The first sign came that morning.
A migraine—sharp and sudden—struck just as I opened my spellbook. Words swam across the page, rearranging themselves into symbols I didn't recognize.
I slammed the book shut.
It wasn't ink.
It was memory.
Serena found me an hour later, crouched by the window, my fingers still trembling.
"You saw something, didn't you?"
I nodded. "It wasn't just a flash. It was… a pull. Like something inside the book knew me."
She didn't ask which book.
Instead, she unrolled a scroll bearing the crest of the Royal Academy.
"Security protocols have changed," she said grimly. "They're activating deep-field detection wards. All enchantments classified as memory-triggered or resonance-based are now under review."
"Because of me?"
"Because of whatever you woke up."
I looked down at my hand. My fingers still tingled with that strange warmth—like the seal had branded me without touching skin.
Later that night, I dreamed of fire.
But it wasn't destructive. It was clean. Precise. Burning not to destroy, but to reveal.
In the flames, I saw a door. Old. Sealed.
And behind it—
A voice.
Mine.
But older.
Wounded.
Remember.
I woke gasping. The rune had etched itself in ash across my bedsheet.
And I finally understood:
Kirevar wasn't just breathing.
It was remembering me back.