Chapter 8
The academy’s library was less a building and more a towering cathedral of knowledge, its spires reaching toward the heavens like fingers clawing for forgotten truths. Stained glass windows filtered sunlight into fractured rainbows across polished stone floors. Shelves loomed like watchful sentinels, stretching into shadowed rows filled with parchment, leather-bound tomes, and crystal-etched tablets that softly pulsed with lingering soul traces.
Jai stepped through the grand archway, his footsteps quiet against the marble floor. The scent of dust, ink, and old magic filled his lungs. Though the section he entered wasn’t restricted, it felt sacred. A place where voices had long since quieted, but their truths still whispered from page and stone.
He moved carefully, eyes flitting across spines etched with gold leaf and imperial sigils. “History of the Southern Realms,” he murmured, brushing a finger across one shelf.
A thick volume caught his eye— The cover was embossed with the Empire’s emblem: a majestic phoenix wrapped in flame, its wings unfurled like judgment.
He pulled it free and cradled the heavy tome in his arms. The weight felt symbolic—burden and birthright both.
Settling into a quiet alcove beneath a high stained glass panel, he flipped past chapters filled with triumphal rhetoric and blood-red maps. Most entries read like conquest reports. Polished, detached, proud. But one word stilled his hand.
Kshira.
His breath hitched.
He stared at the words.
Anika.
His mother had a name now—not just a memory cloaked in soft smiles and battle-scarred lullabies. And Rudravan—his father—not a king in title, but the sword and shield of the kingdom. A general, a protector.
Further down the page:
He whispered it aloud, tasting the name for the first time. “Jai Rudravan.”
A strange weight settled in his spine—not a burden, but an anchor. Something ancient. Something proud.
The hours passed. Sunlight shifted across the floor as he read deeper, pulled through history by a thousand threads.
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There were fragments of culture—descriptions of jungle rites, of soul-bond duels held beneath moonlight, of tiger sigils carved into ancient stone. Each line sharpened the shadow of his past until it almost had form again.
He found a section on Soul Bonds.
Jai’s hands tightened on the page. He had . But now it was undeniable. Sheeren wasn’t just a tiger. She was a Great Tiger. One of the rarest beings in the Empire. Mythical. Born from jungle blood and ancient royalty.
The next section outlined the Soul Bond tiers:
Common. Rare. Epic. Mythical.
There were only a few known Mythical bonds across the continent. The Phoenix. The Dragon. The Great Tiger.
He skimmed deeper. The Phoenix—Revyn’s bond—was described as a celestial flame spirit, able to sear enemies and heal allies. Its fire was both judgment and mercy. Its wielder became near-unkillable in battle.
He could see why the Empire prized it.
A chill brushed his spine. His bond made him fast, strong, tireless. But Revyn’s made him
Jai paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t sure how long he had been reading, but the library was quieter now, the air cooler. He reached for another book, older and rougher in make.
He flipped past familiar names until another headline snared him:
The Lion of Uganda: Fall of the Sultanate.
, a beast of legend said to rival the dragons of the north in might. Amarash was a king of war and storm, said to be capable of sundering mountains with his roar. His mane shimmered like bronze flame, and his presence shattered the resolve of lesser beasts.
Jai leaned back in the stone alcove, heart thudding.
A cub.
His mind shot to the golden lion tattoo wrapped around Kael’s arm. The way Kael had carried himself—confident, coiled, like a predator used to commanding fear.
Could it be?
Was lion—a descendant of Amarash?
It made too much sense. The Empire didn’t just conquer; it . Power. Bloodlines. Myth.
He ran a hand through his hair, unsettled. If that lion Amarash’s bloodline, then Kael wielded the legacy of a fallen republic—just as Jai bore the bond of a fallen kingdom.
A strange kinship, twisted and cruel.
Outside the high window, the sun had shifted into late afternoon. The light through the stained glass painted his skin in shades of tiger-orange and jungle green. His eyes drifted closed for a moment. Sheeren stirred softly within his soul—not speaking, not pressing, just —like the slow shift of wind through trees.
He exhaled.
The past wasn’t just memory now. It was context. Foundation. Flame.
He wasn’t the ghost of a dead kingdom. He was its remnant. Its heir.
A soft chime echoed through the vast library, signaling the approach of evening. The exams would begin soon. He stood, careful not to disturb the stack of books around him.
One last time, he looked back at the passage:
Then to the earlier one:
Jai Rudravan stepped into the amber light of the cathedral-library, spine straight, eyes quiet and knowing.
Let them come with fire and flame, with bloodlines stolen or born.
He would meet them all—with tooth and claw.
