Prologue

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I stand at my bedroom window, watching the neighbor's streetlight flicker in perfect half-second intervals. On, off. On, off. Like some cosmic metronome keeping time for a universe I'm starting to think has it out for me personally. The sun bleeds its final light across the horizon, painting Oakridge in shades of burnt orange and purple—normal enough, except nothing feels normal anymore. Not since that day. Not since I spoke a word I shouldn't have known.

 

reflection swims in the darkening glass, features blurring like watercolors left in the rain. For a heartbeat—maybe less—I'm not me anymore. The face staring back has silver streaking through darker hair, lines etched around eyes that hold something ancient and weary. Then it's gone, and I'm just regular old Jack again: lanky frame, acne that won't quit, and eyes that have seen too much for sixteen years of life.​

 

"Getting worse," I mutter to my normal reflection, which at least has the decency to mouth the words back correctly.

 

My mind drifts back to that afternoon two months ago. Mr. Grey—substitute teacher, pristine brown suit, mercury eyes that didn't move right—cornering me against the brick wall behind the library building. His voice a whisper that somehow filled my skull like a shout.

​​

“You were the Architect,” he said, “of a great movement. The last teacher of the First Era. You were the mapmaker of memory.”​

 

I remember how the air had felt suddenly thin, how the brick behind me seemed to pulse with a warning. Grey's eyes had shifted like liquid metal, and something inside me—something that wasn't exactly me—had reached for a word I'd never heard before.

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“Is’n’Tol’Kar’el”, I'd said, the syllables burning my tongue like I'd swallowed lightning.

​​

Grey had staggered backward as if I'd physically struck him, his perfect composure fracturing. For a second, I swear his outline had blurred, revealing something else beneath the human facade. Something with too many angles. Then he'd straightened his tie, smiled thinly, and simply vanished without another word. He never came back to school. The official story was that he'd received a better offer from a private academy upstate.​

 

Yeah, right.

​​

Since then, the weirdness has only escalated. Books rearranging themselves on my shelf. Dreams so vivid they leave physical evidence—once a strange sand in my bed that glowed faintly in the dark before dissolving. And the symbols. God, the symbols, appearing everywhere: steamed mirrors, foggy windows, the margins of my notebooks when I zone out in class.

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A low tone pulls me from the memory, resonating from somewhere behind me. The radiator—an ancient cast-iron monster that my mom refuses to replace—emits a sound like a temple bell being struck underwater. The vibration moves through the floorboards, up my legs, and settles in my chest cavity like it's searching for something.​

 

I turn just in time to see my MF DOOM poster ripple as if it's suddenly printed on water instead of paper. The rapper's metal mask dissolves, reconstructing itself into rows of glowing symbols that pulse with internal light. They're beautiful and terrifying—curved lines and angular hooks that somehow seem both familiar and utterly alien. I know they're trying to tell me something. I know I should be able to read them.

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Then they're gone, and DOOM stares impassively from the wall again, mask firmly in place. The only evidence of what just happened is the slight tremor in my hands and the taste of metal in my mouth.

​​

"Fantastic," I say to the empty room. "Because my life wasn't complicated enough."

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I pull my phone from my pocket, needing someone else to witness this slow-motion breakdown of reality. My thumb hovers over Miri's name for only a second before I tap out a message:​

 

"Radiator just played temple bells again. Should I call HVAC or, you know, set the world on fire?"​

 

The response comes almost immediately, as if she's been waiting. Maybe she has. Maybe she feels it too, this pressure building in the air like the moment before lightning strikes.

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"HVAC's fine—just don't burn the house down ;). Totally here for the show though."

​​

I smile despite myself. Miri, with her paint-stained hoodies and crystals in her pockets, who believes in everything I'm trying so hard not to believe in. Miri, who looked at me with those green eyes when I finally told her about Mr. Grey and said simply, "Weird means you're doing something right."​

 

I return to the window, press my palm against the cool glass. There's a pulse beneath the surface—not my heartbeat, something older and more rhythmic. Like the earth itself is breathing through the barrier between our worlds. I hold my hand there until the sensation fades, watching the last streaks of sunlight surrender to the encroaching darkness.

 

The streetlight continues its metronomic blinking. On, off. On, off. A perfect rhythm that suddenly feels like a countdown.​

 

To what, I'm afraid to find out.

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I turn away from the window, pocket my phone, and try to convince myself that tonight will be different. That I'll sleep without dreaming of ancient stones and burning cities. That I won't wake up with words I don't understand dying on my lips.

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But even as I think it, I know it's a lie. Whatever's happening to me isn't stopping. It's accelerating. And sooner or later, I'm going to have to stop pretending I can ignore it.

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The last of the light vanishes beyond the horizon, and night claims Oakridge completely. In the new darkness, I swear I can hear my poster whispering.​

 

Later, I fall into the dream like I'm diving into deep water, that same sensation of pressure against my ears, of light bending wrong above me. But instead of cold and dark, I plunge into heat and brilliance. Ancient stones rise around me, towering pillars carved with symbols that pulse with inner light. Each stone sings—not with human voices, but with tones that resonate through my bones, like the radiator in my room but a thousand times more powerful, more intentional. I've been here before. Not in this life, but somewhere else, someone else. The thought doesn't surprise me anymore.​

 

The landscape shifts and flows around me, refusing to settle on a single reality. One moment I'm standing in the heart of what I somehow know is Atlantis—massive crystal spires rising into an impossibly blue sky, their surfaces catching sunlight and fracturing it into patterns that seem to encode the secrets of creation itself. Fountains pulse in geometric formations, their water moving not just with gravity but with intention, creating three-dimensional mandalas that hover momentarily before dissolving back into crystalline pools.

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Then the world lurches, and I'm surrounded by fire and ruin. The spires are broken, the crystals shattered. This place—Caer Dathyl, my mind supplies with uncomfortable certainty—burns with unnatural intensity. Flames leap from stone to stone as if they're alive, consuming ancient texts written in languages I shouldn't recognize but do. People scream in the distance, their voices piercing through the rumble of collapsing structures.​

 

"We told you," a voice hisses from the smoke. "We warned you this would happen."

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Embers float through the air like malevolent fireflies, carrying the scent of ash and ozone—like lightning has struck repeatedly, leaving the air charged and dangerous. I taste metal on my tongue, copper and something older, something that reminds me of blood but isn't quite. The ground beneath my feet trembles with the foundations of this burning world, a low rumbling that seems to speak in a language just beyond my comprehension.​

 

I look down and find a small carved stone resting in my palm. It fits perfectly, as if it was made for my hand—or my hand was made for it. The stone bears glyphs that pulse with warm, amber light. They shift and change as I watch, rearranging themselves into patterns that almost make sense. Each new configuration sends a vibration up my arm, connecting me to... something. Someone. Somewhere beyond the constraints of linear time.​

 

"Emrys," the stone whispers, though it has no mouth. "Emrys, you must remember."​

 

The name echoes through me, familiar yet foreign, like a song I used to know but have forgotten the words to. I close my fingers around the stone, and its warmth intensifies, becoming almost uncomfortable—but I can't let go. Won't let go. The vibration spreads through my entire body now, syncing with my heartbeat until I can't tell where the stone ends and I begin.​

 

Heat radiates from unseen flames, though nothing around me burns anymore. This is a different kind of fire—internal, ancient, the slow burn of knowledge awakening. I open my hand again, and the stone is gone, but the glyphs remain, etched into my palm in lines of golden light that slowly sink beneath my skin.

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Fragments of memory surface like debris after a shipwreck. I see faces—some I recognize from this life, others I know from... before. A woman with eyes like green fire, her hands moving in precise patterns as she weaves light between her fingers. A man with mercury eyes and a too-perfect smile, watching from shadows. A circle of robed figures standing around a pool of liquid silver, their voices raised in a chant that makes the air itself vibrate with potential.

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"Ka'mir'teu'ra," they sing, their voices blending into harmonies that seem to reach beyond human capability. "Sha'mu'tol'esh'el."

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I understand none of it and all of it simultaneously. The words are Atlantean—the language of the A'Lani, the star people who seeded consciousness across worlds. The language of creation itself, where sound shapes reality and intention bends the fabric of existence.​

 

Sigils clash in the air above the silver pool, geometric patterns burning with blue-white fire. They collide and merge, forming more complex symbols that pulse with increasing urgency. I watch, transfixed, as one particular sigil—three concentric circles intersected by a spiral line—separates from the others and floats toward me.​

 

"Emrys," it speaks without speaking. "The Architect. The Mapmaker of Memory."

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The sigil presses against my forehead, and suddenly I'm flooded with impressions so intense they threaten to drown my sense of self. I see vast libraries of crystalline knowledge, hallways that stretch beyond physical space, doors that open onto stars. I see myself—not as Jack, but as someone older, wiser, more powerful—standing before a structure that can only be the Hall of Records, my hands raised as I weave protections around its entrance.

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"The time comes again," whispers the wind that moves through this dream-memory. "For the uplifting of humanity."

 

The words carry weight, significance that burrows into my consciousness like roots seeking soil. Other whispers join the first, a chorus of voices from across ages:

 

"The Gate must open."

"The Seer must witness."

"The Sovereign must rise."

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I don't understand what any of this means, but my dream-self nods as if accepting a burden, a responsibility that transcends lifetimes. The harmonic resonance of the stones grows louder, building to a crescendo that vibrates at a frequency just shy of pain. Light pulses from every surface, keeping time with the rising tones, creating a symphony of sound and illumination that reaches toward some unknowable climax.

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Then everything stops, severed by a harsh electronic shriek that tears through the fabric of the dream like a blade. The ancient world dissolves around me, colors bleeding into darkness, stones crumbling into nothing.

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My alarm clock screams its modern, insistent demand into the quiet of my bedroom, dragging me from Atlantis, from Caer Dathyl, from memories that aren't mine but somehow are. The harmonic tones fade, replaced by the monotonous beep-beep-beep of twenty-first century technology, insisting that dreams give way to school, to normalcy, to a reality that feels increasingly less real than what I experience when I close my eyes.

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I bolt upright, a gasp tearing from my throat as reality reasserts itself with brutal efficiency. Sunlight slants through my half-closed blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across my ceiling and walls. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and my skin tingles with residual energy from the dream—if you can call something that intense a mere dream. For a moment, I'm caught between worlds, not quite sure which is real: the burning ruins of Caer Dathyl or my poster-plastered bedroom with its pile of unwashed clothes and half-finished English essay.​

 

"Jesus," I whisper, running a hand over my face, finding it slick with sweat despite the chill in my room.​

 

I notice my hands then—they're still curved, fingers slightly bent as if cradling the small carved stone from my dream. The phantom weight of it lingers against my palm, a tactile memory so powerful I half-expect to see the glyphs still etched into my skin. When I flex my fingers, trying to shake off the sensation, small blue sparks dance between them like miniature lightning, casting brief, impossible shadows across my bedsheets before dissipating into nothing.​

 

"Great. Weird dreams and static electricity. Perfect combination for a Tuesday morning," I mutter, but the sarcasm feels hollow, even to me. This isn't static. Static doesn't form perfect geometric patterns before fading. Static doesn't leave the taste of ozone in your mouth or make your fingertips tingle with residual power.

​

 

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet connecting with the cold floorboards. The contact sends a shiver up my spine that isn't entirely from the temperature. For a split second, I swear I can feel the earth beneath the house, sense its slow, ancient pulse as if the planet itself is a living thing breathing beneath layers of concrete and wood.

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"Stop it," I tell myself firmly. "You're awake now. Act like it."

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As I move around my room, gathering clothes for school, the weirdness follows me like an unwanted shadow. My phone hums when I pick it up to check the time—not the standard vibration of a notification, but a low, melodic tone that seems to respond to my touch. My laptop does the same when I brush against it, the sound slightly different, higher-pitched. Even the metal doorknob thrums when my fingers wrap around it, as if greeting me with a song only I can hear.​

 

I try to ignore it, focusing instead on the familiar ritual of getting ready. Clean jeans from the drawer. T-shirt that passes the sniff test. Hoodie to hide behind when the world gets too loud or too strange. All perfectly normal items that suddenly seem foreign, like artifacts from a civilization I'm no longer fully part of.​

 

My bedroom is a testament to ordinary teenage existence—band posters with their edges curling, desk cluttered with half-finished homework assignments, gaming controller with the left joystick slightly worn from overuse. The normality of it all stands in sharp relief against the ancient imagery that still lingers behind my eyelids when I blink: crystal spires reaching toward alien skies, libraries containing knowledge that would make modern physics weep, and always, always, the burning.​

 

Why does it always end in burning?

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I grab my backpack, the canvas rough against my oversensitized fingers. Inside are textbooks discussing history that feels laughably incomplete now, science that scratches only the surface of how reality actually works. I've been a good student, always enjoyed learning, but lately it all seems like childish approximations of truth—like trying to explain quantum mechanics with finger puppets.​

 

"You're losing it, Maddox," I tell myself, trying to sound convincing. "One weird substitute teacher and suddenly you think you're some reincarnated wizard?"

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But even as I say it, I know it's more than that. It started before Mr. Grey—with dreams I couldn't explain, with knowing things I shouldn't know, with moments where time seemed to stutter and skip like a scratched record. Mr. Grey just confirmed that I wasn't the only one who noticed something was different about me.

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I head to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face in a futile attempt to wash away the lingering dreamscape. When I look up into the mirror, water dripping from my chin, I freeze. The face looking back isn't entirely mine. For just a heartbeat, I appear older, more composed, with an authority that my awkward teenage self has never possessed. My eyes—usually just regular blue—hold something ancient and knowing, like deep water that's seen the rise and fall of civilizations.​

 

"Emrys," I whisper, and the mirror fogs slightly around the edges, though there's no hot water running.

 

Then it's gone, and I'm just Jack again: sixteen, confused, with acne on my chin and hair that never lies flat no matter how much I try to tame it. But the moment leaves me shaken, the boundary between who I am and who I might have been—who I might be becoming—suddenly tissue-thin and permeable.

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I grab my phone and backpack, heading downstairs with the distinct feeling that I'm moving between worlds with each step. The ordinary morning sounds filter up from the kitchen—my mom making coffee, the news playing quietly from her tablet, all the mundane markers of a Tuesday that wants desperately to be normal.​

 

But nothing feels normal anymore. The dream clings to me like a second skin, the memory of ancient stone warm against my palm, the whispers about "uplifting humanity" echoing in my skull. Whatever's happening to me isn't going to stop just because I have calculus first period and a history test after lunch.​

 

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, a strange certainty settles over me—today will be different. Something is coming, something that will make these past months of escalating weirdness look like a gentle introduction. I don't know how I know this, but the knowledge sits in my chest like a stone, heavy with inevitability.​

 

I have no idea that in less than an hour, a package will arrive on our doorstep—a package addressed to me in handwriting I've never seen before, containing something that will change everything.