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He stops. The lantern throws his shadow against the curved wall. "Is it the same?"

I listen. My own pulse. His breathing. Leather shifting when he moves. The flame making a faint, uneven sound inside the glass. "No." I let out the breath I had not realized I was holding. "This is only quiet." Rhyven studies my face for another second. Then continues downward. Only quiet. I repeat the words silently as I follow. The ramp ends before an iron gate. The broken-circle symbol is set into its center. Not carved. Forged into the metal itself. Rhyven removes the key again. This lock is more complicated than the first. He places the key inside but does not turn it immediately. A narrow line of light appears along the runes. Blue. Then white. The gate recognizes him. Or the access Professor Neris scheduled for him. Rhyven turns the key. The locks release one after another inside the wall. Six distinct movements. Six protections. The gate opens. I step through.

My boots touch black marble, and even that small sound seems wrong enough that I instinctively shorten my step. The Archives stretch farther than I expected. Much farther. Shelves rise along both sides of the chamber until they disappear into the vaulted ceiling, packed so tightly between books, scrolls, boxes and things I can't name that I have no idea how anyone finds anything in here.

Some of the shelves have ladders resting against them. Others climb so high I suspect the ladders would be useless anyway. There are balconies above us. Then another level above those. And another. I tilt my head back. Dark stones arches cross overhead, carved with details too highfor me to make out. Narrow windows occupy nearly the entire left wall, their glass pale beneath the night beyond them. Moonlight slips through in long silver shafts, catching dust that drifts lazily through the air. It should make the room feel safer. It doesn't.

Candles burn everywhere. Hundreds of them. Along the shelves. Accros the tables. Inside iron sconces foxed to pillars. Their flames are small and steady, casting pools of amber accross open books and stacks of parchment before surrendering everything else to shadow. None of them flicker when we walk past. I notice that immediatly. I glance at Rhyven. He doesn't. Or he does, and this is simply another thing he has decided isn't worth reacting to. Very possible. In the center of the chamber stands a massive metal sphere suspended within several interlocking rings, its surface engraved with markings I can't read from here. It reminds me vaguely of the celestial instruments in Professor Vayne's classroom, except this one is older. Larger. And knowing this Academy, probably capable of killing someone.

I slow as we pass it. "What is that?"

Rhyven keeps walking. "No idea."

I stare at the back of his head. "You've been here before."

"Yes."

"And you don't know?"

"No."

I wait. Nothing. I follow him deeper into the room. Long wooden tables occupy the space between the shelves, most of them buried beneath books that looks as though someone abandoned them halfway through a thought. Loose parchment curls at the edges. Ink bottles sit beside extinguished quills. Maps have been left unfolded beneath brass instruments and stones used as weights. But there are no people. Not one. That bothers me more than it should. I expected scholars. Professors. Some ancient librarian glaring at us over the rim of spectacles and demanding to know why two students are wandering around somewhere we clearly shouldn't be. Instead, there is only us. Rhyven's footsteps. Mine. And the faint sound of paper shifting somewhere far above us. I stop. Rhyven takes another two steps before noticing. He looks back. "What?"

I listen. Nothing. "You didn't hear that?"

His eyes move briefly toward the balconies overhead. "Books move."

"Books don't move." I reply.

"They do here." I stare at him. He turns away. I hate this place. I follow him anyway.

The farther we walk, the older everything becomes. The polished shelves near the entrance give way to darker wood, their edges worn smooth by hands that haven't touched them in centuries. Books become less uniform. Some are bound in cracked leather. Others have no titles at all. Scrolls fill narrow compartments carved directly into the stone. Symbols begin appearing on the floor beneath our feet. At first, I think they're decorative. Then I recognize the structure of a ward. I stop again. Thin silver lines have been worked directly into the black marble, forming enormous circles beneath the tables and shelves. They overlap one another in patterns so intricate I can't follow where one begins and another ends.

"Rhyven."

"I see them."

"What are they for?"

He looks down this time. His expression changes. Barely. "Don't know."

I narrow my eyes. "You're incredibly useful tonight."

"You're the one who wanted answers."

"And you're the one who brought me into a library where apparently the books move by themselves and the floor is covered in wards you don't understand."

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Asshole. We continue.

The air changes somewhere beyond the second staircase. Its colder here. Not dramatically. Just enough that I become aware of the skin along my arms. The smell changes too. Old paper. Leather. Wax. Dust. And something underneath it all I recognize immediatly. Magic. Not the clean pulse running through the Academy wards. Something older. Dormant. I slow. Rhyven does too. He doesn't ask why this time. He simply adjusts. His pace. His position. Himself. Without a word, he moves slightly closer to me as we continue between the shelves. Ahead, one of the spiral staircases disappearing between shelves packed with books. Another descends behind it toward a lower level I hadn't realized existed. I stare down into it. There are candles below. Tiny points of gold.

"How big is this place?"

Rhyven glances down. "Nobody knows."

I look at him. He keeps his face perfectly straight. "That's not funny."

"Wasn't a joke." That is significantly worse.