Rising With My Mystic Power

SHADOWS OF THE LIBRARY

The Academy’s library was nothing like Mordaine expected.

By day, its vast windows bathed the halls in golden light, illuminating thousands of shelves stacked high with books, scrolls, and tablets. By night, however, the place transformed. The towering arches seemed to lean in closer, shadows stretched endlessly between the shelves, and the silence thickened—broken only by the occasional flicker of enchanted lanterns.

It was night now. And Mordaine was not supposed to be here.

He moved quietly between aisles of dusty tomes, a candle flickering in his hand. His ribs still ached from Kaelen’s brutal sparring, but curiosity drove him onward. He couldn’t ignore the fire that had burst from him in combat—or Lyra’s cryptic words.

Somewhere in these endless shelves, he hoped, was an answer.

The air smelled of parchment, ink, and something older—like stone that had soaked up centuries of secrets. He trailed a finger along the spines of books as he walked: The Codex of Elements, Binding the Inner Flame, Histories of the Five Kingdoms. Useful, but all too ordinary.

Then he saw it.

A shelf that shouldn’t have been there.

Wedged between Illusions of the Veil and The Martial Path, a narrow gap opened where no gap should be. Frowning, Mordaine leaned closer. His candlelight wavered, illuminating a faint seam in the wood.

It wasn’t a shelf. It was a door.

His pulse quickened. He pressed gently, and the panel gave way with a soft creak, revealing a spiral staircase descending into darkness. Cold air rushed out, carrying the faint smell of smoke and iron.

Mordaine hesitated. He knew enough to realize this was no sanctioned section of the library.

But the flame inside him stirred. Almost as if urging him forward.

Gripping his candle, he stepped into the stairwell. The door closed silently behind him.

The descent felt endless. The deeper he went, the colder the air became, until his breath puffed in pale mist. The stairs finally ended in a chamber lit by blue torches that hissed without smoke.

Rows of stone pedestals stretched before him, each holding a book or scroll bound in iron clasps. Strange symbols glowed faintly on the floor, etched in circles that pulsed with hidden power.

Mordaine swallowed hard. This wasn’t just a hidden archive. It was a vault.

He approached the nearest pedestal. The book was thick, bound in cracked leather, and its title gleamed in faded silver:

“The Forgotten Flame.”

The hairs on his neck stood on end.

He reached for it—and froze as a shadow moved at the edge of the chamber.Someone else was down here.

       

Mordaine’s grip tightened on the candle. The flame quivered, throwing jagged shadows across the vault’s stone walls.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, forcing his voice steady.

The figure stepped into the light. A tall man, draped in a cloak darker than night itself. His face was hidden by a hood, but a faint gleam of silver eyes flashed in the gloom.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the man said, his voice low, edged with something ancient.

Mordaine’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Neither should you, I suppose.”

A pause. Then, to his surprise, the figure chuckled softly. “Clever boy.”

The man moved closer, his steps soundless against the stone floor. He gestured to the book Mordaine had nearly touched. “The Forgotten Flame. Do you know what it is?”

Mordaine shook his head.

“It is not a guide,” the man said. “It is a warning. That flame destroys those who fail to master it. It is power unshaped by the laws of magic, unbound by the paths your Academy teaches.”

The fire inside Mordaine stirred, hot and restless, as if recognizing the words.

“Then you know what I am,” Mordaine said slowly.

The hooded man tilted his head. “I know what you could be. A weapon. A savior. Or a catastrophe.”

Before Mordaine could speak again, the man raised a gloved hand, and the blue torches flared brighter. The light revealed his face at last—sharp features, hair silver as frost, and a scar that carved from temple to jaw. His eyes glowed faintly, as if lit from within.

“I am called Seraphael,” he said. “Once, I walked these halls as you do. But I walked too far into the fire, and it burned away everything I was.”

Mordaine’s heart clenched. “What do you want with me?”

Seraphael studied him for a long moment. “To give you a choice. Learn control, or be consumed. There are places in this world where your flame will be welcomed—and places where it will be hunted to extinction. You must decide which road you walk.”

The chamber pulsed with silence.

Mordaine felt the weight of the book behind him, its iron clasps gleaming. He thought of Lyra’s warning, of Kaelen’s tests, of the whispers in the training yard.

And then Seraphael’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The shadows move faster than you realize. The Academy is not the safe haven it pretends to be. They are watching. They will not let you grow without chains.”

Mordaine’s chest tightened. “Who’s they?”

But before Seraphael could answer, the stairwell door above groaned open. Faint light spilled down the steps, along with the heavy tread of boots.

Someone was coming.

Seraphael’s silver eyes blazed. “Another time, boy.”

He moved like smoke, his cloak dissolving into the shadows until nothing remained.

Mordaine stood frozen, alone in the vault, as the footsteps descended closer and closer.