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"Don't make it a habit."

I stare at him. "Was that concern?" I grin despite myself.

"No." He answers far too quickly. "It was practical." For the first time the corner of his mouth actually lifts. Barely. Just enough that I almost wonder if I imagined it. Then he turns. Without another word, he walks toward the western path, disappearing into the steady movement of students crossing the Academy. I watch him until the crowd swallows him completely. This morning, I walked into History carrying the weight of secrets I didn't know how to bear. Tonight, I'll walk into the oldest archive beneath Varethia looking for answers that may have been buried for centuries. Somewhere between those two moments, the Academy stopped feeling like a place that teaches history and started feeling like a place that's about to make it.

Chapter Eighteen

At twenty-forty-three, Rhyven is already waiting. Of course he is. He stands beside the western tower with one shoulder against the stone, nearly invisible beneath the shadow of an overhanging arch. No lantern burns above the service entrance. No plaque marks the narrow wooden door set into the wall behind him. I would have walked past it. That is probably the point. His gaze moves over me as I approach.

"You're early." He says.

"So are you."

"I'm always early."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It prevents other people from wasting my time."

I stop in front of him. "I ate."

His eyebrow lifts. "I didn't ask."

"You were going to."

"No."

I tilt my head. "You told me twice."

His expression doesn't buldge. "Because you forget." "I don't forget meals."

"You ignore them."

There is no accusation in his voice. Only an observation I cannot dispute without lying. I decide not to give him the satisfaction.

"Are we entering the archive or discussing my eating habits all night?"

Rhyven pushes himself away from the wall. "The archive."

He removes the black key from inside his coat. The runes carved along its shaft remain dark beneath the moonlight. It does not hum. It does not warm in his hand. It simply looks old. Older than the door. Perhaps older than the tower surrounding it. Rhyven inserts it into the lock. One turn. A quiet click. Nothing dramatic happens. No wards flare. No hidden symbols appear. The door opens inward. Cold air moves across my face. Beyond it, a narrow passage descends into darkness.

Rhyven looks at me. "Still want answers?"

"No." A pause. "I want fewer questions."

"That isn't how archives work."

"I was afraid of that."

He steps inside. I follow. The door closes behind us. The moment I look forward I understand why they call them the Silent Archives. The Academy disappears gradually as we descend the metal curved staircase. At first, I can still hear faint footsteps through the stone. A door closing. The distant call of a dragon beyond the tower. Then the sounds fade. Not suddenly. Naturally. It isn't quiet in the ordinary sense. The Academy is quiet at night. The corridors outside the dormitories are quieter after curfew. The training grounds are quiet in those few minutes before dawn when even the dragons haven't begun stirring beyond the eastern cliffs. This is something else. The silence here feels preserved.

Rhyven glances back. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You changed your breathing."

I resist the urge to ask whether he counts that too. "The silence reminded me of the Trial."