Rising With My Mystic Power

SHADOWS STIR

Mordaine barely slept.

Long after the sparring ring had emptied, the whispers followed him like phantoms through the Academy halls. Students parted when he passed, some with awe, others with suspicion. A few eyes burned with envy. He kept his hood low, but there was no hiding anymore.

The Aetherflame.

He had felt it burning under his skin, alive, hungering. A single slip and it had revealed itself, answering Kaelen’s strike like it had been waiting all along.

And now, everyone was watching.

When he finally reached his dorm, the small chamber tucked away at the edge of Halewick’s spire, his hands still shook. He locked the door, pressed his back against the wood, and exhaled.

On the desk, the heirloom waited.

A plain, unassuming pendant of tarnished silver. Its center was set with a stone so dark it seemed to drink in the light. Mordaine had found it years ago, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the old Carrowell manor—the only relic left behind after his parents vanished.

Tonight, the stone glimmered faintly.

Mordaine’s throat tightened. He reached for it, fingers trembling. The moment his skin touched the metal, warmth surged up his arm, steadying his breath.

The pendant pulsed—once. Twice.

And then, like ink spilling across his thoughts, images filled his mind.

Flames.

Shadows.

A battlefield drenched in ash.

And his father’s voice, faint, as if carried through water.

“The Aetherflame chooses, but it devours the weak…”

Mordaine staggered back, ripping his hand free. The vision snapped away.

He stood gasping, clutching the pendant. His father. After all these years, a whisper. A warning.

Before he could think further, a knock rattled the door.

“Mordaine.”

He froze. The voice was calm, measured—Professor Halbrecht.

“Open.”

Mordaine’s pulse hammered. Did Halbrecht know? Had he already reported what he saw?

With shaky fingers, Mordaine tucked the pendant beneath his shirt and cracked the door.

Halbrecht stood in the corridor, broad as a wall, his scar catching the torchlight. His eyes—cold, gray—studied Mordaine with unsettling precision.

“You’ll walk with me,” Halbrecht said, no room for refusal.

Mordaine obeyed.

They moved through the winding halls, down past the training grounds, past the library’s arched windows glowing with candlelight, and into the lower spires where students rarely went. The torches grew sparse, shadows deepening.

Finally, Halbrecht stopped before a heavy door of black oak bound with iron. He produced a key, unlocked it, and gestured for Mordaine to enter.

Inside lay a circular chamber lined with shelves. Books, scrolls, weapons, relics sealed in glass cases. The air was thick with dust and age. At the center sat a single stone pedestal etched with runes.

“This,” Halbrecht said, voice low, “is the Hall of Records. Few students see it. Fewer still deserve to.”

Mordaine’s mouth was dry. “Why bring me here?”

Halbrecht stepped closer, shadows deepening across his scarred face. “Because what I witnessed today cannot be ignored. That flame—it was no ordinary magic. It bore the mark of…” He hesitated, as though the words themselves were dangerous. “…the Veilbreakers.”

Mordaine’s breath caught. The word was unfamiliar, yet it struck something deep within him, resonant, like a bell tolling in his bones.

Halbrecht leaned closer. “Where did you learn it?”

Mordaine shook his head quickly. “I didn’t. I swear—I don’t even understand it myself.”

Halbrecht studied him for a long, weighted silence. At last, he turned away, pulling a worn leather tome from the shelf. He set it on the pedestal, opening its brittle pages.

Drawings filled them—creatures like shadows with teeth of fire and eyes like voids. Wraiths. And alongside them, sketches of warriors wielding strange, luminous fire, battling against impossible odds.

Beneath one figure was etched a name.

"Carrowell."

Mordaine’s knees nearly gave out.Halbrecht's voice cut like a blade. “That flame is not a gift, Carrowell. It is a curse. And if you cannot master it, it will consume you… and everyone around you.”

           

The room spun around Mordaine. His name, etched in ancient ink, stared back at him from centuries past.

Carrowell.

His father’s journals had whispered of something greater, but this… this was proof. His bloodline was tied to warriors who had once fought creatures from the void itself.

Halbrecht snapped the tome shut, dust rising like smoke.

“Do not mistake this for glory, boy. The Veilbreakers were feared as much as they were respected. Their fire was not of this world—it burned them as fiercely as it burned their enemies.”

Mordaine’s hand clenched against his chest where the pendant rested, its warmth steady like a heartbeat. “And if I’m one of them?”

Halbrecht’s cold gray eyes narrowed. “Then you are walking a path that ends in ruin. Unless…” He paused, as though weighing a dangerous thought. “…unless you can do what your ancestors could not—control it.”

Before Mordaine could answer, the chamber shook.

A low, resonant boom rattled the shelves, sending scrolls tumbling to the floor. The torches guttered. Dust rained from the ceiling.

Halbrecht’s head snapped toward the door. “No…”

Another boom, closer this time. The unmistakable sound of stone splitting, shouts echoing faint through the halls above.

Mordaine’s blood chilled. He remembered the sickly hum, the air that seemed to rot. The Wraith.

Halbrecht grabbed a longsword from the wall and thrust it toward Mordaine. “Stay here!”

But Mordaine’s legs moved before his mind caught up. He bolted after him.

The halls of the Academy were chaos. Students spilled from dormitories, some armed, others screaming. A corridor had collapsed ahead, rubble strewn across the marble floor. The air was thick with a foul stench, sharp like sulfur.

And then he saw it.

The Wraith slithered through the wreckage, a mass of shadow and smoke, its claws dragging sparks as they scraped the stone. Its eyes—two hollow voids—locked on the students fleeing down the passage.

The same nightmare from the alley, but bigger, stronger, more real.

Mordaine’s heart slammed in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to run. To hide. To stay powerless, unnoticed.

But then he saw her.

Lyra Ellowen stood her ground, sword drawn, wind swirling around her like a shield. Her face was pale, but her eyes blazed with defiance. She barked orders at the younger students, forcing them behind her.

The Wraith lunged.

Mordaine’s pendant seared against his chest. The world slowed. Heat rose in his veins, fire licking at the edges of his vision.

If he stayed silent, she would die.

Mordaine ripped the pendant free, clutching it in his fist. The stone flared, drinking in the torchlight, the chaos, the fear—and then it erupted.

Blue-white fire ignited along his arms, wrapping his body in searing brilliance. The air roared with heat, but the flames did not burn him. They moved with him, like a second skin.

The Wraith recoiled, its shadow-flesh writhing. For the first time, it seemed afraid.

Gasps rang through the students. Halbrecht froze mid-strike, recognition dawning in his scarred face. Lyra’s eyes widened—not with fear, but with something sharper. Curiosity.

Mordaine stepped forward, the Aetherflame crackling at his fingertips. His voice came steady, surprising even himself.

“Get away from them.”

The Wraith shrieked and charged.Mordraine met it head-on.

The flames surged as he thrust his hand forward, and the hall was consumed in blinding light.