The Prophecy of the Pen

Autumn had always been Maya's favorite season at the Academy. The gothic stone archways looked especially majestic framed by the fiery orange and red canopy of maple trees, and the crisp air was the perfect excuse to wear her favorite piece of clothing: a faded denim jacket, affectionately ruined by the colorful splatters of her frantic late-night painting sessions.But today, Maya wasn't painting. She was investigating a mystery.In her hands she held an ornate, golden fountain pen. She had found it tucked inside a dusty, forgotten sketchbook in the basement archives of the art library. The moment her fingers had brushed its cold metal casing, a strange, warm hum had vibrated up her arm.