The sky had turned a bruised purple by evening, clouds stretched thin over Blackmoor's spires. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows that danced across the school grounds like ghosts remembering their past.
Inside Richard's private study—a circular room lined with spell-sealed books, glowing maps, and magical artifacts humming under glass—London stood in front of the headmaster's desk.
"Tea?" Richard asked, pouring a dark blend into two cups. He didn't wait for an answer before sliding one toward the boy.
London didn't touch it. "You said you needed to speak to me alone."
"I did." Richard settled into his high-backed chair, eyes soft but probing. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine.""That's your answer to everything," Richard said, a tired smile tugging at his lips. "You've been at this school for two years, and I still don't know what you're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"That's what worries me most."
Silence passed like a quiet thunder between them.
Richard leaned forward, clasping his hands. "I've run this school for a long time. I've seen students walk in with power bleeding from their skin. I've seen darkness disguised as potential. But you... you're different."
London finally looked up. His dark eyes were steady. Calm. Unreadable.
"You watch everyone," Richard continued. "You ask no questions. You give no answers. No magic signature. No bloodline. But the moment I try to uncover anything beyond the surface… it disappears."
"I'm not doing that."
"Exactly," Richard whispered. "Which means something else is."
London didn't speak.
After a pause, Richard got up and walked to a shelf. He pulled down a worn leather-bound journal—the corners frayed, the pages yellowed. Inside were drawings. Ancient symbols. Prophecies scrawled by a seer nearly a century ago.
He turned to a page with a phoenix etched in ash-colored ink, wings engulfed in flames. At the bottom: "The Fireborn shall rise from death itself, eternal, hidden in silence until the hour of judgment."
London stared at it, unmoved.
"I don't know who you are," Richard said quietly. "But I think you've already died once. Haven't you?"London didn't blink. But the faintest flicker passed through his aura—so brief it could've been imagined.
"Death doesn't always mean an ending," he said finally. "Sometimes, it's the beginning of a curse."
Richard studied him. "You don't need to run forever, London."
"I'm not running," London replied. "I'm waiting."
"For what?"
London stood slowly. His gaze dropped to the phoenix sketch.
"For the part where I'm needed."
Outside the study, the school thrummed with hidden magic. Hope was on her balcony, staring out at the forest. Jessa and Raphael sparred beneath the starlight. Celeste sat alone in the alchemy wing, hands trembling over a failed transmutation circle.
But in Richard's study, as he watched London leave in silence, one thing became terrifyingly clear:
Hope was not the only anomaly in Blackmoor Academy.
There was a fire waiting to burn.
And it had a name.