Sylas didn't sleep.
He tried.
He lay in bed, staring at the high ceiling of his dorm room, watching candlelight flicker across the cracks in the plaster. But the scroll's final words looped through his brain like a cursed lullaby.
"You weren't supposed to translate that."
Which was deeply unfair. He barely translated it. Mostly guessed, really. If cryptic horror messages were going to manifest for every half-assed effort he made, he'd be dead by lunch.
Still, sleep wasn't happening. So he sat up, dragged on his coat, and muttered, "Fine. Let's go flirt with death again."
The Academy at night was a different creature.
By day it bustled—students, staff, and academic anxiety bouncing off its ancient stones. But by night, it breathed slowly. Quietly. Like something that might wake up if you weren't careful.
Sylas walked briskly.
He didn't head for the library this time. Instead, he made for the Observatorium, a dome-shaped building tucked behind the west tower. It had been sealed since last semester, supposedly due to "stellar interference," which sounded like the magical equivalent of we don't want to deal with this right now.
He picked the lock. (Badly. It took seven minutes and a chipped fingernail.)
Inside, the Observatorium was silent, save for the gentle creak of the massive orrery overhead—an enchanted model of the solar system, still rotating on phantom gears.
Sylas moved past it and approached the arcane projection wall. When he tapped the glass, the scroll's final phrase shimmered back into existence:
"The fool walks the knife's edge, but still smiles."
"That's me," he said aloud. "Resident idiot, walking disaster, part-time punchline."
The wall pulsed.
New words appeared, this time in a sharp, ink-black script:
"One king died. Another pretends. The third remembers."
Sylas squinted. "Oh no. It's one of those prophecies."
The kind that sounded poetic until you were bleeding on the floor next to a collapsing tower.
A creak behind him.
He spun, heart racing.
"Should've known you'd try something stupid again," said a voice. Smooth. Female.
Calista.
She stepped out of the shadows, her arms folded, a silvery glow clinging to her gloves.
"I followed you from the dorm," she said, calm as tea. "Took you long enough to notice."
"I'm not used to being stalked by homicidal nobles."
"Then you should broaden your social circle."
Sylas groaned. "What do you want?"
"Answers. Starting with that scroll." She stepped closer, eyeing the projection wall. "It reacted to you. That means you're connected."
"To what? Random cryptic word puzzles?"
"To something deeper," she replied, gaze sharp. "I think the scroll is a trigger. A test. And you just passed the first level."
"Great. So now I win a demon or an ancient curse?"
"No," she said slowly. "You win my attention. And trust me, that's worse."
Sylas muttered a curse under his breath.
"Why are you even here?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be plottingto become Head Student or conquering a small country?"
Calista's expression shifted. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
She stared at him for a long beat. Then, quietly:
"My family... they weren't always on the side of the throne."
Sylas blinked.
"Wait. Are you saying your family was—?"
"Traitors? Revolutionaries? Depends on who writes the history books."
A chill spread in his chest.
Calista continued, voice low. "That scroll—'False King'—it means something to me. I think my ancestors tried to replace the original bloodline. And whatever truth they were chasing… it got buried."
Sylas absorbed that. Then deadpanned, "Well. I feel better. Nothing says safe and casual research like royal treason."She smirked. "Glad we're bonding."
Suddenly, the air shifted.
A pulse rippled across the Observatorium—silent, heavy, like pressure dropping before a storm.
Then the projection wall cracked.
Not shattered. Just a single, vertical line, glowing faint gold.
Both of them stared at it.
"…Was that you?" Sylas asked.
"No," Calista whispered. "Was it you?"
"God, I hope not."
The crack widened.
A whisper filled the room, like wind through stone.
"Come find me."
Sylas looked at Calista.
"Let me guess. You still think this is about academics?"
Her face was pale. For once, she looked unsure.
"No," she said. "Now I think it's about survival."