Chapter 22: The Memory of Blood Varek did not sleep. He lay on his narrow bed with the journal open on his chest and the Gnarl curled beside him, watching the moon crawl across the sky through his window. Orin's words echoed in his mind over and over again. But fear was already an old companion. Fear had walked beside him since the morning he woke up screaming with the memory of the cold table still burning behind his eyes. Fear of Vespera's steady hands. Fear of Aurelius's gentle smile. Fear of the death that was rushing toward him faster with every borrowed vision. He was not afraid of being afraid. He was afraid of being ignorant. "Orin said speaking his name draws his attention," Varek said quietly. "If I borrow a memory from the past, will he feel it?" The Gnarl opened its red eye. [Borrowing from the past is different. The Lightbringer cannot feel ripples in what has already happened. The past is fixed. He can only track you when you reach into the future, because that is w

Chapter 24: The Forgotten Name Varek could not let it go. He sat in the training yard the next morning with the letter from Elder Marcus Venn folded inside his coat. The words were burned into his mind. Remember us. Please. Remember us. He watched the other students drill with their beasts and thought about the twelve elders who had vanished from history. Not just killed. Removed. As if they had never drawn breath. He had to test it. He had to see how deep the erasure went. When the training master dismissed them for midday rest, Varek walked to the dining hall. Students crowded the long wooden tables, laughing and shoveling food into their mouths. Their beasts lounged at their feet or perched on the rafters. Draven sat at the center table with his friends, holding court like a prince. Varek did not sit with them. He found a quiet corner near a group of older students who were deep in conversation about Academy history. One of them, a tall boy with a Storm Finch on his shoulder,

The night before the tournament bracket was posted, Varek sat on the edge of his bed with the Gnarl uncoiled beside him and the cold weight pressing against his lungs like a stone lodged behind his ribs. The candle on his table had burned down to a stub. The window was dark. The house was silent. "I need to see it," he said. The Gnarl opened its red eye. [You want to borrow a vision of the tournament?] "Just a small one. Just Draven's first match. I need to know how he fights. I need to see his strategy before I face him." [Tou have to tone it down with the borrowing. The cold weight in your chest is already heavy. If you borrow too much, it will grow heavier.] "I know the cost." [Do you? You have borrowed eight visions now, weeks of your life are gone, maybe more. Each time, the end comes faster. Are you sure you want to add to that burden?] Varek looked at his hands. The silver scar on his left palm gleamed in the candlelight. He thought about the tournament. The Royal Acad

Varek stood in the Beast Graveyard under a thin moon and knew that fire was not enough. The night before the tournament had given him time to think, and the more he thought, the clearer it became. Draven's Thunder Roc was lightning-aligned. Its speed was blinding. Fire was too slow to catch it. If Varek wanted to win without revealing Azrath-Kai, he needed something that could match the Roc in the air. He needed lightning of his own. The Gnarl sat beside him in the cold grass, its red eye steady. [You have been quiet all day. I know what you are considering.] "Then tell me if I am wrong." [You are not wrong. Fire will not catch a Thunder Roc. You need lightning. But lightning is a greater magic. The System will demand a greater trade.] Varek looked at his hands. The silver scar on his left palm gleamed in the moonlight. He had already traded the memory of his mother's bread and the memory of meeting Vespera. He had gotten them back through the loophole, but the trades had still

The morning of the tournament dawned cold and bright. Varek stood at the edge of the arena with the other first-year students, the Gnarl a tiny, pathetic weight on his shoulder. Banners snapped in the wind overhead. The stands were packed with students, masters, and visiting nobles wrapped in furs against the chill. The smell of roasted meat drifted from the vendor stalls outside the gates. A festival atmosphere hummed through the air, but Varek felt none of it. The arena was a wide circle of packed dirt ringed by low stone walls. Wooden practice weapons lined the racks. The rules were simple. No killing blows. No maiming. A match ended when one fighter yielded or was pinned for five seconds. Beasts could assist but only within the boundaries of the ring. Magistrate Corvus Valerius sat in the VIP box with his cold, watchful eyes. Draven stood at the front of the competitors' area, his Thunder Roc crackling on his shoulder. He was already wearing his fighting leathers, and his grin