The arcane winds rustled across the academy corridors as Clayton sat beneath a lone rune-lantern in his apartment. The light cast soft, shifting symbols across his open notebook—but he wasn't writing.
He was staring at the Mirage Cascade card resting on the stone bench beside him.
Gold-etched. Cool to the touch. Silent.
Elegant. Rare. And a potential curse in disguise.
He let out a breath and leaned back, gaze lifting to the shimmer of spellbound clouds circling overhead.
It wasn't the first rare card he'd seen. But this one was different.
First he thought of it as simple faction play, something easy but after the meeting with Asher, it changed.
In novel asher never received an illusion card during this time. the plot is getting more and more messed up; it feels like a single breath from me changed this whole world and after some digging, I realized it is not a normal card; it's a damn printed one
This one hadn't been logged. Hadn't been cleaned.
And that… was terrifying.
"All cards recovered from the Void dungeons must undergo a cleanse," Professor Reese had once explained during Fundamentals of Arcane Ethics. "Even fragments. The Void leaves impressions. Residual intent. At best, the card retains emotion. At worst—purpose."
That was the official policy. Standard for every academy and guild in the eastern continent. Because the Void, where most rare cards were found, wasn't just a place—it was an echo. A realm stitched from unraveling rules, where thoughts and fears could imprint onto matter.
Normally, cards were purified through cleansing rituals: mind-stabilizers, memory anchors, and will-seals—rituals to burn away lingering echoes. Even a harmless support card could trigger arcane madness if left untreated.
But Mirage Cascade had come straight to his dorm.
No markings. No cleansing seal. No warning.
Clayton exhaled slowly.
"I didn't just receive a powerful card," he muttered. "I received something raw. Untethered. Possibly infected."
The realization made his fingers twitch.
He hadn't even activated the card yet. Just scanned it once. And still—some part of it felt aware. Like it pulsed faintly, just beyond normal senses. Not aggressive, not sentient… just watching.
He didn't know if that was paranoia or leftover imprint energy. And that's what unsettled him the most.
Asher had called it a recruitment play. And maybe it was. But Clayton suspected it was also a trap in more than one way.
"Whoever sent this… didn't just want to impress me. They wanted to leave a mark."
And if he used the card—even once—that mark could become permanent.
That's how arcane bindings worked. Once a card syncs with your imprint, it latches, gaining residue access to your arcane channels. A silent contract. Hard to reverse. Nearly impossible to erase.
Even Cynthia had mentioned it last week: "Once you resonate with an advanced-tier card, it's like letting something into your house. Most of the time it's fine. But if it's cursed? It won't leave."
Clayton clenched his jaw.
"And now I have that thing in my hands."
He looked at it again.
The card didn't hum menacingly. Didn't glow with danger. It just sat there, polished and perfect. But now he understood why factions didn't hand out rare cards casually.
Because it was never just a card.
It was a signature. A fingerprint. A seed of loyalty or corruption—depending on the sender.
Use it, and you risk becoming part of someone else's network.
Reject it, and you risk making an enemy of someone you can't even name because the moment you come in contact with an uncleansed card, it marks you.
Even the major families—Augustus, Hallmark, and Antigonus—they all had entire departments that vetted and tracked artifact histories. Because you couldn't allow your heirs or prodigies to bind with unknown tools. Not in a world where power had memory.
Clayton scratched at the side of his head.
No one had taught him any of this before Vyrith.
Back in the novel, these systems were worldbuilding details—interesting but distant. Now, there were daggers hanging above his head.
He glanced around the empty courtyard. Quiet. Too quiet.
Then he looked back at the card and muttered under his breath, "What do you want from me?"
It didn't answer, of course.
But a sliver of him wondered… what if it could?
Later that night, Clayton returned to his room, where Asher was already seated near the window. A temporary arrangement—they'd agreed to work together for now, to pool information. No formal alliance. Just mutual paranoia and self-preservation.
"You didn't try it yet?" Asher asked, glancing at the Mirage Cascade card in Clayton's hand.
"No." Clayton dropped it on the desk. "I'm starting to think it's not a gift."
"It never was."
Asher reached into his coat and pulled out Phantom Bloom. Unlike before, it now sat inside a sealed crystal slip—a containment ward typically used for volatile objects.
"You think it's tainted?" Clayton asked.
"I think," Asher said carefully, "whoever sent these wants to alter the way we think. Or the way we trust magic. Illusion cards are good for that."
Clayton nodded. "Control perception. Blur loyalty."
"Exactly." Asher leaned forward. "You're not wrong to be cautious. Even my brothers back home… They have handlers who test every card they receive from allied nobles. Just in case."
He didn't say it, but Clayton heard the implication:
If you weren't born into power, you probably haven't learned how to defend against it.
The bitterness curled faintly behind his ribs. But he pushed it down.
"We need answers," Clayton said.
"Already started tracking artifact signature patterns," Asher replied. "No matches in the faction registries. And the arcane design is too smooth to be forged. Whoever worked with these, they've been doing it for a while. So, they are marked as well; that narrows down our search."
Clayton nodded slowly. "Then we'll trace the influence. Not the card. Not the sender. The response."
He turned toward his desk, picked up Mirage Cascade, and slipped it into a containment box—layered with a rune mesh he'd copied from Reese's lecture.
"Until we know more," he said, "we don't use them. We don't bind them."
"Agreed."
For a moment, the silence stretched between them.
Then Asher asked, almost casually, "What will you do if this turns out to be bigger than the academy?"
Clayton met his gaze.
"Then I'll stop thinking like a student."
By morning, both boys had returned to their routines—classes, lectures, and practice. But now, everything felt different.
They weren't just Novices anymore.
They were targets.
And someone out there had already started playing their hand.
But Clayton wasn't afraid.
He was watching back.