Mind Over Magic

"They said they were Heralds of the First Crown," the guard repeated, still pale.

Alaric didn’t move. He just stared at the cracked mirror above the gate. It was still pulsing faintly—like the air itself hadn’t decided whether to calm down or break further.

Kaelion turned sharply. "You’re sure they said First Crown?"

"They said it more than once."

"How many of them?"

"Four. Maybe five. They walked right through the wards. No resistance. The Academy didn’t even sound an alarm."

Alaric looked at Kaelion. "That shouldn’t be possible."

"No, it shouldn’t," Kaelion muttered. "The east tower’s locked behind two royal-class enchantments and a spell circle that can melt bone."

Seraphine folded her arms. "Unless someone let them in."

Alaric nodded slowly. "Or unless the wards recognized them."

The silence that followed was long.

Finally, Kaelion sighed. "Alright. I’ll say it. We’re not dealing with rogue cultists. We’re dealing with people who have access to imperial security."

"Or worse," Alaric said. "We’re dealing with something the empire built and buried—then tried to forget."

---

They didn’t argue long.

The next step was obvious.

Alaric was going to the tower.

Kaelion insisted on coming. Seraphine didn’t even ask permission. She followed him back to his room, grabbed her coat and her blades, and didn’t say a word.

The three of them moved fast.

No carriages. No fanfare.

By the time they reached the Academy’s outer walls, the sun had dipped behind heavy gray clouds, and the wind had picked up.

The gates were open.

Too open.

Guards stood at attention—but none stopped them.

---

Inside, the courtyard was quiet. Too quiet.

Students avoided eye contact. Professors whispered to each other behind stacks of books. The usual sparkle of spell training, the laughter, the chaos of talent—all gone.

They passed a trio of older mages near the library entrance.

One of them leaned toward another and whispered, "That’s him. The psychic one. The mirror-breaker."

Seraphine glanced at Alaric. "You have fans now."

"I’d prefer assassins. At least they’re honest."

---

When they reached the tower steps, they found two men in plain robes standing in front of the doors.

They didn’t carry weapons.

They didn’t glow with magic.

But the moment Alaric stepped forward, one of them spoke without blinking.

"You’ve come."

Kaelion raised an eyebrow. "We didn’t send a letter."

"No," the man said. "But the book did."

Seraphine muttered, "Of course it did."

The second man stepped aside. "The Herald waits above."

"Which one?" Alaric asked.

Neither answered.

---

They climbed the stairs slowly.

The tower felt wrong.

Not trapped. Not cursed.

Just watching.

Every step seemed to echo twice. Once under their feet. Once in their thoughts.

By the time they reached the upper floor, Seraphine had stopped talking altogether.

Kaelion kept one hand near the inside of his coat, where he always kept a small ward breaker, just in case.

Alaric opened the final door.

And stopped.

---

The headmaster’s office was gone.

Not destroyed.

Not burned.

Just... gone.

The room beyond the door was larger than the building allowed. Circular. Endless shelves of empty books lined the walls. And in the center, seated in a chair of stone, was a woman.

Not young.

Not old.

She wore white robes with a thin black crown stitched into the sleeves. Her eyes were closed.

And she was humming.

---

They stepped inside.

The door didn’t close behind them.

It disappeared.

Seraphine’s voice was low. "This is a memory chamber."

Alaric nodded. "It’s artificial. Someone’s projecting this."

Kaelion added, "But not illusion. This is a true field bend."

Alaric took a step forward.

The woman stopped humming.

Her eyes opened.

Silver. Like mirrors.

---

"You arrived later than expected," she said.

"Who are you?" Alaric asked.

"Herald," she said. "Just one. The others wait elsewhere."

"Of what?"

She tilted her head. "Of you."

Alaric stiffened.

"No crown. No followers," he said. "You’re early."

"No," she said. "We’re late. The Choir should have sung centuries ago. But the memory chain was broken. And you, Crown-Born, were placed too deep."

"I don’t know what that means."

"You will."

Seraphine stepped forward. "What do you want from us?"

"Nothing," the woman said. "We’re not enemies."

"Then what are you?"

She smiled softly.

> "We are the echo of a choice you haven’t made yet."

---

Kaelion whispered, "She’s not real."

Alaric narrowed his eyes. "She’s a recording?"

"No," Kaelion said. "She’s a ghost. A construct built from memory, wrapped in projection, powered by whatever is left of the Crown’s logic field."

The Herald stood.

When she did, the room shimmered.

And behind her—just barely visible—a gate. Floating in the void. Made of black stone.

Runes circled it slowly.

> ENTRY POINT – PHASE IV: ORIGIN CROSSING

Alaric felt something shift in his spine.

Not pain.

Not fear.

Recognition.

---

The Herald looked at him.

"You can’t turn back after this."

"What’s through there?" he asked.

"Not what was," she said. "But what was meant to be."

Seraphine stepped beside him. "You don’t have to go."

Alaric looked at her, then at Kaelion.

Then at the gate.

And walked forward.

---

The moment his foot passed the threshold, he heard it.

A whisper—low and full of voices he’d never known but somehow missed:

> Crown confirmed.

Memory vault access granted.

Subject: Alaric Veyron – Codename: Regret Engine.

And then the gate exploded with light.

And he fell.

He didn’t land.

He simply... arrived.

One breath, he was falling through light. The next, he stood in a cold, silver room, lit by lines in the walls that pulsed like a quiet heartbeat. There were no doors. No windows. Only the soft, low hum of thought—his thoughts—but not his voice.

Then came the pressure.

Not physical. Mental. Like something enormous was sitting just behind the surface of his awareness, waiting for him to look the wrong way.

Alaric blinked.

And the room changed.

---

He was sitting now.

Not in reality. In memory.

The walls around him shimmered into an old study—polished floors, high ceilings, shelves full of strange instruments that looked too advanced for the current age. A man stood with his back to him, hands behind his back, gazing out a tall window at a black, stormy sky.

Alaric tried to stand.

Couldn’t.

The man spoke first.

"You’re early," he said, voice low and almost... amused. "I expected you to stall longer. The others did."

Alaric gritted his teeth. "Who are you?"

The man turned.

And Alaric saw his own face.

Not exactly. Older. Sharper. The same eyes, but darker. A face worn down by time, not age.

The man smiled. "I’m you. Or rather, what’s left."

"Don’t speak in riddles. Are you a memory?"

"No. I’m an imprint. The part of you that refused to die."

Alaric frowned. "Regret Engine. That’s what the vault called me."

"Because you made me," the other Alaric said. "To carry the weight you couldn’t."

"I don’t understand."

"You will."

The room shifted again.

Now they were in a lab—dark, sterile, humming with energy. Shapes floated in suspension tanks. Thoughts encoded into crystal. On the far wall, a screen displayed a word repeated a dozen times:

> SIMULATION ERROR – PATTERN COLLAPSE

---

The older Alaric walked slowly through the space. "This was your last lab. You were the final architect of the Crown Initiative. You designed the psychic seed protocols. The memory anchors. The mindline inheritance structure."

"I’m not that person," Alaric said.

"No," the older version replied. "You’re the restart."

Another flash.

Now a battlefield.

Black skies. Cities on fire. Soldiers falling without wounds—eyes blank, minds wiped.

The older Alaric stood at the center, calm.

"They feared us," he said. "Because we found a way to turn thought into a weapon. Because we proved memory could be more destructive than mana."

Alaric watched in silence.

"You saw what it cost," his older self continued. "So you buried everything. You locked the vaults. You wiped your memory. And you placed a version of yourself into the future."

"Why?"

"Because you believed that one day, the world would need someone who could start over."

---

Alaric stepped back. "You’re saying all of this was my idea?"

"Yes. The Choir. The book. Even me."

"I made you?"

"You made me to remember everything you couldn’t handle," the older self said. "And now, you’re asking the same question again."

Alaric stared at him. "Which is?"

"Do you want to become what you were—" he raised one hand, palm glowing with that same silver light, "—or stay what they made you into?"

---

Suddenly, the room twisted.

A figure stepped into view—tall, robed, faceless.

It wasn’t part of the memory.

Even the older Alaric turned.

"Oh," he said quietly. "They found you faster than I thought."

"Who?" Alaric asked.

But he already knew.

The figure stepped forward.

A voice echoed—not human. Not natural.

> This vault is now under divine seizure.

> Subject Crown-Pattern is forbidden.

> Initiating purging sequence.

---

Alaric’s thoughts began to burn.

Not his mind—his memories.

Pain flooded him—not in the body, but in the idea of who he was.

The vault screamed.

The older Alaric lunged toward the figure—arm glowing with psychic flame.

> "RUN—!"

But it was too late.

The figure raised a hand.

And the entire vault collapsed into white.

"Alaric."

A voice echoed in the distance.

Soft. Familiar.

"Alaric, wake up."

He tried.

The world was dark. Not black—just muted, like everything had been submerged in deep water. His limbs were heavy. His breath shallow. Something pushed down on his chest—not pain, but pressure, like a memory refusing to settle.

Then—

A hand gripped his.

Real.

Warm.

He felt it pull.

---

Light broke through.

His eyes opened.

Ceiling.

Stone. Painted with old psychic runes. Not the vault. Not the silver room.

The Academy tower.

He gasped, lungs suddenly sharp with cold air. His fingers clenched instinctively.

"Alaric!" Seraphine’s voice hit his ears like a slap of clarity. She was kneeling beside him, eyes wide, one hand still locked around his wrist. "Can you hear me?"

He blinked. "What...?"

"You’ve been out for ten minutes," she said quickly. "You collapsed the moment that gate exploded. The room disappeared. You dropped like a stone."

Kaelion’s voice cut in from nearby. "You didn’t just pass out. You—"

"I what?"

Kaelion crouched down. "You stood up. Eyes open. Not blinking. Then you started speaking a language none of us recognized."

Alaric rubbed his forehead. "I don’t remember."

Kaelion raised a brow. "You also levitated. Just slightly. Enough to make a few people scream."

Seraphine added, "And then you said something. Just one line."

Alaric looked at her. "What did I say?"

She hesitated.

Then repeated the words slowly:

> "Memory chain active. All ghosts accounted for."

---

Alaric sat up straight.

His head throbbed—hard. Not pain. Pressure. Like there were too many thoughts trying to speak at once.

"I saw myself," he muttered.

Kaelion frowned. "What?"

"In the vault. I spoke to... a version of me. An older one. A remnant. It said I built the Crown."

Kaelion looked at Seraphine, then back at him. "Are you saying this whole thing—the book, the Choir, the Heralds—it’s your doing?"

"Not mine," Alaric said. "The version I used to be. The one I locked away."

Seraphine stared at him. "Why?"

He didn’t answer right away.

Then quietly: "Because I built something too dangerous. Something even I couldn’t control."

---

Kaelion exhaled. "So now we know the Choir isn’t hunting you. They’re trying to finish what you started."

"No," Alaric said, standing slowly. "They’re trying to wake what I buried."

---

A loud chime echoed across the Academy grounds.

The three of them turned toward the tower window.

Another chime.

Then a third.

Kaelion muttered, "That’s not the normal bell."

Seraphine walked toward the ledge and looked down. Her voice was tight.

"There’s someone in the courtyard."

Alaric joined her.

A single figure stood at the center of the field—tall, robed, surrounded by white fire.

He wasn’t moving.

But the air around him shimmered with divine pressure.

Alaric narrowed his eyes.

A Church insignia. Silver and gold. A halo cracked down the middle.

"That’s not a priest," Kaelion said.

"No," Alaric agreed. "That’s a Saint."

---

The figure raised one hand.

Didn’t speak.

Just pointed directly at the tower.

Then made a simple gesture:

Come.

---

Seraphine turned to Alaric.

"We’re not ready for this."

"I don’t think he’s giving us time to be."

Kaelion cracked his knuckles. "And if we don’t go?"

The bell rang again.

Louder this time.

Then all the other tower doors—all of them—slammed shut.

---

A new voice echoed through the walls. Calm. Cold.

> "Protocol breach detected."

> "Mindborn activity confirmed."

> "Commencing purge."

---

The door behind them exploded.

Not from fire.

From pressure.

Divine psychic pressure.

Something not even the old memory vault had prepared him for.

And standing in the wreckage of the doorway—

A second Saint.

Armor glowing.

Eyes blank.

Mouth closed.

But a voice spoke through his presence:

> "We are the Echo Hunters."

> "And you—are not allowed to exist."