Luckborn

A pale blue circle of light suddenly appeared beneath Otter's feet. It was dim at first, but slowly grew brighter.

As the arcane glow washed over him, the shadowy cathedral surrounding him vanished, and he found himself standing in the tiny kitchen of his cottage. A much younger version of himself sat on a stool at the table in the center of the room, drawing on a scrap of paper with a piece of charcoal from the fireplace.

Otter's heart swelled with emotion. He knew exactly what he was about to see. This was one of his most treasured memories. Though how he was standing in the memory remained a mystery.

His mother entered, carrying an armload of wood, and stacked it neatly on the hearth. Then she stood behind him, placed her hands on his small shoulders, and looked at his drawing.

"My goodness, Otter. That is something else. You have quite the talent there."

He smiled up at her.

This was one of his earliest memories, a foundational one. It had shaped his desire to sketch the world around him. He found strength and comfort in his mother's praise and support in this moment.

As soon as he acknowledged the importance of the memory, the scene dissolved into gray wisps of non-existence and was replaced with something different.

Now he watched himself climb the side of the cottage, in search of a new insect. He got halfway up the wall when he slipped and tore off a piece of siding, revealing a hidden envelope—the note from his father. This, too, was an important event in his life. One that set him on a course for the Academy. His breath caught as he realized he hadn't made any progress on the search for him since before Binding Day. Maybe that was the question he should ask the spirit when he got the chance.

Smoke and shadow swirled around him, and he was staring at Erin as she wandered through the market. It was the first time he'd noted how lovely she was, the first time he realized his feelings for her were more complicated than that of a childhood friend.

Now he was swimming in the canals, splashing and playing, diving to fetch a stone from the bottom before returning to the surface. It was the day he'd earned his nickname.

The memories flooded his consciousness faster and faster, becoming a kaleidoscope of images and feelings. All were pivotal moments in his life.

As they flashed through his mind, he thought he understood what was required. He had to leave the past behind. The shadow guardian wanted him to relinquish one of these memories. But how could he? Every one of these events had made him who he was today. Losing any of them would change who he was on a fundamental level.

And that was the point, he realized. To move forward, to make progress, he had to change.

He sifted through each memory as it came. Ten became a hundred. He didn't know how long he stood there. It could have been minutes or hours. And then he latched onto something different.

A note that read: You don't belong here. It was a recent memory, from just a few months ago. Anger flared inside him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on what else he felt at that moment—shame. He concentrated on that feeling, dredging up memories he also associated with it. He saw Bran. Calling him a classless wonder. Bran. Calling him a sewer rat. Other kids laughing at the taunts, sneering and snickering behind his back. Shame flooded him. But there was more to it than that. A feeling of inadequacy.

More memories rushed back. His failures during Combat Basics. Mistakes in primary school. Feelings of helplessness.

As each memory passed, he grabbed hold of those feelings. Held tight to them, dissected them, became familiar with the nuance and composition of each one. This, he realised, was holding him back. His desire to belong, to fit in, prevented him from embracing who he truly was. Those that mocked him for being different fed into that deep-seated need so much that it blinded him to the truth. New memories washed over him. Ones of Erin standing beside him in his moments of weakness, Liora and Milo taking the news of his Classless status without a worry, he and Levi laughing at a stupid joke. Despite all of this, he still held onto those feelings of isolation and inadequacy. Suddenly, Otter's understanding shifted. The spirit didn't want to take his memories. It wanted a part of him. Otter willed the memories to cease, and they did.

The visage of the Shadow Guardian appeared before him. Otter felt a pulling sensation at the edges of his soul, a hunger desperately needing to be sated.

"Here is your toll," Otter said through gritted teeth. And he let go. Not of the memories, but the part of him they had created. The scared, helpless child that he clung to. The one that couldn't see his place in the world, that couldn't recognize what was in front of him the whole time. He let the fear, anxiety, and shame coalesce, gave it shape and form, and offered it to the Shadow Guardian.

The form was that of a small, timid boy. And the guardian consumed it. The shade howled, releasing a terrible shriek as it devoured all that Otter gave it. It was a terrible, awful sound—the anguish that Otter's soul had kept inside for years—finally released.

And suddenly, it was over.

The guardian shrank back from Otter, and he realized his friends were beside him once more. At some point, he had fallen to his knees, though he didn't know when. Erin knelt next to him, supporting him.

The Shadow Guardian spoke. "The price has been paid." It folded up on itself again and again until it winked out of existence. The surrounding pairs of eyes also vanished.

"Otter, are you okay?" Erin asked in a shaky voice.

Otter looked at her, met her eyes, and for the first time didn't feel the need to look away after only a few seconds. "Yeah," he said. "I am."

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He rose to his feet with surprising ease. His legs trembled, but not from fear. It felt like something had been unhooked from inside him—some invisible chain he'd carried so long, he'd forgotten it was there.

Erin's breath caught as she gazed into his eyes. The others watched him, shooting nervous glances at each other. Sage's brow furrowed. She tilted her head slightly, as if studying the lines of his face and finding a new angle that hadn't been there before. Milo gave a quiet nod and adjusted the strap on his shoulder, saying nothing.

Then Levi opened his mouth. "What the hell just happened, man?"

"What he said," added Jasper. "You look…I don't know. Taller?"

Otter laughed. "Must be the lighting in here."

He turned toward a newly revealed archway that pulsed with a silver light. The compass, still in his hand, glowed steadily, pointing the way. "Come on, guys. We're not done yet." Without another word, he strode through the archway, head held high.

Exchanging glances once again, the others fell in behind him.

The chamber beyond the archway was unlike anything they had ever seen. It was vast—larger than any hall of the Academy. Otter had seen an artist's rendering of the Grand Palace in Aurelia, and this place seemed even bigger than that. Its ceiling soared out of sight into darkness, yet light suffused everything with an even, soft glow that had no visible source. There were no torches. No lanterns. Just a steady luminescence that emanated from the walls, from veins of crystal running through the floor, even from the air itself.

Rows of stone tablets hovered several feet above the floor, suspended in impossible equilibrium. They didn't float like other magical devices he'd seen. There were no runes, no hums of enchantment. They simply were, held in place as though the laws of physics didn't fully apply here.

Between the rows of tablets drifted wisps of shadow and smoke—faint suggestions of motion, like forgotten thoughts passing by unseen. Each whisper of movement tugged at the edges of memory.

A strange odor filled Otter's nose. It smelled of creosote before the rain, of ozone after a lightning strike mingled with hints of lilac.

On the walls, massive tapestries and murals stretched between carved columns. They showed figures in unfamiliar poses, wielding tools and weapons that didn't quite match any known Class. One figure stood blindfolded, balancing a scale made of light. Another danced with seven blades, each humming with a different aura. Another held a harp strung with fire and shadows. There were no names. No captions. Just images.

"Okay," said Levi, turning in a slow circle, "this is… not what I expected."

Jasper tilted his head at one of the tapestries. "Is that guy supposed to be a tailor or a battlefield surgeon?"

Milo was wide-eyed, quietly studying the patterns woven into them.

Sage stepped beside Otter. "What is this place?" she asked.

The compass in Otter's hand flared once, then dimmed, the light drifting out of it to join the suffusing glow around them. Whatever attractive force guiding the needle was gone. It now swung lazily back and forth with the motion of his arm.

"Our last stop," Otter answered.

Near the center of the chamber stood a low pedestal, carved from the same silvery-black stone as the walls. Upon it rested a softly glowing crystal, no larger than a closed fist. It pulsed gently—like a heartbeat. Pale threads of light reached out from it across the pedestal's surface, connecting to etchings that resembled constellations.

Next to the pedestal was something more personal.

A length of parchment, ancient and fragile, but untouched by dust or decay, lay flattened beneath a pane of enchanted glass. Otter approached slowly, reverently. His chest tightened as he recognized the handwriting.

Emrys Gale's.

The ink was faded, but the script was unmistakable—neat, elegant, with a strange, looping rhythm to it. The first line had been underlined twice.

Otter didn't read it yet. He needed everyone on the same page.

It took a few moments for the rest to stop staring around in amazement, but Otter let them have the time they needed. While he was anxious to see what knowledge Emrys had left them, he knew the next step shouldn't be rushed.

When they finally gathered around him, he gestured to the page beside him and said, "I'm fairly certain this was left by Emrys Gale. I want us all the hear the words together. We are a team and should all have the same information. I don't want anyone thinking I've left out any important details. Agreed?"

There were nods all around.

Satisfied, Otter turned his full attention to the ancient parchment and began to read aloud.

To whosoever hath endured the path and come unto this place—

Attend. For what thou readest is no fable, nor is't sweet fancy pluck'd from mortal dreams. Nay, this is truth—deep-buried, long-forgot, and shrouded in silence thick as tombs. Let it strike thy heart as hammer strikes the bell. Let it shake thee, and make thee wise.

When first those born of Kaos rose from out the dark and bled their madness on the world, we were unready. Our swords did clash, our shields did shatter, and great men perished 'neath twisted sky. The Kaosborn came—nay, not as beasts nor mindless wretches, but clad in form and cunning, with craft of war and terrible grace. They were monsters, aye—but monsters born of the same gift we ourselves had learned to trust.

For lo, the System had giv'n unto them power—as to us.

Aye, they bore Classes—strange and grim. A Seer who didst whisper of broken time. A Poisonwright whose ink did kill. A Reaper, cruel and cold, who harvested not souls, but futures. We had ne'er seen their like, and by their hands were we undone.

Yet fight we did, and win we did—but scarce. Too narrow was the victory. Too dear the cost. And in that blood-stained silence, our leaders did convene. A council of lords and heroes, scholars and priests. They ask'd—how might such evil be born from the selfsame gift as good?

And so fear, as it ever doth, made counsel.

They spake of the System as a well too deep, a spring from which both virtue and vice may sip. And they judged it too perilous. Too wild. With Caelum's blessing, they did bind its flow, sequester it, narrow it. The wilder Classes, the strange and fell, they sealed. Forbidden. Forgotten.

And then The Academy.

Forged to shape and sharpen the chosen few, to mold the adventurer to safe design, to cut from marble only the proper form.

I, Emrys Gale, did help to build it. But my soul quailed. For though my lips were still, my heart was not. I remembered the war. I remembered the chaos. And I remembered that victory came not through law, nor through order—but through the wild, the strange, the unbidden spark. Through the untrained, the unwanted. Through those the System once chose freely.

I was not alone in this doubt. The other two gods, whose natures bend not to law but to change and shadow, gave ear to my unrest. Elarion of the Blooming Edge. Altheris of the Hidden Path. Together, we wove a secret thing. A breach. A door unopened—until now.

This crystal thou seest—this quiet light—'tis the key. Touch it, and the veil shall rend. The Classes locked behind Caelum's decree shall be restored. The System shall remember. And choice shall return.

But hear me now, and mark it well—

Should thou light this flame, thou lightest also a fire in the eye of Caelum. His wrath shall follow. His servants, loyal and blind, shall name thee heretic, and rise against thee. The world thou knowest will be changed.

So let thine hand fall upon this crystal only if doom doth rise again. Only if the Kaos, with sharpen'd claw and cunning eye, comes once more to make mock of order. Only if thou canst say, in truth, that no other path remains.

For once the gate is open… it shall not be shut again.

—Emrys Gale, Founder of the Academy