As the day wore on, Lira remained in the potion room, cleaning tools and organizing ingredients with a care she rarely showed outside this space. Each labeled jar, each carefully measured scoop of dried flower or powdered bark, brought a strange sense of peace. The hum of magic still lingered around the new potion on the shelf—a small, shimmering reminder that she could create something real.
She glanced at it again before turning to sweep up a few loose leaves from the table, her movements quiet and precise. In this stillness, she felt grounded—like her feet finally touched more than just school floors, but something deeper. Rooted.
Suddenly, the floor gave a subtle jolt beneath her. A glass vial on the shelf trembled, then tipped sideways with a soft clink before settling again. Lira froze.
The teacher looked up, alert. "Did you feel that?"
Lira nodded, her hands instinctively tightening around the edge of the worktable. "It felt like… a shift."
He stepped to the doorway, eyes narrowing as he turned toward the north windows. "That came from the convergence chamber. Something's wrong."
A faint pulse of energy shimmered through the glass panes, like distant heatwaves. Outside, the sky darkened slightly, though no clouds had gathered.
Lira felt the echo of something stir inside her. Not fear—but recognition. Like an ancient thread had just been plucked, humming through her bones.
The teacher's voice was calm, but firm. "Stay here. I need to check on the source. If anyone asks—tell them to remain in their quarters."
Lira hesitated. "Is it dangerous?"
He paused just long enough for her to notice. "I hope not."
Then he was gone.
The room suddenly felt too quiet. Lira looked back at the vial she had made, the swirl of green and copper still glowing faintly. The energy inside it didn't feel afraid. It felt awake.
And so did she.
Another pulse rippled through the floor—stronger this time.
Lira gasped as the potion vial slid off the shelf and shattered on the floor, the scent of pine and crushed starlight rising like a memory. She clutched the table to steady herself. Her heart beat faster—not out of fear, but something else. Concern. The teacher hadn't returned.
What if something had gone wrong?
She hesitated only a moment more before grabbing her satchel and stepping into the hallway. The stone corridors were unusually quiet, the torches flickering with a restless wind that shouldn't have reached inside. She walked quickly, then broke into a run, following the faint residual magic in the air—like a scent trail only her senses could catch.
The convergence chamber was deep within the school, behind doors that usually stayed sealed. Today, they stood ajar.
Lira stepped in slowly.
It was a vast, circular space—part natural cave, part ancient architecture. The walls were carved with glowing lines that pulsed in soft rhythm, like the heartbeat of the mountain itself. Crystals of varying size jutted from the floor and ceiling, each resonating with subtle hues—blues, violets, golds—responding to the energy in the air.
At the center, five marble pedestals formed a ring, each one etched with a different elemental rune: fire, water, earth, air, and spirit. The spirit rune glowed brightest now, and above it shimmered a thin veil of magic—fracturing at the edges like broken glass.
The teacher stood near the veil, one hand extended, brow furrowed in concentration.
"Lira?" he said without turning. "You shouldn't be here."
"I know," she said softly, stepping closer. "But… something's wrong. I felt it. The pulse."
He exhaled, then turned to her. His eyes weren't angry—only tired. Grateful, maybe, that someone had followed.
"It's a tear," he said, gesturing to the rift. "Something's pressing through from the other side. This chamber wasn't meant to wake yet."
Lira stared at the light fracturing mid-air. It looked… familiar, somehow. Like the glow from her potion. Like the feeling in her chest.
"I can help," she said. "Can't I?"
He looked at her then—not as a student, but as something else. A potential. A possibility.
"Maybe," he said. "But if you do… you can't go back to being just a student again."
Lira stepped closer, her eyes fixed on the shimmering fracture. The sound it made wasn't one she could hear—more a pressure in her chest, like a low hum vibrating against her ribs.
"I don't know how I know this," she murmured, "but I think… if I stand here—"
She moved without waiting for permission, placing her hand on the pedestal etched with the spirit rune.
A low tone rang out as soon as her skin met the stone. The crystals around the room responded, glowing warmer, brighter. The shimmer in the air flickered. Stabilized.
The teacher's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"I don't know," Lira whispered, "but it feels right."
She closed her eyes, and the hum deepened. In her mind's eye, she saw the five runes as threads, twisting through the earth and sky, tangled yet still reaching for harmony. The rift wasn't an accident—it was a call, a misaligned note in a melody that needed tuning.
Instinctively, Lira breathed in, then out, aligning her own breath with the pulse of the chamber. Her fingers curled around the edge of the pedestal, and her heartbeat slowed.
A light bloomed from the base of the rune, flowing up her arm—not burning, but gentle, like moonlight drawn through water. The rift began to seal itself, slowly, like a wound stitching shut.
The teacher placed his hand on her shoulder, steadying her, his expression unreadable.
After a long, suspended moment, the room fell still. The rift no longer tore—just a faint scar remained in the air, like a hairline crack in glass.
Lira opened her eyes. "What… was that?"
The teacher didn't answer right away.
Instead, he looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "You just answered a question this room hasn't asked in centuries."
The silence that followed was dense with meaning. Lira still felt the crystal's pulse echoing in her hand, even though the light had faded. She looked up at the teacher, searching his face for fear or anger. Instead, she found a quiet awe.
"I didn't mean to interfere," she said softly. "It just… pulled me. It felt familiar."
"You stabilized a convergence tear using only instinct," he replied, voice low. "That's not something even most initiates can do. It's not interference. It's… extraordinary."
Lira hesitated, then took a breath. "There's something I haven't told anyone. Not really."
He nodded, encouraging without pressing.
"I've had these dreams," she said, voice dropping. "Since I was a child. About a place called Runea. A city made of silver and green stone. Runes that glow like they're alive. A woman that feels like me—but older, different. She knows things. She speaks to the wind, the trees, even the stars. I thought it was just fantasy, but now—" She glanced at the fading scar in the air. "Now I don't think it is."
The teacher's expression shifted—wariness, curiosity, recognition.
He stepped back, folding his arms. "Lira… you need to speak with Grandmaster Elion."
Her heart stumbled. "I thought initiates weren't allowed to—"
"This is beyond protocol," he interrupted gently. "He oversees Rune-lore, convergence studies, and—more importantly—the deeper soul-path records. If what you saw is connected to Runea, Elion may have answers no one else can give."
Lira swallowed, her fingers brushing the edge of the pedestal again. The faint hum still echoed beneath her skin.
"Will he believe me?"
The teacher met her gaze. "He will if you tell him exactly what you just told me."
The memory of her first visit echoed faintly in Lira's chest as she ascended the now-familiar stone staircase. But today, the air felt heavier—charged with something unseen. Her footsteps were quieter, more thoughtful than before. The events in the Convergence Room still pulsed through her like a distant echo.
At the top, the double dragon-carved doors stood as proud and still as ever. She paused before them, heart thudding softly, then reached out and knocked.
A moment later, the doors opened without a sound. Golden light spilled out across the landing, warm and quiet like before. The Grandmaster sat at the round table, though this time his familiar bird rested on the back of his chair, eyes sharp, as though it had sensed her approach before she arrived.
"You've come with questions," he said, even before she spoke.
Lira stepped in and bowed her head slightly. "Yes… Grandmaster Elion. Something happened in the Convergence Room. There was a pulse—a second one. It… it was like the veil was thinner, and I could feel it. I helped my teacher stabilize it, but it felt like more than instinct."
Elion motioned toward the seat across from him. "Sit. Tell me everything."
She did. Slowly at first, then with gathering courage, Lira spoke of the strange harmony that hummed through her bones when the rift opened. How her hands moved without thought. How she knew where the tear was before she could see it. Then, as the warmth of his listening presence wrapped around her, she shared something more fragile.
"I've been having dreams. Since before I arrived. Of a name—Runea. Of a tree that bleeds light. Of a song I don't remember learning but can always hum. The dreams are different each time, but always tied to her… to that name. And now, after what happened in that room… it felt closer than ever."
The Grandmaster was silent, but not with judgment. He listened the way old trees do—with deep stillness. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and sure.
"You are not the first to dream of Runea," he said. "But very few speak of it. Fewer still dare to follow its thread."
He stood, pacing slowly to a shelf where old scrolls rested under crystal weights. His hand hovered over one but did not touch it.
"The name Runea belongs to one who once walked the balance between worlds. Dreamers with true resonance are rare… and when they appear, the fabric of this place responds. That is what you felt."
Lira's mouth went dry. "What does it mean?"
"It means," he said, turning back to her with a softness that almost startled her, "that your path may lead beyond what we can teach you in simple classes."
He gestured toward a slender stone door behind a tapestry. "There is a place here, below the library. A sanctuary few may enter. I will grant you access. You may not find answers there—but perhaps the silence will speak."
Lira nodded, the weight of his trust wrapping around her like a cloak. "Thank you, Grandmaster."
As she rose to leave, he added, "And Lira… write down your dreams. Even the strange ones. Especially the strange ones. They may be maps one day."