The first mistake came during spellwork.
I was attempting a basic memory insulation charm—something I'd cast a dozen times before—when the rune misfired. Not failed. Misfired.
Instead of isolating the spell, the circle began feeding on surrounding magic. My quill turned to ash. The candle beside me flared and died.
And for a moment, I wasn't in the academy.
I was standing before a council of masked figures.
They whispered a language I shouldn't have known—but understood anyway. And then, just as quickly, I was back. Breathless. My hair singed at the ends.
The room had gone silent.
Professor Valister was the first to speak. The alchemy and magical resonance specialist. Cold-eyed. Distant. Not cruel.
He approached slowly, gaze fixed on the now-burned spell circle.
"You didn't miscast," he said. "You rerouted. Your mana vein shifted mid-chant."
"That's not possible," I replied.
"Not unless something older is… interfering."
He held up the ashes of my quill. "Kirevar."
I froze.
His next words were quiet. Almost… respectful.
"I've only seen that rune once—in a sealed thesis, restricted even from professors. You should not be able to access it."
"I didn't access it," I said. "It accessed me."
Valister stared for a long moment, then folded his arms.
"You're not dangerous yet. But you're becoming unpredictable. Magic with memory roots is volatile when awakened."
"Do you want me suspended?"
"No. But someone else might. Especially if it happens again."
He turned, robes brushing against the stone.
"I suggest you trace the echo before it consumes the voice."