The city of Veyr loomed above them, suspended in the air like a forgotten dream clinging to the last thread of memory. It hovered over a deep crater, tethered to the ground by bridges of shimmering light that pulsed faintly with magic. The stone base of the city turned slowly, too slow to see with the naked eye, but enough that its shadow shifted ever so slightly over the earth.

  Virgil stood at the base of the nearest bridge, staring up. The weight of exhaustion settled heavily on his shoulders, but his mind refused to be still. Since the attack, his thoughts hadn’t stopped spinning. Memories that weren’t quite his. Reflexes he shouldn’t have. A growing itch under his skin that felt like something—or someone—waiting to surface.

  He stood at the base of the bridge with Serel, Elian, and Nyori, still and watchful. The others whispered among themselves—wary, awestruck, or both—but Virgil’s silence was heavier. Something inside him thrummed with tension. The memory of the Outlanders still clung to him: the shrieks, the ash, the movement that had not been human. But more than that, it was the instincts that disturbed him. The way his body had known what to do, how to move.

  It hadn’t been training.

  It had been memory.

  But whose?

  “Come on,” Serel said beside him. “We need to check in.”

  Elian gave a low whistle. “So we’re really going up there?”

  “No, Elian,” Nyori said dryly. “We’re going to sit at the base and hope someone brings us snacks.”

  Elian smirked, but his gaze stayed on the bridge, awe flickering behind his casual bravado.

  They stepped onto the bridge together. As their feet met the surface, the light responded. Not heat—something else. A soft hum in the bones. Then, slowly, the bridge lifted. Not with speed, but inevitability. They rose like leaves on a breeze, weightless and breathless.

  The air grew cooler as they ascended. The city above became clearer: tiered buildings of white stone and metal, crisscrossed by floating platforms and curved walkways. Small airships zipped between towers, and glowing glyphs danced along the walls like living murals. It was beautiful in a quiet, impossible way.

  When they stepped onto the surface of Veyr, a woman was already waiting.

  She was older, maybe in her late thirties, with short silver-streaked hair and a sharp gaze that swept over them like a blade. She wore a long coat etched with subtle runes and held a slim ledger in one gloved hand.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Serel gave a slight nod. “Outlander attack. We dealt with it.”

  The woman arched a brow, flipping open her ledger. “Name?”

  “Serel Varn.”

  She checked a page, then looked to the others. “Elian Drosk, Nyori Velryn, and…” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Virgil.

  He met her gaze, calm but wary. He could feel the quiet scrutiny.

  “Virgil.”

  “Just Virgil?”

  “For now,” Serel interjected. “He’s under temporary designation until official clearance.”

  The woman stared a moment longer, then made a note.

  “I am Auren Lys. You’ll report to me for orientation and progress tracking. The rest of your instructors will be assigned by the Cycle Board.”

  Virgil frowned. “Cycle Board?”

  Auren turned. “Follow me.”

  They trailed her through winding streets and into the inner tier of the city. The architecture was not uniform—some buildings looked newly conjured, others ancient and worn, whispering of past centuries and quiet knowledge. People in layered robes, coats, and armor moved about with practiced ease, some casting spells mid-step, others speaking into floating slates.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “This isn’t a school like you’re used to,” Auren said. “Veyr is one of the oldest magical campuses in the system. But we don’t teach like Earth’s academies. Here, we use the Cycle.”

  She paused before a set of gates made of what looked like woven crystal. “The Cycle divides learning into loops. One month loops—twenty-eight days. Students are grouped into tiers based on both aptitude and field. At the end of each loop, you’re tested. Fail too often, you’re reassigned or removed.”

  “Removed how?” Nyori asked.

  “Depends,” Auren replied. “Some go back. Others are redirected. Some disappear. The rules here exist for a reason.”

  They passed through the gates into an open courtyard. Floating glyphs hovered above doorways, shifting shape as if reacting to thoughts. A bell chimed somewhere in the distance—low and resonant.

  “You’ll have a few days to observe and adjust,” Auren said. “After that, you begin your own Cycle. Magic here isn’t just about power. It’s about control. Purpose. Integration.”

  Virgil nodded, though his attention was only half on her words. The rest of him was drawn inward again. Echoes. Something under the skin. The timekeeper.

  He still hadn’t told anyone.

  He didn’t trust himself to.

  He remembered the look on Serel’s face when he asked about his family. The way her eyes had wavered, almost apologetic.

  He needed to know.

  They were led into a smaller chamber off the main courtyard, where their identifications were etched and magically bound to the city’s archives. Runes flared briefly against their arms before fading.

  “Welcome to Veyr,” Auren said. “You’ll be escorted to your housing. Orientation begins at dawn tomorrow.”

  As she turned and vanished into another corridor, Elian let out a slow breath.

  “Well. That was friendly.”

  “I liked her,” Nyori said.

  “You would.”

  Serel smirked faintly, the first real smile Virgil had seen from her since the journey began.

  They were led by a silent attendant down a narrow spiral of halls to their dormitory—circular, stone-walled, marked by soft blue lights that pulsed like heartbeat rhythms. The rooms were spaced evenly like spokes from a hub. Each had a door marked by shifting sigils.

  Virgil’s room was quiet. Clean. Stone desk, hovering glyph-paper, a small globe pulsing with a map of the city. He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers across the sheets.

  It felt too still.

  His thoughts would not calm. The Timekeeper’s memories pressed against him, not words or images, but pressure. Weight. A feeling of standing beneath the sky at the end of time. Alone.

  He gripped the edge of the mattress. I can’t lose myself.

  But whose self was he holding onto?

  He stared at his hand. Flexed it. Again, the memory—not his—of fire held between fingertips. Of a name carved into the air.

  The same word as before. Still unsaid.

  He whispered it. Just once.

  The air in the room pulsed.

  A glyph flashed in the ceiling above him, then vanished.

  Virgil’s breath caught. He stood quickly, scanning the room. Nothing else changed.

  But someone—or something—had heard.

  He sat again, trying to slow his heart. The city outside pulsed with distant life, and the dome above shifted slowly to reveal stars. Or not stars—runes so ancient they pulsed instead of shone.

  He missed his mother.

  His sister’s jokes. His brother’s grin.

  But were they still alive?

  He swallowed hard, then stood and approached the desk. He touched the map-globe, and it reoriented, showing districts, levels, and Paths. Names flickered—some familiar, most not.

  His name wasn’t on it.

  Not yet.

  But it would be.

  Somehow.

  He sat down, picked up the shimmering page, and began to read.

  The first line said: “Power without self is nothing. Self without purpose is less.”

  He didn’t understand it.

  But he would.

  He had to.

  Because something was coming.

  And he could feel the countdown starting inside his bones.

  ---

  The next morning came with a soft chime that echoed through the dormitory halls. The light in his room adjusted automatically, growing brighter by degrees.

  Virgil rose slowly. He hadn’t slept. Not properly. Dreams clung to him like a second skin, indistinct but heavy. He dressed and stepped into the corridor, meeting the others in the common chamber.

  Elian looked half-asleep. Nyori, by contrast, looked immaculate and ready for war.

  They made their way toward the orientation chamber—an amphitheater built into a rising spiral of crystalline walls. Dozens of students gathered in loose groups, murmuring and shifting as instructors filed in.

  Auren returned, joined by three others—two mages and an armored woman who carried no visible weapon. They spoke in turn, introducing fields of focus: elemental convergence, construct theory, planar navigation, null magic, and memorycraft.

  When Auren spoke again, her voice dropped slightly, and the air in the room sharpened.

  "There are seven major Paths," she said. "Each has dozens of branches. The Cycle doesn’t care which you choose—only how well you adapt. You’ll learn in nested sequences, some overlapping, some solo. Expect your peers to change. Your alliances to shift. Your own skills to betray you if you grow complacent."

  She paused. "This is not a place for comfort. This is a place for convergence."

  A sigil flared in the center of the amphitheater. Each student’s name appeared in sequence, then blinked toward a designated path.

  “Drosk, Elian — Kinetic Subversion.”

  “Velryn, Nyori — Sensory Manipulation.

  “Virgil — Unassigned. Observer status.”

  He blinked.

  Whispers rippled through the crowd.

  “Means they don’t know what to do with you yet,” Serel muttered beside him.

  Virgil nodded slowly. That… felt right. Too right.

  He wasn’t ready to choose a Path.

  Not yet.