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I look back once. The ward remains lit.

Chapter Twelve

The library becomes a different place after midnight. During the day, it belongs to the Academy. Students crowd its tables, books move constantly between floors, and librarians spend most of their time pretending not to hear arguments whispered three times louder than necessary.

At night, it belongs to the building itself. Most of the reading lanterns have dimmed. Golden light pools across only a handful of occupied tables, leaving the bridges and upper shelves suspended in shadow.

The great white tree at the center glows faintly from within its trunk, its branches reaching toward the vaulted ceiling like pale bones.

Every sound travels farther. A turning page. A pen set against wood. The quiet footsteps of a librarian who appears whenever someone considers breaking a rule. There are perhaps twelve students left. None speak. Most look as though they have forgotten what sleep is.

I fit in remarkably well. Three books lie open in front of me. A fourth rests across my knees. Six more are stacked beside my chair, though only two have contained anything useful. The others have taught me that Varethian historians are exceptionally skilled at using hundreds of words to explain that they do not know something.

I drag one finger beneath a sentence for the fourth time. Protective wards fail most commonly through erosion, impact, conflicting magic or flaws within their original construction. I turn the page. A diagram shows six common ward fractures. The marker we inspected had none. Orin would have seen them. Mara checked the magic. Rhyven stopped too. That is the detail I cannot dismiss. But Rhyven had been watching the same ward before I said anything. Something caught his attention. I close the book harder than necessary. A nearby student looks up. I smile apologetically. She returns to her notes.

The book balanced on my knees concerns the Age of Silence. It is useless. Beautifully bound. Painfully useless. Half the chapter describes disputes over whether the Age of Silence lasted ninety years or three centuries. The other half argues that the term itself was invented long after the Hollowborn disappeared.

I search the index again. Hollowborn — see Age of Silence. Age of Silence — see Post-Division Historical Disputes. Post-Division Historical Disputes — Volumes IV through IX. A perfect circle of academic cruelty. I close that book too.

The lantern above me flickers. For one heartbeat, the light disappears. My body stills. Then it returns. The lantern is old. Everything here is old. I open the smallest book in the stack. Maintenance Practices in Pre-Council Defensive Architecture. A title designed to discourage curiosity. Perhaps that is why it remained on the shelf. The text is dense, written by someone who believed a sentence should never end while another clause remained available. Still, it contains diagrams of early ward networks. Unlike modern wards, which often operate as individual barriers, the oldest systems were built in chains. One marker fed the next. Damage to a single stone could weaken the entire line. I copy the structure into my notes. Then stop. A phrase appears in the margin beside one diagram. Not printed. Handwritten. Faded brown ink, nearly lost against the yellowed page. The silent failures were different. I stare. The handwriting belongs to neither the author nor any modern librarian. The line beneath has been scratched out so violently the parchment is nearly torn. I angle the page beneath the lantern. A few letters remain. —answering before the first disappearances— My pulse quickens. I reach for my pen.

A book lands on the table in front of me. I nearly put the pen through its cover. Rhyven pulls out the chair opposite mine and sits. No greeting. No explanation. Just Rhyven Corvell appearing from the shadows as though the library produced him out of irritation.

I press one hand against my chest. "Do you practice moving without sound?" I ask.

"No."

"That was deeply unpleasant."

He pushes the book closer. "You're researching the wrong century."

I look down. The cover is dark blue, cracked along the spine. No title. No author. Only an embossed symbol resembling a broken circle. "Good evening to you too."

"It's morning."

I glance toward the nearest clock. Twelve minutes past midnight. "Then you're unpleasant remarkably early."

"I'm consistent." He leans back.

His dark shirt is open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms. No officer's uniform. No pale blue Wing band. Only the thin black markings disappearing beneath the cuffs and the exhausted expression of someone who has been working since dawn.

His gaze moves over the books surrounding me. "Subtle."

"I wasn't aware research required secrecy."

He nods towards the books. "It does when half your books mention extinct magical threats."

I glance around. No one appears interested in us. That does not mean no one is listening. I lower my voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Reading."

"You brought me a book."

"Still reading." Amusement flashes through his face for half a second.

"Across the table from me."

"It was available."