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I stare. "That sounded dangerously like Nyra."

His expression darkens. "Leave." I laugh and step into the corridor. Behind me I hear him mutter something resembling "Fucking first-years."

That night I lie awake. Not because I'm afraid. Because every time I close my eyes I remember. Heat. Wind. Height. Two heartbeats. And something else. Something I couldn't describe to Professor Vayne. Something I couldn't even describe to myself. For one fraction of a second when my magic touched Rhyven's, it hadn't felt unfamiliar.

That is what frightens me. Not that our manifestations connected. Not that I felt Vyrael. Not even that Professor Vayne couldn't explain it. It's that somewhere inside me something recognized the connection before I did.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Nyra takes exactly twelve minutes to become unbearable. I know because I count. Not intentionally. But once she starts pacing, muttering dates under her breath and reorganizing three separate stacks of books for the fourth time, time becomes difficult to ignore. "417." She says again.

Cassian looks up from the armchair beside the window. "Yes."

"416."

"Yes."

"418."

"Yes."

Nyra points at him. "Stop agreeing with me."

Cassian blinks. "You were listing years."

"I know."

"You wanted a response."

"I wanted thought."

She closes her eyes. I hide a smile behind my mug. We have been inside one of the smaller study rooms off the eastern library for less than an hour. Already, Nyra has covered the central table with books, copied records and three different timelines. The Council may have sealed the Silent Archive. Unfortunately for them they did not seal Nyra. "We need official history first." She says.

Cassian gestures toward the enormous book open in front of him. "That's literally what I'm reading."

"You're reading trade routes." Nyra corrects him.

"They're part of history."

I return to my notes. 417. The number appears everywhere now that I know to look. Before the Silent War. Not immediately before. Not close enough for a professor to casually connect the two. But close enough to make the repetition uncomfortable.

I tap my quill against the parchment. The movement helps me think. Or usually does. Today, something else does. A strange pressure settles beneath my ribs. Not pain. Not even discomfort. More like restlessness. I shift in my chair. It remains. Sharp. Brief. Impatient. My eyes lift toward the door before I consciously decide to look. Nothing. The corridor beyond the small glass panel is empty. I frown. "Are you alright?" Nyra asks.

"Yes."

The pressure fades. Gone as quickly as it came. I look back at the page. Probably exhaustion. Probably nothing. Three seconds later, someone walks past the study room. Dark uniform. Rolled sleeves. A stack of patrol reports beneath one arm. Rhyven. He doesn't look inside. Doesn't slow. Just keeps walking.

My quill stops moving. No. Absolutely not. I stare at the door long after he disappears. Nyra notices. Of course she does. "What?" She asks.

"Nothing."

"You say that too often."

"I know." I look back at the page. The pressure is gone. Completely. Nyra drops into the chair opposite me. "Start again."

I blink. "With what?"

"Everything you know about 417."