By the time they reached the crooked lane, the air had shifted. The bookshop windows were fogged from within; the scent of old parchment drifted through the half-open door. Titles climbed the walls in glorious disarray—Cassandra's favorite refuge.
The bell chimed as she crossed the threshold. She glanced back at Leoleta with a raised brow. "You can wait outside if you like."
He looked distracted. "You'll be safer if I'm inside," he replied, though his eyes kept straying toward the window.
"With a room full of dusty books?"
"Some of them have sharp edges."
She chuckled and slipped into the aisles. The smell of aged parchment and incense eased the tension in her shoulders.. For a moment she nearly forgot she wasn't bound by her name.
The shopkeeper, ink-stained and stooped, nodded. "Back again, Lady Delmar. Looking for something in particular?" His gaze flicked to Leoleta, curious. "And your companion braves the stacks today."
"He insists on following me everywhere." She turned, expecting a retort, but he only stood at the glass, jaw set.
"Good," the man murmured, eyes on his ledger. "Since Duke Delmar's passing, the streets have grown hungrier by the day."
Cassandra trailed fingers along cracked leather spines. Dust motes rose and fell like slow stars.
A worn volume slid into her hands. She tucked herself into a cushioned bench between two shelves. At the aisle's end, Leoleta stood with arms folded, scanning the room. The silence stretched until she realized she was watching him instead of reading. In this light, his features seemed unguarded, and her curiosity stirred—who was he, beyond the duty, beyond the silence?
"Leo," she said, tilting her head. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can try."
"I heard whispers–-the other men on the watch call you a warlock. I've heard of sorcerers, and mages before. Is a warlock just another term?"
He said nothing.
"You can often sense things, just as they are about to happen. Tell me—can a man be trained to do that? Or is it magic?"
A shelf groaned under the weight of her question.
"It's not like you to listen to gossip Lady Cassandra," he said.
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."
His gaze slid back to hers, steady, a trace of dry humor flickering at the corner of his mouth. "It wasn't meant to be."
He drew a slow breath and stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Magic in the Empire is tightly regulated. Especially for knights trained in the arcane."
"That is not a denial."
A corner of his mouth twitched; frustration lined his brow. "Would it change something if I said yes?"
She hugged the book to her chest, but the air shifted—thick, heavy, pressing on her skin like unseen hands. For one breathless instant she could not move. She began to feel anxious. Cassandra attempted to distract herself.
"You're doing it again," she said.
"Doing what?"
"Sounding mysterious on purpose."
"Perhaps it's part of my charm."
"Oh, is that what you call it?"
His eyes glinted. "Of course."
She tried another angle. "If magic is so tightly regulated, who actually uses it? And for what? I've seen glimpses through my father's work but–"
A noise startled her—a child dropped a stack of picture books nearby. She flinched harder than she should have, the heaviness still crawling her skin; as if the ocean were lapping against her, trying to drag her down again. At the aisle's end, Leoleta stood with arms folded, the picture of composure—though his eyes moved too often toward the glass.
"Those titles you mentioned have everything—and nothing—to do with the arcane," he said, shifting his weight as his gaze swept the room. "Magic is dangerous. Powerful. Only a rare few can wield it, which is why the Empire's higher ranks treat it with such caution."
"Only a few?" Cassandra hoped her voice didn't waver. The pulsing sensation in her chest coiled tighter, invasive and unrelenting.
"Despite the nobles' and scholars' best efforts, in the end you either have the gift for magic—or you don't."
His voice took on a familiar cadence—steady, deliberate, almost weary, as if the words had long since lost their meaning to him.
"The Empire's always hunting for magic users," he said. "They call it cultivation—training, service, loyalty. But in simpler terms, it's control. They don't like the unknown, and nothing's more dangerous to them than power they don't own."
Leoleta's eyes drifted to his gloved hand, his expression darkening. "Magic in the Emperor's grasp is strength. Magic left free…" His voice lowered. "That's a blade no one sees until it's already at your throat."
His gaze snapped toward the front door as the bells above it jingled—another patron leaving, a purchase in hand.
Cassandra seized the moment to drop her eyes to the floor, trying to breathe through the tightness gathering in her chest. But the feeling only shifted, coiling and squirming, as if reacting to her effort to suppress it.
Before her eyes, one of the faint motes of dust hanging in the air began to spin faster—though there was no breeze to stir it. It twisted in defiance, as if mocking her restraint.
"To answer your question," Leoleta said, glancing her way, "wizard, mage, sorcerer, warlock—they're distinctions the Empire made to keep order—titles the Empire uses to make sense of what it barely understands."
"I don't understand," Cassandra muttered, " Don't they all do the same thing?"
Leoleta exhaled through his nose. "Wizards study the arcane. Mages heal with it. Sorcerers are born to it, though they rarely control it. And warlocks…" He hesitated, his gaze shifting as though weighing how much to say. "Warlocks turn it toward conflict. Because sometimes the only way to protect against magic is to meet it with the same."
He let the last word hang between them. His voice dropped, almost too soft to catch. "Someone has to."
Cassandra felt his gaze caught her and held—an instant longer than it should have. Fear snapped through her chest. Did he know? Or was she only imagining it, seeing accusation where there was none.
She went still, like a rabbit caught in a hunter's sights, every muscle straining against the instinct to flee. She forced her fingers to stay wrapped around the book, willing the tremor in her hands to still and her expression to remain calm.
Leoleta spoke of the Imperial Academy, his words folding into one another—guilds, courts, armies, hierarchies that meant little to her now. The rest drifted past like a river's murmur, carrying her somewhere distant. Beneath the rhythm of his voice, another sound lingered—a quiet pulse, a presence thick as fog, seeping through the shelves as though the room itself were listening.
Her hand stilled on the page. Cassandra realized she had been staring at him, not listening, her breath caught in rhythm with the strange heaviness that refused to lift.
Leoleta's voice broke through her thoughts. "The Academy is… coveted. Watched by all, envied by more. Even those without an affinity for magic claw for a place inside its walls. There are paths for them too—majors in diplomacy, law, commerce, history, strategy. The ungifted earn influence by proximity, their futures gilded by the Academy's name. Many of the Empire's generals, advisors, and chancellors have never cast a spell in their lives—but they were trained there, and that is power enough."
Cassandra's palms felt clammy, she glanced up to find Leoleta watching her, a sternness tightening his expression.
"Have you been listening?"
"You've spoken more in five minutes compared to the entirety I have known you," she said, her attempt at lightness thinner than she intended.
He looked toward the clerk. "Is that right?"
She pressed her lips together and turned away.
"If you want more answers," he said evenly, "the Lord Delmars can assist you."
"I think I am finished here, Sir Leoleta. Please purchase these." Her knees wavered when she rose, as though she'd been carrying weight for ages. She handed him a small stack of books about magic.
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
"Our conversation has sparked my curiosity. You are an excellent teacher."
Their conversation lingered in her thoughts as she scanned the shelves. Curiosity tugged at her—about the provinces, their borders, the lands beyond Siuol, even Vaelstra.
Outside, the crooked lane had grown louder.
Merchants' calls braided with coin-jingles and children's laughter. Beneath it ran another note—sharp, unseen—a tension strung too tight. Cassandra tried to steady herself with her satchel, but the heaviness from the shop clung to her like damp air, pressing against her chest.
A cart rattled past too fast. Startled, she stumbled; Leoleta's hand caught her waist—steady, brief. Too brief. For the space of a heartbeat the noise of the lane faded, and all she felt was the steadiness anchoring her.
"Careful," he murmured.
Her breath hitched, though whether from the stumble or his touch, she couldn't tell.
Across the lane, a man in a tattered cloak stood by a fruit stall. Something about him unsettled her, he wasn't shopping, he did not move. His stillness was wrong—predatory, fixed. Cassandra's stomach dropped. He was a wolf testing the flock.
Leoleta followed her line of sight. The air around him tightened, every line of his body drawn taut like a bowstring.
When the man realized he'd been seen, he dipped his head and turned—not hurried, deliberate—and dissolved into the crowd.
Leoleta whistled, the guards stationed nearby took off in pursuit. For a moment she thought he would follow. Her chest clenched.
But he stayed, posture rigid, hand grazing the hilt at his side.
"Friend of yours?" Cassandra asked, her voice shaking.
"No." he ushered her forward "Keep walking," he said quietly.
She obeyed, each step heavier. Every sound made by someone passing by made her skin crawl. Even the clink of coins struck like a threat. For a moment, she dared to believe the danger had passed—then the world shattered.
Steel rang—an ugly thud against another blade.
Screams tore the air as the crowd split apart, baskets overturning, fruit scattering across the cobblestones. Cassandra opened her eyes, trembling to see a blade above her head.
Leoleta shoved her behind him. A man lunged from the throng, his face wild, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He swung a jagged sword, spittle flying as he shouted in broken, guttural mutters.
Cassandra barely saw the flash of steel before it struck. The sound was louder than the market itself—clang, kick, crash. Leoleta parried once, twice, then drove a boot into the man's chest. Wood splintered as the attacker slammed into a stall, the blade spinning across the stones.
"Hold him!" Leoleta barked.
The Delmar guards surged forward, wrestling the man down. He writhed and cursed in a language Cassandra didn't know—half-choked, fevered, almost ritualistic. His voice rose and fell like a chant, not words but something darker. Foam clung to his lips.
Cassandra pressed her hand to her mouth, her pulse roaring in her ears. It had been only seconds—she hadn't even seen him coming—but she felt the intent as if a blade had already kissed her throat.
Leoleta stood between her and the chaos, sword still drawn, his entire frame coiled like he hadn't finished fighting. Only when the man was bound did he lower his sword, though he did not sheathe it.
"Keep walking," he said again, steady amongst the chaos around her..
She moved, but her legs shook beneath her skirts. The city that had always felt like escape now pressed too close—walls of shadow and sharp edges. The leash tightened, invisible but inescapable.
As they approached the carriage, he opened the door and spoke low.
"When we return, I'll inform Lord Delmar. We'll set watches on the markets and your usual routes. Until then—limit your outings."
"You mean stop going out." Her hands trembled.
"Until I can ensure your safety."
It should have sounded protective, but she was filled with dread instead. The same heaviness she had felt in the bookshop pressed close now—the shadow was not just the city's.
It was now every man on the street that passed her by..
That night, Cassandra lay awake beneath the canopy, listening to floorboards creak and the distant sounds from the city below the cliff. Every sound felt like a footstep drawing close. She remembered the man's stare, wild, full of hate. How Leoleta pulled her back with ease, using himself to shield her.
When she finally closed her eyes, she felt as if the shadows were not the only thing that waited in the dark.