Boromus Spellchecker strode in, his robes trailing behind him. The air seemed to shift with his presence.

“I assume you’ve read Wickham’s report?” Spellchecker’s tone was flat, though his eyes glimmered with something unreadable.

Seikan inclined his head. “Salem is unharmed. For now.”

Spellchecker nodded. “Good. But we have larger concerns.”

Seikan gestured to the disorganized chaos on his desk. “I’d say that’s an understatement. The school is fracturing at every seam, and our wards are failing faster than we can repair them.”

Spellchecker approached the desk, his sharp gaze sweeping over the parchments. His hand hovered above a map of the school grounds, where marked runes dotted vulnerable entry points.

“These attacks,” Seikan continued, “are too precise. Whoever is behind this understands our defenses intimately. The rune magic we’ve encountered isn’t just old—it’s been adapted, repurposed. It’s designed to bypass or erode our strongest wards.”

Spellchecker’s expression darkened. “I’ve suspected as much. But what concerns me more is the beast.”

“The creature with the rune-etched horns,” Seikan muttered, eyes narrowing. “Nearly impervious to magic. That isn’t a natural beast. It was made—or worse, summoned.”

Spellchecker’s gaze grew heavier. “We need answers, and quickly. I want every rune on these grounds cataloged. Every ward tested and reinforced.”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Seikan let out a sharp breath. “And if we can’t reinforce them?”

“Then we find out who’s behind this before they breach the final defenses,” Spellchecker replied coldly.

Seikan hesitated for a moment before asking, “What about the Ministry?”

“They know parts of it,” Spellchecker admitted, folding his arms. “But not enough. If they knew the full extent of this, they’d attempt to take control of the situation—and the school. That would only worsen things.”

Seikan leaned back slowly. “I’ll continue my research. Whoever is behind this—whatever their purpose—I’ll find them.”

Spellchecker gave a curt nod before turning for the door. He paused briefly, glancing over his shoulder. “Whatever personal distractions you may have, Professor, set them aside. We cannot afford divided attention.”

Personal distractions.

Seikan’s eyes darkened as they returned to the rune sketches on his desk. His fingers hovered over the jagged symbols, tracing them in the air.

If HE was involved, Seikan would deal with it. But not yet.

Not without proof.

For now, he would watch. And wait.

But his patience was thin.

The heavy oak door shut behind him with a muted thud, sealing Seikan Blackthorn within his thoughts and leaving Headmaster Boromus Spellchecker alone in the dim corridor.

For a moment, the aged wizard stood still, his gnarled hand resting lightly on the cold stone wall. The torches lining the hall flickered gently, casting long shadows that danced across his worn, midnight-blue robes. Despite the weight of the situation pressing upon him, his expression was calm—serene, even.

But behind that serenity lay a mind moving like clockwork.

He knew Seikan was holding back.

Not out of malice, but out of calculation.

Boromus Spellchecker had led Austramore for longer than most of the staff had been alive. He had watched professors come and go, had taught generations of witches and wizards, and had seen countless students grow into adults. And if experience had taught him anything, it was that Seikan Blackthorn was not a man to reveal his full hand unless absolutely necessary.

The headmaster resumed his steady pace down the corridor, his soft footsteps echoing in the stillness.

Seikan suspects his son, Sage.

Boromus didn’t need to be a Legilimens to know that much. The signs were subtle—an extra pause in his words, the way his eyes had lingered on the reports of the runes, how carefully he chose his words when discussing the creature.

And yet, Boromus didn’t press him. Not yet.

There were greater concerns at hand.

His thoughts drifted to Eliza, now safe but fragile, recovering after being trapped within that cursed book. Her recounting of the events was scattered, fragmented by the trauma of her ordeal, but two names had cut through the confusion with chilling clarity.

Sage Blackthorn and Sevrin Virelle.

Boromus sighed quietly, his breath visible in the cool corridor.

He had always been wary of Seikan’s sons, not because of who they were but because of the legacy they carried. Runes were ancient, powerful, and volatile. Few understood their true depths, and fewer still could wield them safely. Seikan had mastered them in ways few could comprehend, but Sage had always seemed... impatient.

Ruthless curiosity could be as dangerous as ignorance.

The headmaster’s hand drifted to the inside pocket of his robes, brushing against the corner of a slim, enchanted notebook. The same notebook where he’d recorded Eliza’s words, every fragmented piece of her story. And now, those words echoed in his mind.

"They... they trapped me.. Sevrin and Sage. They used the runes, twisted them. It wasn’t meant to be broken."

Boromus' pace slowed as he approached a grand archway leading to one of Austramore’s oldest hallways. The air here felt heavier, laced with the ancient magic woven into the very stones. The portraits of former headmasters lined the walls, their painted eyes following his every step. Some nodded in silent acknowledgment, others watched with subtle unease.

“Worried, are you?” Boromus murmured, casting a glance at the watchful portraits.

The image of a stern woman in forest-green robes sniffed disdainfully but said nothing.

Boromus allowed himself a faint smile before it quickly faded.

The school was holding its breath.

He knew the wards were weakening, fractures spreading through the once-impenetrable defenses. The runes Sage had twisted were not simple markings but carefully designed fractures in Austramore’s foundation, a slow poisoning of its protections.

And the basilisks—creatures of chaos—were not acting alone. Something far more deliberate was at work.

Boromus reached a small, inconspicuous door at the far end of the hall. With a flick of his wand, the ancient locks unfastened with a soft click. The door creaked open, revealing a hidden staircase spiraling downward.

He descended slowly, the faint hum of protective enchantments brushing against his skin. This path led to the oldest part of Austramore, far beneath the main halls—a place even most professors rarely tread.

At the base of the stairs was a simple wooden door, carved with deep runic symbols pulsing faintly with blue light. He extended his hand, and the runes receded, the door opening silently.

Inside, the air was still, the silence profound.

The Whispering Archives.

Rows of ancient books, scrolls, and forgotten artifacts stretched endlessly into the dimness, their presence heavy with secrets. It was here that Eliza had been imprisoned, locked within that cursed tome.

Boromus moved toward a sealed pedestal at the center of the room. Resting upon it was the book—the very one that had ensnared Eliza. Its cover, once sealed, now lay cracked open, the enchantments broken.

Yet it still radiated dark magic.

Boromus stared at it for a long moment, his wrinkled hand hovering just above its surface.

"They used the runes, twisted them."

Sage's hand was in this, no doubt. But the why eluded him.

Why attack Austramore from within? What did Sage and Sevrin stand to gain by unbinding forces that even Seikan himself might hesitate to touch?

Boromus’s fingers curled into a fist.

He would need to tread carefully. Accusing Sage outright would fracture the fragile stability among the staff. And Seikan, despite his cold demeanor, would not take kindly to such a charge against his blood.

No. Boromus would need more than suspicion.

“Answers...” he whispered to the empty room.

But answers rarely came freely.

He turned, retreating back into the labyrinth of ancient knowledge. There were things in these archives that even Sage and Sevrin could not comprehend. Old magic, deeper than runes, older than words.

And Boromus would find it.

Because if Sage Blackthorn thought he could break Austramore from within, he was gravely mistaken.

The Thylacea common room hummed with the low murmur of students trying to find some normalcy amid the lockdown. The fireplace crackled quietly, casting warm light over the stone walls, but the shadows in the corners felt heavier than usual.

Up in the boys' dormitory, Soya lay on his bed, legs stretched out and arms lazily tossing a small, enchanted ball in the air. His kitten, a tiny calico tabby fluffball named Inkwell, pounced after the ball each time it arced over Soya’s head, batting at it with tiny paws and letting out soft, frustrated mews when it bounced away.

Soya chuckled, watching the kitten wiggle its little backside before lunging forward. "You’re getting faster, Inkwell," he murmured, eyes soft with amusement.

The playful moment was a rare relief, a quiet bubble away from the chaos beyond the dormitory walls.

But that peace was short-lived.

The door creaked open, and Salem Blackthorn leaned casually against the frame. His sharp green eyes swept over the room, landing on Soya and his kitten with mild amusement. "Didn’t think you were the type for pets."

Soya looked up, startled but smiling faintly. "Oh—hey, Salem. Yeah, well he is my familiar after all." He sat up, scratching behind Inkwell’s ears.

Salem stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His expression was casual, but there was something behind his eyes—an edge Soya hadn’t seen before.

"You holding up alright?" Salem asked, his tone light but layered. "After... everything."

Soya hesitated. It was a simple question, but it carried weight. "I think so. It’s just a lot. Hard to tell what’s normal anymore."

"Yeah," Salem muttered, glancing around the room. His eyes wandered over the cluttered nightstand.

And froze.

A folded, worn piece of parchment lay there—Eliza's rune sketch. The same rune they had found near the lake.

Salem’s gaze sharpened, his casual stance stiffening. Slowly, he stepped closer, eyes fixed on the parchment. "Where did you get this?" His voice was quieter now, almost too calm.

Soya blinked, confused. "Oh, that? Eliza gave it to me before she… well, before she disappeared. Why?"

Salem didn’t answer immediately. He crouched slightly, studying the rune with narrowed eyes. His breath slowed, and his fingers twitched at his sides.

It was unmistakable.

That rune wasn’t just any rune—it was his father's work.

No. Not his father’s.

His mind reeled. There were only three people alive who could craft runes like this. His father. Himself.

And Sage.

Salem’s stomach knotted. His throat tightened, but he kept his face neutral, though a bead of sweat slid down his temple. He stared at the intricate lines, tracing the strokes in his mind.

"I recognize this design," Salem finally said, his voice carefully measured.

Soya sat up straighter. "You do?"

Salem nodded slowly, but his mind was racing.

Why would Sage be involved in this?

"It’s… it’s a style of runecraft my father developed," he admitted cautiously. "Very old magic. Not many know how to use it." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Only a few of us ever learned it. My father, myself..."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening.

"...and my brother, Sage."

The room seemed to grow colder.

Soya’s eyes widened slightly. "You think Sage…?"

Salem’s expression darkened. "I don’t know. But if this rune matches our family’s work, and my father isn’t behind it, there’s only one person left."

He leaned back, running a hand through his dark hair. His mind spun, piecing together fragments of what he knew about Sage—his restlessness, his craving for power. His arrogance.

It made a sick sort of sense.

But it also didn’t.

Why would Sage do this?

Was it Sevrin's influence or something more than that?

"I need to think," Salem muttered, half to himself. Then, realizing how sudden he sounded, he glanced back at Soya. "Keep that sketch safe. Don’t show it to anyone else, alright?"

Soya nodded slowly, feeling the weight of Salem’s tone. "Okay. But... what does it mean?"

Salem shook his head. "It means things are worse than I thought."

Without another word, he turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Soya stared at the rune on his nightstand, suddenly feeling like the walls of the castle had closed in a little tighter.

And downstairs, Salem's footsteps echoed faintly in the stone halls as his mind churned.

Sage... what have you done?