The east wing of the library was off-limits after sunset.
Which, of course, meant that Sylas was there five minutes past curfew.
Crouched between towering shelves of dusty grimoires, he held his breath as soft footsteps approached. A flicker of golden candlelight bobbed closer, and with it, the soft clack of heeled boots. Not just any boots. Custom-made. Expensive. Judging by the rhythm, the owner wasn't in a hurry.
Sylas didn't need a name. He already knew who it was.
Lady Calista Vaelthorn.
Top of her class. Heiress to the Vaelthorn noble house. Owner of a spine made of ice and a personality that could curdle milk.
Her reputation wasn't built on gossip—it was carved in stone. And unfortunately for Sylas, she was now ten paces away, holding a lantern and wearing an expression that said: I tolerate insects better than I tolerate you.
"Vermund," she said, her voice like silk over steel. "Of all the wretched places to find you, the restricted section after hours wasn't my first guess."
Sylas slowly stood up, hands raised. "To be fair, I was hoping to find no one.
She took a step closer. "What are you doing here?"
He considered his options. Lying probably wouldn't work. So, naturally, he chose it anyway.
"I heard there was a book on restorative potions that... hiccup when shaken. I thought it might help a classmate. Very noble of me, I know."
Her gaze narrowed. "You're not here for potions."
"Would you believe me if I said charity work?"
"I'd believe you were dropped on the head as a child."
"Close. Dropped into a plot I didn't write."
Calista blinked. "What?"
Sylas cleared his throat. "Never mind. Look, if you're going to report me, let's get it over with. I'm late for my nightly session of regretting my life choices."
She tilted her head. "Report you? I'm not a snitch, Vermund. I'm just curious why the Academy's resident cockroach is suddenly poking around forbidden archives."
Sylas smiled thinly. "Because cockroaches survive. That's kind of our thing."
Something shifted in her eyes. Not sympathy. Something worse—interest.
"Well," she said, brushing a lock of platinum hair behind her ear, "I suppose if you're already here, you might as well be useful."
"…Useful how?"
She pulled a scroll from her sleeve and handed it to him. "Translate this."
He frowned. "This is in Old Imperial. I barely passed regular Imperial."
"Then consider it a pop quiz."
He squinted at the parchment. The script looked familiar. A few words clicked. Mirror. Fracture. False king.
Weird.
"You're not supposed to have this," he muttered.
"Neither are you. Let's not get self-righteous."
He sighed. "Fine. But if a curse comes crawling out of this thing, I'm naming it after you."
"Don't be dramatic. Cursed scrolls are usually warmer to the touch."
She said it with such nonchalance that Sylas had to blink.
"Is that… personal experience talking?"
Calista just smiled.
They worked in uneasy silence for a while—her flipping through tomes, him struggling with the scroll. She didn't offer help. He didn't ask. It was the most functional partnership he'd had since arriving.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of him.
"Why are you here?"
Calista didn't look up. "Because I don't trust the official curriculum."
"Join the club. We have t-shirts and trauma."
She actually huffed. Not quite a laugh, but close. A dangerous achievement.
"You've changed," she said quietly. "You used to be more… pathetic."
"That's my charm now," Sylas replied. "Low expectations mean high surprise."
She regarded him for a moment too long. "If I find out you're planning something, Vermund—"
"Please. Planning requires energy. I'm just trying not to die before finals."
She rolled her eyes and reached for her bag. "I'm done here. Don't follow me."
"Trust me," Sylas muttered, "I wouldn't survive it."
The moment she left, he let out a breath and slumped against the wall. His fingers trembled slightly as he reread the scroll.
Something about this didn't add up. Why was someone like Calista interested in relics from the fractured kingdoms? Why test him?
And more importantly… why did her expression shift—just briefly—when he translated the phrase False King?
The scroll pulsed faintly.
Sylas blinked.
"…The hell?
The parchment now bore a new line of text.
One that hadn't been there before.
"The fool walks the knife's edge, but still smiles."
The message vanished a moment later.
Sylas slowly put the scroll down.
"Oh no," he whispered. "Not this nonsense again."
From the shadows above, a faint glimmer watched him.
Eyes that didn't blink.
A whisper
slipped into the air, unheard by anyone else.
"You weren't supposed to translate that."