In the heart of the Red Sea, a massive ship cut through the waves, inching toward a looming prison fortress that jutted from the water like a scar. Shackled upside down along the deck hung one hundred prisoners—Glyphhunters—each bound by glowing glyphs that pulsed with magic.

  Silent and watchful, the Glyphsirens stood guard.

  Among the prisoners, a woman began humming a carefree tune, completely unfazed. It was Callen’s mother—Rhea.

  Ronan, seated nearby with his sword resting on his shoulder, let out a tired sigh. He stood, walked over, and struck her across the face.

  “You think this is funny, Rhea?” he growled. “You’re a traitor. You got half the Glyphsirens slaughtered.”

  Rhea coughed, blood trailing from her lips as she grinned. “Oh no,” she said mockingly. “Did I really? Boohoo. I didn’t know a little torture would kill them.”

  Her laugh was venom.

  Ronan’s eye twitched. Without warning, his hand wrapped around her throat, tightening.

  “One more word. Just one more,” he hissed. “And I’ll kill you. Say it was an accident.”

  Others rushed in, pulling him off her.

  But Rhea only laughed harder. “Only one man ever choked me like that,” she said through a wicked grin, “and nine months later, I had a baby.”

  The massive iron-clad boat groaned as it scraped against the jagged black dock, the waves of the Red Sea hissing like serpents beneath it. Chains clinked and glyphs pulsed with dim, sickly light as the 100 Glyphhunter prisoners—each bound by glowing symbols etched into their skin—were yanked upright by mechanical cranes and dragged like cargo onto the cold stone platform.

  Rain began to fall, slow and heavy, adding weight to an already suffocating atmosphere.

  “Move it!” barked a Glyphsiren in crimson armor, her gauntlet sparking as she jabbed a prisoner in the side. “You think I want to be babysitting murderers all night?”

  One of the prisoners groaned, eyes hollow. “We didn’t all kill, lady…”

  “Shut up!” Another Glyphsiren slammed the butt of his staff into the prisoner’s knee. “You breathe in this place when we let you.”

  Callen’s mom, Rhea, laughed dryly from the back of the line, her lip still bloodied. “Your hospitality is unmatched. Really, I feel spoiled.”

  A third Glyphsiren, younger and twitchy, muttered, “Why do the insane ones always look so calm?”

  “Because they already know what they’re going to do next,” growled the commander beside him. “And it’s never good.”

  As the prisoners were funneled down a long, echoing corridor carved from obsidian, the glyphs on the walls shimmered with warding light. Cells lined the path like open mouths, each one humming with the same cursed script—ready to bind whoever stepped inside.

  With a hiss of arcane steam, cell doors began sealing shut behind the prisoners, one by one. Each lock echoed like a war drum. Each rune flared and sizzled as it clamped down on their spirits.

  And still, Rhea smiled through the blood on her teeth.

  Morning light filtered into the Cairo kitchen, casting a soft glow on the tiled floor. Callen shuffled in, a plastic bag pressed to his swollen cheek. Nero sat at the table, sipping her coffee with one eyebrow already arched.

  “Grandma, you got more ice?” he asked, dumping the slush into the sink with a tired grunt.

  Nero’s eyes narrowed. “What in the world happened to you, honey?”

  Callen slumped into the chair beside her. “Some punks jumped me last night. Nothing major.”

  Nero clicked her tongue, setting her mug down with a clink. “Hold out your hand.”

  He obeyed, and a soft green glow pulsed from her palm as a sigil formed in the air between them. Healing energy flowed into him, warmth replacing the dull ache. His bruises faded like shadows under sunlight.

  Callen exhaled. “Thanks, Grandma.”

  She sighed into her cup. “Let me guess—you tried predicting their moves again, didn’t you?”

  Callen didn’t answer. He just let out a low growl, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. He took a long sip before finally muttering, “It worked… until one of them caught my blind side.”

  Nero mouthed the words along with him like a song she’d heard a hundred times. “Mm-hmm. Same story, different bruise.”

  She paused, watching him over the rim of her mug. “Did you see your mother got transferred? Didn’t even let us say goodbye.”

  Callen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know,” he said quietly, leaning back against the counter.

  There was a long silence before he spoke again. “How do you feel when you think about Mom?”

  Nero set her coffee down gently, her gaze fixed on the steam curling up from the mug. “She’s my only daughter. Always had fire in her—strong-willed, fierce… just like you.”

  She paused, swallowing hard. “But what she did—turning on the Glyphsirens, killing so many of her own—I still can’t believe it. Every night, I cry. Not just because she’s gone, but because I never saw it coming. Not a hint. Not a warning. Just… betrayal, out of nowhere.”

  Callen took a slow sip of his water, his voice low. “That’s one of the main reasons I never give up. They keep saying I can’t be a Glyphsiren because I don’t have magic. I keep failing the exam—not because I’m not ready, but because they say I didn’t use any magic they could detect. I ace the physical and written parts every time. But just because I can’t show them magic I know I used, they shut me down.” He set the cup down and dropped his head into his arms, exhaling hard.

  Nero gave him a soft glance, then suddenly looked away like she remembered something. “Oh shoot—I just got a shipment of new spellbooks. Can you grab them? They’re in that cupboard under the stairs.”

  Callen slowly lifted his head, narrowing his eyes. “You mean the one where your cat died? The one in the darkest corner of the library? The one that feels like the walls are closing in the further you go?”

  Nero took a sip of her coffee and shrugged. “That’s the one.”

  Callen frowned. “Yeah, I’m not going in there.”

  She let out a theatrical groan and clutched her back. “Well, I guess I’ll just waste away here—an old woman, surrounded by outdated spellbooks. Forgotten. Dusty. Neglected.”

  Callen sighed and stood. “Fine.”

  Meanwhile, not inside the prison—but above it, in the sky—something moved.

  A lone figure hovered in the air, shrouded in a flowing black robe that masked every inch of their form. With a slow, deliberate motion, the figure extended a hand. A black sigil flared to life in the air before them, pulsing with dark energy. A moment later, a devastating blast tore through the prison, obliterating an entire wing in a single eruption of force.

  Sirens wailed. Cells cracked open. Smoke flooded the corridors. Screams echoed—some in fear, others in wild delight.

  Deep inside, Rhea sat calmly in her cell, smiling at the chaos. “Right on time,” she whispered, rising to her feet.

  A guard sprinted toward her, baton drawn—but Rhea was faster. She seized his arm, etched a glowing glyph onto his skin, and released him.

  The guard screamed as he was launched skyward, vanishing in a blur.

  She stepped through the swirling smoke, unfazed, her escape just beginning.

  Ronan unsheathed his sword and charged.

  Rhea flipped clean over him, landing with catlike grace. She whipped a strike toward his head, but he deflected it, slamming the hilt into her arm. She hissed in pain, but didn’t falter—spinning into a sharp kick.

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  He blocked it with his hilt again, sparks flying.

  Ronan countered with a flurry of strikes, his blade dancing against her ribs and side. Each hit landed, forcing her back. Rhea bit her lip, swallowing the pain with a growl.

  “You were incredible,” Ronan said between breaths. “What happened to you? Were you always like this, or did something break you?”

  Rhea’s eyes darkened. Without a word, she slapped a sigil onto his chest.

  Ronan froze—then his body convulsed, lifted, and flung through the air like a ragdoll. He crashed into the stone floor, ricocheted off the stairs, and slammed into a cell wall, collapsing in a heap.

  Silence. He didn’t get up. Rhea dusted herself off and walked on.

  Rhea kicked a nearby wall, cracking the stone, then let out a sharp whistle.

  Of the hundred Glyphhunters once stationed at the prison, only twenty remained standing. They rallied behind her, bloodied but fierce, and together they stormed toward the docks. Without hesitation, they commandeered one of the boats.

  Rhea approached the ship’s captain, placed her hand on his chest, and etched a small sigil onto his body. In an instant, the man shot into the air like a missile—his scream cut short as the robed figure in the sky sliced clean through him.

  The captain’s headless body dropped into the ocean.

  Rhea dusted off her hands, picked up the captain’s hat, and placed it on her head with a grin. She stepped up to the helm and grabbed the speaker crystal.

  “Attention all passengers of the S.S. Rhea,” she declared, her voice echoing across the ship. “They thought they could stop our reign. But the Reclaimers have returned—and we will finish what we started. We will take the Worldscript and rewrite this cursed order.”

  She paused, eyes burning.

  “I don’t care how many Glyph users stand in our way—slaughter them. Drain them. Burn their names from history. Our leader will reclaim the Worldscript, and with it, reshape this broken world!”

  She looked skyward, toward the black-robed figure drifting above. The other freed criminals roared in approval, fists raised, their cheers thick with bloodlust.

  Back in the library, Callen grumbled around the flashlight clenched between his teeth as he crawled under the creaky cupboard.

  “Sure, got jumped last night—but no big deal. Let’s just go spelunking for spell books Grandma conveniently stuffed in the creepiest corner of the house,” he muttered, voice muffled and bitter.

  He finally reached the back of the cupboard. “No books. Of course.” Callen sighed, letting his head droop in defeat.

  Then came a low, eerie hum—a sound soaked in magic.

  “Hm?”

  He leaned in, wiping dust off the wall. There, faint but unmistakable, was the same glyph he’d seen on the pyramid ten years ago.

  His eyes widened. Slowly, almost against his will, he reached for it.

  The moment his fingers brushed the symbol, the world twisted.

  In a blink, he was back—surrounded by the three pyramids, the drained obsidian pool, and the thick, steaming jungle.

  Callen stumbled back, breath quickening. “No… no, no, no.”

  Flashes tore through his mind—his friends’ screams, blood in the dirt, and the moment he nearly died.

  “How am I back here?” Callen muttered, heart pounding. “Did Grandma know this was hidden in the cupboard? No… she barely even goes down there.”

  He swallowed hard, eyes scanning the overgrown ruins around him. “This place… They sealed it off. But now I’m back.” He stepped forward, each footfall stirring old memories. “The place where I used magic—once. And never again.”

  His fists clenched. “I have to know what’s really here.”

  He pushed deeper into the jungle, the air thick with heat and silence. Then he stopped.

  An old arrow jutted out of a tree, its tip stained with dried blood.

  Callen looked down at the faint scar on his hand, brushing his thumb across it. “Still here,” he whispered. “It wasn’t a dream. None of it.”

  Then he saw it.

  Hovering just above the ground, the fire glyph pulsed gently, like a heartbeat made of flame.

  Callen approached slowly, breath tight in his chest. He reached out—and tapped it.

  Just like before, ten years ago, fire exploded from the glyph in a violent surge, lighting up the jungle in a wash of heat and memory.

  Callen stood there, breathless—his chest rising with joy he hadn’t felt in years. The place was real. Alive. But the moment barely settled before a cold shiver crept down his spine. Slowly, he turned. And there it was. For the first time in ten years, he faced it again: the black wall. Darker. Deeper. Hungrier. It loomed in silence, yet somehow, it looked back.

  Just like before, it was calling him.

  And just like before, he moved.

  Callen didn’t understand why—only that his body responded before his mind could catch up. Each step toward the wall felt like slipping into an old nightmare he’d never fully escaped. He kept his breathing slow, measured. “It’s different this time. I’m stronger now. I won’t break again.”

  He reached the wall—black, ancient, pulsing with something he couldn’t name. There, half-concealed in the shadows, was a rusted doorknob with a broken lock dangling from it like a dead weight.

  “Why is there a door? Was it always here?” He tilted his head, frowning. “No... this wasn’t here last time. Was it?” His fingers reached forward, trembling.

  “Psst.”

  The whisper coiled through the air like smoke.

  Callen’s heart dropped. Cold crawled up his spine like spider legs. He turned.

  And saw it.

  The same tall, grotesquely thin creature, lounging against a pyramid like it belonged there. But it wasn’t frowning like before. No. This time it was smiling.

  “No. No no no—”

  It was the kind of smile people gave at the end of a long hunt.

  Callen’s breath caught. The weight of memory slammed into him. “Jae’s body… Toma’s last breath… the blood—so much blood.” His vision blurred with phantom pain. “My eye. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t run. I had to use it—”

  His magic. The glyph. The monster. He screamed—not just from fear, but from a decade of silence cracking wide open.

  “It has been far too long,” the monster said in a cold, resonant voice. With a sudden lurch, it grabbed Callen’s ankle, slamming him into a tree, then the ground, again and again—until his body was limp. The creature hoisted him effortlessly, holding him at eye level.

  “Tell me…” the monster purred, eyes gleaming with strange hope. “Tell me what you’ve accomplished with my glyph. I’ve heard the rumors—surely by now, you must rule this world?”

  Callen’s head lolled forward, blood dripping from his mouth. Unconscious. Nearly dead.

  The monster frowned, then tilted its head as a soft green energy flowed from its hand and into Callen’s battered body. “Wake up, boy,” it commanded.

  Callen coughed violently, drawing in a painful breath as his wounds began to seal, muscles knitting, bruises vanishing. His eye fluttered open in dazed confusion.

  “No… impossible. You died,” he muttered. “You… I saw you die. This has to be some hallucination—”

  The monster chuckled, low and amused. “Oh, I assure you, I am quite real. After all… I made you.” With one clawed finger, it flicked up Callen’s eyepatch, revealing the scarred socket beneath. “Mmm. I remember now. I took this from you, didn’t I?”

  Callen flinched. “Why?” he whispered.

  “Because,” the monster said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “you were meant to be chosen. The bearer of my glyph. The harbinger of change. The one to rewrite the world.”

  “I don’t understand,” Callen said, breath ragged.

  The monster raised a hand, tracing a glowing purple sigil in the air. Instantly, Callen was suspended in place, held aloft by invisible force. Time around him stilled, save for the whisper of wind and the hum of the glyph.

  “Don’t you remember?” the creature asked, voice calm, deliberate. “I gave you the Glyph. That moment—ten years ago. You used it, even if you didn’t realize it then.”

  “The purple one?” Callen asked, eyes wide. “The one I used to stop your attack?”

  The monster nodded solemnly.

  And then, Callen laughed.

  He laughed wildly, joyfully, the sound almost manic. “I knew it. I knew I wasn’t crazy! They all made me feel like I was losing my mind. That I imagined everything that happened that day!”

  Then he stopped, eyes narrowing. “But… why me? Back then, you said something. You called me ‘the one.’ What did you mean?”

  The monster’s expression turned wistful—almost disappointed. “You were to carry my glyph… to restore the Worldscript. To wield its power, unify the glyphs, and remake this broken realm. But now—” it gestured at him, “—you barely understand the gift you hold.”

  “I do,” Callen said, more firmly now. “The Worldscript is the divine language… the original code of reality. If the glyphs are brought together, it could be reborn. But if they remain apart, reality stays intact. That’s the balance. That’s the danger.”

  The monster smiled again, slow and knowing. “Then perhaps… you are starting to remember.”

  “Then… why did you take my eye?” Callen asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The monster tilted its head slowly, almost thoughtfully, before turning back to him. “We who hold the Lost Glyphs… are creatures of transaction,” it said, voice smooth but strange. “I took your eye—and in return, I gave you a fraction of my Origin Glyph.”

  Callen’s eye widened in disbelief. “I have Origin? Wait—does that mean I can create? Realities? Worlds? Entire dimensions?!”

  The monster exhaled through a long, drawn-out sigh. “Hush, child. I said a fraction.” Its voice dropped low, calm, but laced with something heavier—something sad. “And even that was a cost too steep. When I passed it on, it drained half my life. That is how I fell… to that swordsman. But you—” the monster’s tone turned cold, almost accusing, “—you’ve squandered it. You’ve barely awakened its potential. And worst of all… you know nothing of us.”

  Callen blinked. “Us?”

  The monster smiled. Not with joy—but with loneliness. “We don’t just fade. We wait. For centuries, for hosts, for meaning. And we grow… lonely.”

  Before Callen could respond, the monster blurred. In a flash, it hurled him across the field like a ragdoll. He slammed into the side of a pyramid with a sickening crack. Blood streaked the stone.

  The creature followed, bounding with unnatural, cartoonish speed—limbs too fluid, too loose—as if gravity barely remembered it. It leapt into the air, fist drawn back, ready to end him.

  Callen, broken and dazed, looked up. His body screamed in pain. The fist came down like a hammer.

  “Stop!” he cried, flinching, bracing for the end.

  But it never came.

  A shimmering violet light bloomed between them—a vast glyph, swirling and alive, hovering like a shield. The monster’s fist halted inches from Callen’s face, trembling against the invisible force.

  Callen’s eyes widened in awe. “It’s back…” he whispered. The glyph pulsed once, as if answering him.