There are doors that open only when the world forgets how to lie. And when they do, the children of fate arrive.
Once each year, when the twin moons bow low and the stars forget their own names, the Crescent Gate awakens. No bells ring. No scribes proclaim it. The wind simply changes its song.
Across Aurelis from glass palaces to moss-thick villages those who are marked, summoned, or simply remembered feel the pull. Some see it in mirrors. Some in fire. Some in dreams. And some, in silence. They call it scholarship. They call it honor. They call it the Year's Choosing.
But the witches know better. They call it the gathering of thresholds.
Nahlia of House Ceralis the Ice-Blooded Noble In the frost-marble atrium of the winter keep, Nahlia stood wrapped in wolf-fur robes, staring into the mirror of stilled flame. The glass cracked without sound. Blue light spiraled from the seam like breath on winter air. A frost-etched scroll floated forward, sealed with the Academy's mark. Her mother's voice drifted behind her, cold and proud. "You were born for high halls and judgment, my jewel. Now prove it." Nahlia did not smile. She touched the scroll and dissolved into mist.
Ashren Witch-Blood of Oathspire Deep in the cavern temple, the shadows blinked before the boy did. Ashren's coven stood in perfect silence as the air filled with thorn-scent and whisper light. The old crow perched above him croaked once. "They've called you, child." The obsidian totem in his palm warmed, pulsed. Ashren stepped into the mouth of the stone serpent. Darkness swallowed him whole, gladly.
Jorell the Scholar-Born of Eldermere, Jorell was mid-sentence explaining the second planetary drift theory when the pages of his journal rearranged themselves. Ink bled backward. Words curled like smoke. Gold script bloomed beneath his astronomy notes: You are summoned. Pack light. His grandfather's pipe fell from his mouth. "No one from Eldermere in three hundred years…" A door of starlight opened in the garden, edges humming. Jorell stepped through still clutching his books, heart hammering with wonder.
Silas Thorne, The Erased Name In a ruined vineyard where even birds refused to perch, a boy watched the sky crack open. His family name had been burned from every record, spoken only in curses. Yet the flames came for him not as punishment, but invitation. A chariot of black fire and broken suns lowered into the weeds. Silas laughed, low and wild. "Guess the gods want to play again." He boarded without looking back.
Maria Velyn, No Scroll, No Name She woke to a hum beneath her skin, a heartbeat that was not entirely hers. Serene stood in the doorway, pale as moonlight on snow. "Don't go outside." Too late. The Hollow fire Stag waited in the clearing ten feet tall, eyes like smoke and memory, antlers spiraled with glyphs from languages long dead. It bowed its great head. Serene's voice cracked. "That… shouldn't exist anymore." Maria stepped forward. "But it came for me." She climbed. Flame folded around them like wings, and the world vanished in a blink of silver fire.
Seraphina Valmont, Second Daughter, Already Waiting High on the glass balconies of the Academy of Flickering Stars, Seraphina stood in full Valmont regalia storm-gray robes, silver-fire sigil blazing on her chest. Below, the Crescent Gate glowed. Banners snapped awake with old alliances. The chosen were arriving mist, shadow, starlight doors. Then the ripple. A creature no one had summoned tore the air. The Hollow fire Stag landed in the courtyard, silent, towering. A girl dismounted no crest, no scroll, only pine-smoke in her hair and defiance in her eyes. Seraphina's heart stuttered, hard. The torches flickered as one. "Who is she?" a noble whispered behind her. Seraphina had no answer. Only the sudden, impossible certainty that the world had quietly rearranged itself around this stranger.
The Crescent Gate & The Claiming Maria stood beneath the arch of glass-veined obsidian. Glyphs flared, trying to write her name and failed. Students stared. Whispers rose like steam. "She's not marked." "No sigil. No house." "She smells like forest and farm smoke." "A wild one. Witch-born, maybe." "Or worse mortal." Maria clenched her fists but kept walking.
A professor in a long gray coat stepped forward, eyes milky flame. He studied her, frowned, consulted a living ledger whose letters squirmed like eels. "You shouldn't be here." Before Maria could answer, a voice cut the air like winter steel. "Yet she is."
Seraphina descended the marble stairs. The hall fell silent; even the torches dimmed in respect. She stopped in front of Maria. Their eyes met. Gravity shifted. Seraphina spoke softly, for Maria alone: "You're the one they're all watching." Maria blinked. "Who?" "The torches. The walls. The stars." Then louder, to the entire hall: "This girl is under my protection. If anyone has a problem with that take it up with the sky." She turned, robes flaring like smoke, and walked away. Maria stood frozen. "What just happened?" she whispered to no one.
The First Trial The arena smelled of ink, hot metal, and unspoken secrets. Glyph-rings glowed: Duel, Summon, Illusion Shift, Echo Mirror. The headmaster's voice rang through enchanted stone: "Let the chosen step forward. Let the flicker become flame."
Nahlia vs Ashren ice spears shattered against writhing shadows; the clash birthed a silent storm of stardust. Jorell faced the Echo Mirror and emerged pale, whispering, "It showed me someone else's life… a girl made of light." Silas summoned flame too ancient for his blood; professors threw up rune walls to contain it. He only laughed.
Then an unmarked glyph flared rogue. A creature of half-flame, half-wind coalesced. It looked straight at Maria and bowed.
A pale boy with veiled eyes stepped from the crowd. "You're torn," he said quietly. "Not like paper. Like prophecy. There's a crack inside you… and it bleeds light."
The trial ended in controlled chaos. The circle sealed.
The Veiled Goddess Hall Later, moonlight pooled on forgotten stone floors. Maria wandered a hallway lined with towering statues goddesses, all veiled, all cracked. One pulsed faintly. She reached out, brushed away centuries of moss. Beneath: her own face. Older. Terrible. Radiant. Divine. A voice not hers echoed through the stone: "You are not her. You are what remains when she forgets."
High above the academy, a single star blinked out.
From the highest tower, Melville lowered his silver spyglass. Old fire danced in his shadow. He smiled once. "It begins."