A century ago, the world bled glyphfire.

  The legendary Glyph War — fought for dominion over the Worldscript, the divine language said to shape reality itself — tore the continent apart. On one side stood the Pentarchs, guardians of balance who believed the glyphs should remain sealed, sacred, and used only in harmony. On the other, the Reclaimers — visionaries and zealots who claimed mortals had the right to rewrite the world, even if it meant burning it to the ground.

  What began as a war of philosophy descended into cataclysm. Continents cracked. Skies split. Glyphs were scattered to the wind. And though the Pentarchs ultimately emerged victorious, their legacy was ash and silence. The Worldscript fell dormant… or so the world believed.

  In the present day, glyphs are rare — bonded to a chosen few. Some use them for healing, others for power. And standing between chaos and collapse are the Glyphsirens: enforcers, wanderers, protectors of the land. Heroes to most… enemies to those who still whisper the name Pentarch like a prayer.

  And those who still cling to the old Pentarch ways? They're called Glyphhunters — merciless scavengers who reject unity, hoard power, and steal glyphs from others to add to their growing arsenal.

  Eight years earlier, in an elementary school nestled in the heart of Cairo, a classroom buzzed with the chatter of restless students. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting golden light across desks littered with papers and scribbled glyph symbols. At the front of the room, the teacher cleared his throat, drawing the class's attention.

  “And now,” he said, straightening his glasses, “you students are the ones expected to stop anyone from carrying on the Glyphhunter’s regime.”

  A girl in the back raised her hand, legs crossed, a cocky grin plastered on her face. “Are we sure we should be talking about this,” she said loudly, “with him in our class?”

  Snickers rippled through the room. Every head turned toward a boy sitting by the window — curly black hair streaked with red, brown skin, slouched posture, and a scowl that had become second nature. Callen barely looked up. “Why would anyone care about stupid magic?” he muttered, arms crossed.

  The girl’s grin widened. She nodded at another boy nearby, who raised his hand casually. A faint blue glow shimmered over his palm as a glyph pulsed to life.

  “Snow ballium,” he whispered.

  A snowball instantly formed and hurled itself across the room, smacking Callen in the back of the head. The class burst into laughter as Callen slowly raised his head, eyes narrowing. He took a deep breath, reached behind his neck, and brushed off the melting snow.

  “Cut it out,” he said sharply.

  “Class, you know the rules — no magic in class,” the teacher called, already tired of this routine. “Callen, turn around and focus.”

  Callen sighed and turned back toward his desk. The teacher continued, “Now then, pull out your homework and finish it before class is over.”

  Callen retrieved his assignment and started writing. A boy from the next row leaned over, whispering just loud enough.

  “Hey… is it true your mom was a traitorous Glyphsiren? Must suck — her working for the Glyphhunters and all.”

  Callen froze for a moment, pencil suspended in the air, then continued writing without a word. The boy leaned back, smirking.

  A few minutes later, Callen stood to turn in his paper. As he stepped into the aisle, the same boy stuck out his foot. Callen stumbled and hit the floor hard. Laughter erupted again.

  The girl raised her hand, summoning a glyph. A shimmering blue symbol appeared above Callen’s head — and a torrent of cold water poured down, soaking him.

  “Callen doesn’t even have magic!” someone shouted.

  Drenched and humiliated, Callen coughed, chest rising and falling with shallow, shaky breaths. His fists clenched.

  “Class!” the teacher shouted.

  But the laughter continued.

  Callen stood. He grabbed a stool near his desk and, without a word, cracked it across the boy’s face. Wood splintered. The laughter died instantly.

  The boy collapsed, teeth scattering on the floor. Before anyone could react, Callen struck him again — once, twice — until the teacher rushed forward and yanked him back.

  Callen thrashed, tears streaming down his face, his voice hoarse with rage.

  Moments later, in the principal’s office, Callen sat beside the boy he’d attacked. The other boy pressed a bag of ice to his swollen mouth, shooting daggers at Callen from the corner of his eye. Callen leaned forward, chin resting in his hand, eyes fixed on the floor.

  Through the glass window, their fathers could be seen arguing just beyond the closed door — one furious, the other calm and unreadable.

  “You’re dead,” the boy muttered, voice slurred from the swelling.

  Callen glanced sideways at him, then back at the door. He didn’t respond.

  The office door creaked open. Callen’s father stepped out, a composed man with tired eyes and a tucked-in shirt that had seen too many emergency meetings. Beside him, the other man bristled with rage.

  “My apologies for the misunderstanding,” Callen’s father said with a forced smile. “I assure you, my son will be well-mannered from now on. Go on, apologize.”

  Callen slouched deeper into his chair, arms crossed. “I’m sorry. I’ll be better next time,” he mumbled, voice flat.

  Without warning, the boy’s father stepped forward and slapped Callen’s father across the face.

  The room froze.

  Callen sat up, eyes wide, but his father didn’t flinch. He blinked, adjusted his collar, and smiled again — this time tighter, more distant.

  “Apologies,” he repeated. “My son will be better in the future.”

  The boy and his father left in silence, the heavy door clicking shut behind them.

  Later, on the drive home, the car was thick with tension. Callen sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window as buildings blurred by.

  “Callen,” his father said quietly, keeping his eyes on the road, “this is the fourth time you’ve lost it on another student.”

  Callen scoffed, still watching the city drift past. “Yeah? You’d think they’d stop messing with me after the first three.”

  His father gripped the wheel a little tighter.

  “I’m not joking, son. This is the tenth time I’ve had to leave work because of you. We can’t keep doing this.”

  Callen didn’t answer.

  “I know the magic stuff makes it harder,” his father continued, softening his tone. “It’s different here. Back in the States, we didn’t have people throwing snowballs out of thin air or calling your mom a traitor. We came to Cairo because your mother was born here — we thought it would be peaceful. That we could blend in.”

  He trailed off. A long pause.

  Callen slowly turned to look at him.

  “Ahem,” his father cleared his throat. “Listen. I love you, son. I do. But I just can’t keep missing work for school fights. We’re drowning in bills… especially with everything that happened with your mom.”

  His voice cracked — just for a second.

  Callen bit his lip. The words stung more than he expected. His fists clenched in his lap.

  “You’ll be staying with your grandmother for a while,” his father finished, quieter now. “It’s not punishment. Just… something has to change.”

  Tears welled up in Callen’s eyes, but he blinked them away, jaw tightening. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass window and said nothing.

  After a long, silent drive, Callen finally saw it—a modest, sun-faded house nestled beside an old library. The place looked untouched by time, a little worn but stubbornly alive. Out front, leaning against the steps of the library, were a few kids with skateboards and soda cans, chatting and laughing without a care in the world.

  From the house emerged a sharp-eyed woman in her early fifties. She had shoulder-length black hair streaked with gray, a sturdy frame, and a presence that made people stand straighter. Her skin was smooth for her age, but her voice was anything but soft.

  “Hey! You little freaks! Off my damn library steps before I start throwing books at your heads!”

  The kids just laughed and waved her off, completely unfazed. She muttered something under her breath and made her way to the car.

  As she approached, her expression softened. “Hey, little C.J.,” she said warmly, crouching by the passenger window.

  Callen cracked a rare smile. “Hey, Grandma.”

  He glanced past her at the kids—his friends. They hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy goofing off.

  Callen’s father reached over and ruffled his hair. “Go say hi. They probably missed you.” Callen nodded, got out of the car, gave his grandmother a quick hug, and jogged over to the group, his smile lingering.

  Nero slid into the passenger seat. “So… you’re finally letting me keep the boy, huh?” Callen Sr. gave a weary chuckle. “Had to. He needs something I can’t give him right now. But I’ll still visit. You know that.” She smiled sadly and reached over to hug him.

  “How’ve you been, Ms. Nero?” he asked. “Surviving,” she said, pulling back. “The library’s quieter now… ever since my daughter, well—” she stopped herself, eyes distant for a second. “But Glyphkeeping’s still better than the chaos out there.”

  She looked at him, more serious now. “I’m sorry you’ve had to handle all this alone.”

  Callen Sr. sighed and stared through the windshield, watching his son. “I’ll be alright. It’s him I’m worried about. He’s angry. Confused. He misses her more than he lets on.”

  “I know,” Nero said gently. “Just… take care of him,” he said. “Teach him what I couldn’t.”

  “I will,” she promised, placing a hand gently on his cheek. “You’re still family, son-in-law.” Then, without another word, she stepped out and walked toward the house.

  Callen Sr. gave one last honk as he pulled off down the road. Callen waved after the car, watching it disappear around the corner before turning toward the library steps.

  “What’s up?” he called out.

  One of the boys, lounging with a half-empty soda can, grinned and fist-bumped him. “Look who it is. Your dad finally kick you out?”

  The others chuckled, nudging each other. Callen smirked and dropped onto the stone steps.

  “Nah,” he said, popping open a soda. “Got into another fight. Guess he finally got tired of leaving work every time I lose it.”

  The group groaned in mock sympathy.

  “That’s what you get for trying to be some big shot at that fancy school,” one of them said, rolling his eyes. “They don’t want magicless kids walking their shiny halls.”

  Callen sipped his drink and gave him a side-eye. “Magic or not, I could still mop the floor with you.”

  “Ohhh,” the boy said, tossing his can into a trash bin. “Rich kid’s talking spicy now.”

  Callen grinned, set down his drink, and lunged. He tackled the boy, and the two rolled across the sidewalk in a mess of laughter, half-serious punches, and exaggerated grunts. The others whooped and cheered them on like it was a pay-per-view brawl.

  Callen managed to catch the boy in a headlock, both of them panting and grinning like idiots. “You give?” The boy tapped his side. “Alright, alright, I give!” They separated, both catching their breath as they sat back on the steps, sweaty and smiling.

  Then one of the boys, squinting up at the sky, spoke up. “Hey… y’all wanna see something?” Callen raised an eyebrow. “What kind of ‘something’?” The kid just shrugged with a grin. “Can’t explain it. You gotta see it for yourself.”

  Callen exchanged a look with the others. He grabbed his soda, shrugged, and stood. “Let’s go.” With that, they grabbed their boards and took off, wheels clacking against the pavement as they shot off down the street.

  The boys cruised through the sun-soaked streets of Cairo, their skateboards rattling over cracked sidewalks as they weaved past food stalls, buskers, and storefronts glowing with faint glyph light. Neon glyphs floated like graffiti on the walls—protective wards, shop signs, public announcements—all pulsing softly in the air, maintained by street scribes and minor casters. A man on the corner bent over a glowing scroll, drawing a ward with practiced ease while a nearby performer conjured illusions with his hands, a crowd cheering as a lion made of golden light roared above their heads. Hover-trams hummed overhead, powered by rune engines, and a trio of uniformed Glyphsirens walked calmly through the market, their cloaks rippling behind them, drawing glances and whispers.

  The boys skidded to a stop in front of a rocky hillside, where a narrow cave mouth gaped between slabs of stone. Faded KEEP OUT signs hung crookedly across the entrance, some graffitied over, others half-buried in dust. Naturally, they ignored them. One by one, they ducked inside, their laughter echoing against damp stone as they moved deeper. The tunnel gradually widened—until they stepped out into something impossible. Before them stretched a hidden forest bathed in golden light filtering from cracks above. In the center lay a vast, empty pool, its edges etched with ancient glyphwork, long dried and forgotten. Beyond it, towering into the sky, stood three colossal pyramids, weathered by time but thrumming faintly with residual magic, like sleeping giants waiting to awaken.

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  “My brother and I stumbled on this place looking for his board,” the boy said, kicking off and dropping onto his skateboard. He rolled ahead with ease, weaving between tree roots and patches of sunlight.

  Callen hesitated, eyeing the ancient glyphs carved into the stone around the empty pool. “I don’t know, man… this place feels wrong,” he muttered, watching his friends start skating across the cracked ground. “We probably shouldn’t be here.”

  “Relax,” one of the boys said, brushing his fingers along a weathered stone. “These glyphs haven’t been active in ages. Besides, none of us can even use magic.”

  Callen let out a shaky breath. The logic made sense—but the feeling in his gut said otherwise.

  He rolled closer to one of the three massive pyramids, the sheer scale of it towering over him like a sleeping giant. His stomach twisted. Maybe it was some kind of megalophobia… or maybe something deeper. Something instinctual.

  He hesitated, then reached out and placed his hands on one of the faded glyphs etched into the stone. It was cold, lifeless. No hum, no flicker of light—nothing. If a glyph was sealed into an object like this, it usually meant some kind of protection spell. But as his friend said, it looked too ancient to still be active.

  Still, the silence felt… heavy.

  Callen exhaled in relief and stepped back, giving the pyramid one last wary glance. Then he turned toward his friends—only to find the space behind him completely empty. “Guys?” he called out. “Where’d you go?”

  No answer. Just wind sweeping through the abandoned lot. He chuckled nervously, trying to shake the rising chill in his spine. “Alright, not funny. Seriously.” Grabbing his skateboard, he rolled back toward the drained pool where they’d been hanging out earlier.

  But it, too, was empty. “Guys?” he called again, voice cracking slightly. He spun in place, eyes scanning every shadow, every corner.

  Nothing. A cold sweat broke across his back as his breathing quickened. Something felt wrong. Really wrong.

  Callen pushed deeper into the twisted forest, his footsteps crunching over broken branches and rusted fragments of metal. Weapons were scattered everywhere — blades buried in tree trunks, shattered shields half-buried in moss, arrows snapped and strewn like bones. He knelt down, brushing his fingers over one intact arrow.

  The moment he lifted it, the arrow jerked violently from his grip, spinning with unnatural speed. It launched itself into a nearby tree with a deafening crack, slicing the trunk clean in two. The upper half groaned and toppled over.

  Callen stumbled back, his eyes wide. Blood trickled from a fresh cut on his hand. “What the hell is this place…?” he muttered, voice shaking slightly.

  Then he saw it.

  Floating in the air, undisturbed and glowing with a steady red pulse, was a glyph. No scroll, no hand holding it — just suspended there like it was waiting. Callen stepped forward slowly, drawn to it. He circled around to get a better look, mesmerized by the shifting runes etched in its center.

  As he reached out, his fingers inches from the glow, the glyph flared to life — and with a sudden snap, a jet of fire burst from it, searing past him.

  “Ah!” he cried, ducking and hitting the ground hard. The fire scorched a line through the air, missing him by inches before vanishing as quickly as it came. He looked up, breath shallow. “…Whoa.”

  Callen turned and froze. At the end of the overgrown path stood a wall — massive, ancient, unmoving. It shouldn’t have been frightening, but it was. It loomed in the silence, blank and still, yet it watched him. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt like the wall was staring back, like it had eyes buried in the stone.

  Something pulled at him — not physically, but from inside. His legs moved without thinking, drawn to it like a moth to flame. Each step closer made the air feel heavier, thicker.

  Then — everything snapped.

  He jolted awake, gasping. His friends were around him, shaking him frantically. He was lying flat on his back in the dust beside the pyramid. One of them leaned over, panic in his eyes.

  “Callen, man, are you okay? You were just standing there... then you collapsed. You weren’t breathing!”

  Callen sat up slowly, chest heaving. His vision swam. “I was... I was somewhere else,” he murmured. “It looked like this place, but wrong. Twisted. There were these glyphs and—”

  He doubled over and vomited.

  “Let’s get you home,” one of the boys said, kneeling beside him. “Probably just heatstroke. Or you’re already homesick.”

  They hoisted him up and began walking away from the pyramid.

  Then Callen froze.

  Something was watching them.

  He turned back — and felt the blood drain from his face.

  Leaning against the pyramid was a towering, grotesque figure at least forty feet tall. It was impossibly thin, its limbs too long and crooked like dried branches. Its skin resembled cracked parchment soaked in ink, with glowing red veins pulsing just beneath the surface. Its face was expressionless… sorrowful, even. Two ink-black eyes locked with Callen’s, and the creature tilted its head ever so slightly.

  Callen stumbled back, heart pounding. “You guys... see that too?” he whispered.

  His friends were frozen, their eyes wide with horror. They all nodded.

  “On three,” one muttered. “We run.”

  “Three!” another shouted — and they all bolted.

  But just as they sprinted, the creature raised one long finger.

  In an instant, a translucent barrier rippled into existence around them like glass. The boys slammed into it and were thrown back violently. Callen hit the ground hard, dazed and gasping.

  The monster didn’t move. It just kept watching… like it was waiting.

  Callen groaned, rubbing the side of his head as he pushed himself upright. “What do we do now?” he asked, voice shaky, eyes darting around the glowing barrier.

  Before anyone could answer, the towering creature let out a low, guttural moan. It raised one elongated arm, ink-soaked claws glinting, and with terrifying speed, slammed one of Callen’s friends against the wall. The impact echoed like thunder.

  Blood sprayed across the barrier. The boy’s body crumpled to the ground, motionless.

  Callen’s breath caught in his throat. The others screamed.

  Callen spun around, panic rising in his chest, and threw himself against the glowing barrier. “Help! Somebody, please!” he cried, pounding the wall with his fists. “Anyone!”

  But no help came.

  The creature slowly raised one crooked finger.

  Without a word, icicle-like spikes erupted from the ground and impaled the remaining boys through the chest. Their bodies froze in place—eyes wide, lifeless.

  Callen froze. His breath hitched. His scream tore through the air.

  “NO! NOOO! STOP! PLEASE—DAD! GRANDMA! MOM!” he howled, voice cracking with every name. “HELP ME!”

  The figure stepped forward, silent and merciless, and gripped Callen by the ankle. With one swift motion, it hoisted him upside down. Callen kicked and thrashed, tears and snot streaming down his face. “Please… somebody…”

  “You’re the one,” the creature rasped in a voice like splintered wood.

  It reached out and dragged a claw across Callen’s face—tearing into his eye. A sharp, wet scream burst from Callen as blood poured down his cheek.

  Then the figure opened its mouth.

  A glowing fire glyph bloomed in its throat—charged and ready to burn him alive.

  Callen shut his eyes.

  But the fire never touched him.

  A flash of purple ignited over his body—an ancient glyph swirling to life like a shield. The flames scattered against it in a blaze of sparks. The shield vanished just as quickly as it appeared.

  Callen stared in disbelief. “Did I just…?”

  The creature’s frown curled into a hollow, jagged smile. It dragged him closer.

  Then—shhk!—a blade sliced through the air and a man holding a sword landed on one of the pyramids.

  In a blink, the monster’s arm was severed. Callen plummeted—but before he hit the ground, a woman swept in and caught him mid-fall. With a cry, she drove her blade deep into the creature’s leg and glided down its towering body.

  The monster roared and swung its remaining arm, but the man was faster. He sprinted up the length of the creature’s limb, boots striking bone and parchment skin. In one clean motion, his blade flashed—shhk!—and severed the creature’s head from its neck.

  The beast collapsed with a thunderous crash, its lifeless body crumpling into the dust.

  The woman gently set Callen down, cradling his trembling body for a moment. “Hey, hey—breathe, son. What’s your name? Are you—” Her voice faltered as she looked at him fully. “Shit…”

  Callen’s face was streaked with blood. His eye was gone. Behind them, four young bodies lay still in a pool of silence.

  The man wiped his blade clean on his sleeve, his face grim. He pulled out a phone, speaking into it with urgency.

  “This is Glyphsiren Ronan. We’ve got a level five incident. Four dead. One injured, severe trauma. Send an ambulance and the Binding Crew immediately.”

  He glanced at the broken boy beside them, then back toward the fallen monster. “And bring containment units. We’re not alone out here.”

  Some time later, Callen sat on the edge of an ambulance, a bandage wrapped tightly around his head where his eye used to be. A foil blanket clung to his shoulders, rustling in the wind. He chewed slowly on a cookie one of the medics had given him, though the taste barely registered.

  His father sat beside him, eyes red and glassy with tears. “You okay, son?” he asked softly, voice trembling.

  Callen gave a small nod. “I’m okay, Dad,” he whispered—but his gaze drifted toward the row of body bags lined up nearby. The world felt heavy. Too quiet.

  Beyond them, the Glyphsirens moved efficiently, encasing the entire pyramid site in a glowing barrier. The air shimmered as they set fire to the remains of the monster, the flames licking unnaturally high, fueled by ancient magic.

  Callen looked away.

  Ronan approached Mr. Reyes with a clipboard in hand. “Mr. Reyes,” he said calmly, “your son’s injuries were mostly minor, aside from the eye. He’s stable, alert, and physically responsive.”

  He handed over a form and offered a pen. “There are signs of emotional shock—normal for what he’s been through. Some lingering fear, maybe confusion. Mild trauma, but nothing we think will leave lasting damage if he has the right support system. Honestly… he handled it better than most adults would.”

  Callen sat nearby on the edge of the ambulance, quietly chewing a cookie. His bandaged eye was hidden behind medical gauze, and the foil blanket crinkled softly with every movement. He wasn’t crying or shaking anymore—just watching the scene, distant but aware.

  Mr. Reyes glanced at his son, worry softening slightly into relief. “He’s always been tough.”

  Ronan gave a faint smile. “Tough’s one word for it. Resilient might be better. He’ll bounce back. But make sure he doesn’t try to bury it all. Sometimes the ones who act fine are the ones carrying the most.”

  “I know what I wanna do now,” Callen muttered.

  His father and Ronan looked at him. “What do you mean, son?” his father asked gently.

  Callen looked up, a spark of determination in his bruised face. “I’m gonna become a Glyphsiren. I used magic back there—I know I did! Something protected me. That means I have it in me.”

  Ronan raised an eyebrow, almost impressed. Mr. Reyes managed a small, hopeful smile.

  10 Years Later — Present Day

  An 18-year-old Callen stood behind the front desk of the town library, wearing a faded “STAFF” shirt and a black eyepatch. He leaned on the counter, idly tapping a pencil against a notebook.

  “That was ten years ago,” he muttered to himself. “And now I’m just a Glyphkeeper working for my grandma. I’ve taken the Glyphsiren entrance exam every year since I turned thirteen. Always pass the written… always fail the physical. No confirmed magic signature. But I know what I felt that day—something shielded me. Something real. And there was another place I went to… like a different version of that pyramid site. They sealed it off right after, and I haven’t been able to get back since.”

  The man across the counter cleared his throat. “That’s real touching, kid. But I just asked for a pencil.”

  Callen blinked. “Right.” He handed him a freshly sharpened one.

  The man walked off.

  Callen sighed. “Next time bring your own damn pencil.”

  Nero walked in carrying a small stack of books, her silver hair tied back in a loose braid. She smiled warmly.

  “Oh, grandson, don’t look so glum. You know I believe you—despite flunking the exam again yesterday.”

  Callen let out a tired sigh. “Grandma, I know what I saw. That monster was about to blast me, and then this… purple shield just appeared out of nowhere. It saved me.”

  Nero placed the books down and gently dusted her hands. “I’ve told you—I believe you. Your mother had magic. I have magic. Maybe you’re just a late bloomer.” She paused, then added, “Speaking of your mom, they’re transferring her to a new prison.”

  Callen scratched notes on a pad absently. “Yeah, I visited her last week. Looks like she’s basically running the place now.” He hesitated, then rubbed his temple. “It’s… always weird talking to her. Everyone treats me like I’m the one who betrayed the city—like I’m the Glyphhunter.”

  Nero frowned and shook her head. “Stop that. You’ve worked too hard, and too long, to let that nonsense get in your head. You’re not her, and you’re not her mistakes.”

  Just then, her phone rang. She checked the screen, then grinned. “Speak of the devil.” She answered and chuckled. “Yeah, he’s right here.” She handed the phone to Callen.

  He held it up. “Who this?”

  Callen Sr.’s voice crackled with amusement on the other end. “‘Who this?’ You’re sounding more like your grandma every day.” He chuckled. “So… how’d the exam go yesterday?”

  Callen slouched deeper into his chair. “Failed it. Again.”

  “Don’t you think it might be time to focus on something else?” his father said gently over the phone. “Glyphkeeping’s a solid career. Simple work—people ask for books, you hand them over. No explosions, no monsters.”

  Callen exhaled deeply, rubbing the edge of the desk with his thumb. “I would, Dad… if I didn’t know I used magic that day. I felt it. You think I’d take the Glyphsiren exam six times if I didn’t believe something happened?”

  There was a pause, then his father sighed. “That day was traumatic, Cal. Maybe a Glyphsiren cast the shield and, in the panic, you thought it was you. Fear does that. It warps memory.”

  Callen nodded slowly, though frustration still burned in his chest. “I get it. I really do. But it felt real. Still does.”

  His dad changed the subject, his tone softer. “Do you want to see your mother before they transfer her?”

  Callen leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah… I will. Love you, Dad. I’ll see you after work.”

  “Love you too, son.”

  The line clicked off, and Callen sat in silence, the hum of the library filling the space where hope used to be.

  Callen turned on the TV and glanced up just as the screen flickered to a breaking news segment.

  “Breaking news: Cairo’s Glyph Prison is officially transferring 100 high-risk Glyphhunters to a newly constructed isolation facility located deep in the center of the Red Sea,” the reporter announced. “Glyphsirens will be accompanying the convoy to ensure the transfer proceeds without incident.”

  The footage cut to a line of prisoners in reinforced jumpsuits being escorted under heavy guard. Callen’s eyes narrowed as one familiar figure appeared on screen—wild red-and-black hair, sharp brown eyes, brown skin like his own, and a haunting, unhinged smile. She wore a black-and-white jumpsuit with glowing restraints wrapped around her wrists and ankles. His mother.

  “Good riddance,” Callen muttered, his voice low with resentment as he grabbed the remote and clicked the TV off, the screen cutting to black with a faint click.

  Night had fallen, casting the library in shadows, its windows glowing faintly like tired eyes. Callen trudged to the back alley, dragging a half-full trash bag behind him. With a grunt, he hoisted it into the dumpster and let the lid slam shut.

  As he turned to head back, he noticed a group of teens lingering near the front steps of the library—leaning on railings, laughing too loud, tossing a vape between them. He sighed, wiped his hands on his apron, and approached them.

  “Hey,” Callen said, voice firm but calm. “You can’t hang around here. Library’s closed. Off the stairs.” One of the teens turned, exhaled a cloud of smoke directly into Callen’s face, then smirked. “Oh, damn. It’s that guy—the one who bombed the Glyphsiren exam. What, six times now?”

  Callen tensed, jaw tightening. The teen stepped closer and, with a sneer, flicked Callen’s eyepatch. The moment his finger made contact, Callen’s hand snapped up like a trap, gripping the boy’s wrist hard.

  His eyes burned—one visible, the other hidden—but both steady, dangerous. “Don’t. Touch. Me,” Callen said, voice low, not shaking.

  The boy yanked his hand back with a scowl. “Oh yeah?” A red glyph flared to life above his palm.

  “Fire!” he shouted, hurling the burning sigil forward.

  Callen’s eye narrowed, his mind racing. “Fire glyph. Only one glyph person unless you’re a Glyphhunter… and these kids aren’t. But that glow—bright, steady. He’s strong for his age. Dangerous.”

  A soft crunch behind him broke his focus. “Someone else—behind me. Moving slow, trying to flank. Not subtle.”

  He caught the shimmer of a dull gray light in his peripheral vision. “Ash glyph. Rare… corrosive, choking. Not something kids should be messing with.

  “Fire and ash? That’s a reckless combo.” Without a word, Callen dropped low.

  The fire blast shot overhead—and collided with a swirling cloud of ash behind him. The two attacks exploded in a burst of smoke and sparks, sending both teens stumbling back, coughing. Callen rose, calm and sharp-eyed. “Amateurs,” he muttered.

  Suddenly, a girl stepped forward and raised her hand, a dark glyph flaring to life in her palm. "Brand," she whispered.

  Callen’s eye widened. “A Binding Glyph? Brand, no less. That’s high-level—she could mark me and trap me here like a curse seal. That’s way too advanced for someone her age…”

  Instinct kicked in. He dove sideways just as the glyph launched, the magic sizzling through the air and hitting nothing. “Sloppy. No aim, no control,” he thought, but just as he braced to counter, a heavy kick slammed into his blind side. He gasped and crumpled, hitting the ground hard.

  The others rushed in. Fists. Boots. Laughter.

  Callen curled in on himself, shielding his head as best he could. The blows kept coming—feet slamming into his ribs, arms, back. Then they scattered.

  "Magicless freak!"

  "Your mom’s a traitor, just like you’ll be!"

  Their words cut deeper than the bruises. Callen trembled, lying still against the cold pavement, his breath shallow and ragged.

  Callen pushed himself up with a shaky arm, blood dripping from his lip. He spit onto the pavement and winced. "Yeah... who do you think you are, huh? Magicless freak..." he muttered bitterly, mocking the words that still rang in his ears.

  Each step was a quiet war. He limped toward his grandmother’s house, every bruise reminding him of how far he still had to go—but he kept moving.