The library had always been Aria's sanctuary. The one place in the Academy where silence didn't suffocate, but stretched, vast and endless, between the towering shelves.
The air smelled of old parchment, dust, ink, and the faintest wisp of smoke from the oil lamps hanging overhead, their glow soft and warm against the chill stone. Students moved like ghosts, voices barely above whispers, reverent in the presence of centuries of words.
Now, even this silence felt brittle. Sharp. Every creak of the wooden floorboards, every subtle rustle of parchment screamed at her ears.
Aria hunched over a table tucked into the farthest corner, her stack of tomes leaning precariously, spines cracked and frayed with age. The pages whispered faintly as she turned them. She kept her hood drawn, though it did little to hide the tension coiling in her shoulders. It was a shield against eyes she felt on her at all hours—real or imagined—and the thought of being watched made her skin crawl.
She had pulled texts from sections students rarely touched, digging through dustier corners: old wards, disused rituals, accounts of the Academy's architecture. She'd claimed it was a research project for history class, but the truth was far simpler.
She sought one thing, one name, one path: a way to the Lower Ward, unseen.
Her candle guttered low, the flame shivering in the draft from the tall windows. She dragged a finger across brittle parchment, tracing diagrams of stairwells, tunnels, and passages long abandoned. So far, she had found little beyond speculation. One archivist, centuries past, had written that the Lower Ward's halls were older than the Academy itself, foundations stacked upon foundations, layers of stone and secrecy. Every map ended abruptly, a blankness as though the remainder had been deliberately erased.
Hours hunched over the fragile pages left her vision blurred. A deep, insistent ache pulsed behind her eyes. She massaged her temples, tasting the metallic tang of frustration, and whispered aloud:
"There has to be a way."
The words from the slip of parchment under her door haunted her still: You are watched. Every breath reminded her of it. Every shadow seemed to twitch with unseen eyes. She pictured Cassian's gaze during meals, whispers swelling behind her as she passed, the faint echo of footsteps lingering unnaturally long as she walked the corridors at night.
Doing nothing was worse. Doing nothing meant leaving him buried alive in that silent abyss, alone with the shadow already consuming him.
Her hands curled into fists so tightly her knuckles ached.
"I will not," she whispered. The words scraped the edges of her throat. They startled her, breaking the reverent hush of the library. She had almost forgotten what it was to speak aloud without fear.
It was nearly midnight when she finally pushed aside the last tome. The candle had burned low, a stub of wax casting trembling, elongated shadows across the table. She gathered her cloak, feeling the worn fabric scratch against her skin, and rose.
The library felt unusually quiet now. Almost expectant.
And then she realized she was not alone.
At the edge of the lamplight, a man leaned against a shelf. His robes were plain brown, the simple garb of a scribe, but his eyes glimmered sharp in the dimness, like flint catching the light. His hair streaked with grey, shoulders slightly stooped, but there was a calm weight to him, a presence that seemed to belong to the library itself.
"You're looking in the wrong place," the man said, his voice low and dry, carrying the faintest trace of wry humor.
Aria froze. Her heart hammered in her chest, thudding against her ribs like a drum. "I—" she began, voice tight, trembling.
He raised a hand, slow, deliberate. A gesture of peace. "Calm yourself. I won't report you."
Her throat worked, but no words came. "Who… who are you?"
"A servant of words," he replied, sardonic, almost amused. "One who has seen too many locked away. You may call me Loran."
Aria studied him carefully. His lined face, the faint stoop of his shoulders, the grey-streaked hair… yet there was something about him, an unshakable calm, like he had outlasted centuries of secrets.
"What do you want?" she asked, wary.
"Not what I want," he said, stepping closer into the pool of candlelight. His voice dropped slightly, almost a whisper that brushed against her skin. "What do you want, child?"
Aria's breath caught. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her pulse like a second heartbeat. "To see him," she whispered.
Loran inclined his head, as if he had expected no other answer. "Then you must stop searching among their approved records. Anything they do not wish known has been cut away long ago."
Her pulse quickened. "You know a way?"
"Perhaps," he said, a faint curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But knowledge is perilous. It burns as easily as it illuminates. Do you understand what you risk?"
Aria met his gaze, her own unwavering. "I understand. Tell me."
He studied her for a long moment, eyes weighing her resolve, then leaned closer. His voice was barely audible now, a whisper like wind through a keyhole. "The old drains beneath the west wall. They were sealed when the new wards were laid. Students never go there. But stone… stone remembers paths long after men forget them."
Her eyes widened. Her pulse thundered in her ears. "How… how do you know this?"
"Because I read what they burned," he said simply. "And because I listened when the walls groaned."
He straightened and glanced briefly toward the entrance. "Be careful, Aria. Eyes sharper than mine are upon you. Trust no smile, not even from those you once called friends."
Before she could answer, he was gone, swallowed by the shadows between the shelves.
Aria remained frozen, lantern trembling in her hands. His words echoed in her mind, each syllable a fragile spark of hope. Old drains. The west wall. A path. Dangerous, forbidden, terrifying—but a path nonetheless.
The following days were a careful performance. Aria moved through lectures like a shadow, smiling just enough, nodding when necessary, answering questions with measured calm. Every interaction was a delicate balance: show engagement to avoid suspicion, but never enough to draw Cassian's gaze.
She memorized the rhythm of the Academy—the guards, the acolytes, the flicker of lanterns in hallways, timing the quietest hours when corridors thinned.
Her chamber became a war room. Scrolls spread across the desk, annotated with arrows, cryptic notes, trembling lines tracing paths. She rehearsed excuses, hiding spots, even how she would hold her breath if someone approached. Beneath it all pulsed a single thought: Erevan was down there, alone. Every moment he remained trapped added weight to my chest.
The night finally came.
The west wing was older, neglected, seldom touched by students. Plaster cracked, lamps dim, dust thick in corners untouched for years. Her heart hammered beneath her cloak as she crept through shadows, lantern pressed close to her chest. Each footstep was deliberate. Each creak of floorboards sent a shiver through her.
The drain was exactly as Loran had described: a rusted grate half-buried in stone, corroded by decades of neglect. She crouched, prying at it with trembling fingers. It gave way with a reluctant groan, a sound sharp in the oppressive quiet.
A rush of cold, damp air greeted her, carrying the scent of mildew and stagnant water. Her lantern flickered, throwing long, dancing shadows along the narrow tunnel beyond.
She paused. Silence. Not the library's reverent hush, but a heavy, pressing hush of stone untouched in decades.
Aria pressed herself against the edge of the drain and slid inside.
The passage was narrow, slick with moisture. Walls brushed her shoulders as she moved. Each step echoed faintly, a reminder that even silence could betray her.
The deeper she went, the colder it became. Her breath fogged in the dim light, mingling with the musty scent of the tunnel.
The passage forked, sloped upward. Shadows pooled like ink. And then she heard it—a low, steady hum, faint but unmistakable. Not water, but magic.
Her pulse quickened. She was close.
Suddenly, a scrape behind her froze her blood. Footsteps. Deliberate. Soft. Yet impossibly close.
Her lantern wavered in her grip as a voice drifted down the passage, smooth, deliberate, chilling in its familiarity:
"You shouldn't be here, Aria."
Cassian.
Her heart thudded so violently she thought he must hear it. She pressed herself against the wall, breath caught in her throat. The faint lantern glow illuminated his face just enough—calm, dangerous, impossibly aware.
Aria's breath came in shallow, measured pulls. Her lantern trembled slightly in her hand as she pressed herself against the cool stone wall. Cassian's voice lingered like a shadow in the tunnel.
"I'm… I'm just passing through," she whispered, keeping her voice low, careful.
Cassian's eyes narrowed. "Passing through. At midnight. In the west wing. Alone." His boots echoed in the tunnel, deliberate, each step a soft thunder. "I see."
Her stomach twisted. She had rehearsed this moment hundreds of times, imagined the words, the deflection, the excuses—but reality sharpened every fear, every hesitation.
"Why are you here?" she asked, steadying her voice. Her pulse pounded in her ears, a drumbeat she could not silence.
"Why are you here?" Cassian countered, stepping closer. The echo of his boots made the walls feel alive, as if listening. "Seems we both have reasons to wander where we should not."
Aria's mind raced. Every precaution, every lesson in stealth, suddenly felt insufficient. Retreat could alert him—alert others—that someone was meddling. That someone cared.
Cassian's gaze swept the tunnel, sharp, calculating, then returned to her. "You are brave… or foolish," he said softly, almost amused. "Which is it, Aria?"
Her throat burned, but she didn't flinch. "Neither. I am… necessary."
The word sounded hollow even to herself, but she held it. She could not retract it—not when Erevan waited below, trapped in silence that weighed heavier than any punishment.
Cassian studied her for a long moment, then tilted his head. His expression remained unreadable. "Careful, child. Darkness is patient… but it has sharp teeth. Not all who wander find their way back."
Aria swallowed, nodding. "I'll be careful."
He didn't move to block her. He merely stepped back, and in that single motion, the tension in the tunnel seemed to thicken, pressing against her like a living thing.
She pressed forward, heart hammering, lantern flickering. The walls of the passage were slick with moisture, close enough to graze her shoulders as she moved. Every sound amplified—the scrape of her boots, the faint drip of water somewhere unseen, her own ragged breaths.
The air smelled of earth, old stone, and a hint of metallic tang that made her stomach twist. Each step carried her further from the safety of the Academy above and closer to the Lower Ward—and to Erevan.
A shiver ran down her spine, not from cold, but from the knowledge that she had crossed a threshold.
Each careful footfall reminded her that there was no turning back. The candle she had lit in the dark had to guide her fully now. She was committed.
The passage forked, then sloped downward, narrowing with every step. The hum of magic grew stronger, vibrating faintly against her bones. She pressed her hand to the wall, feeling the faint thrum beneath her fingers, as if the stone itself remembered the power that had once surged here.
Every breath she took was visible in the chill air, fogging in front of her face. Her heart raced, her lantern shaking, but she could not stop.
Something in the air warned her—a flicker, a presence. Not quite seen, not yet audible, but felt.
And then, another sound: deliberate, careful. Footsteps—soft, measured. Too close.
Aria froze, lungs catching.
"You shouldn't be here, Aria," the voice came again, calm, familiar, almost mocking.
Cassian.
Her pulse spiked, heart threatening to leap from her chest. She pressed herself against the wall, lantern held tight. The faint glow illuminated enough of his face to see the sharp lines, the dangerous calm, the awareness that seemed to pierce straight into her chest.
She forced herself to speak, keeping her tone low, measured. "I'm… passing through."
"Passing through at midnight, alone in the west wing," he said, voice low, echoing softly in the tight stone tunnel. "I see."
Her stomach twisted again, and her mind raced through every possible excuse she had practiced. None of them felt adequate.
"Why are you here?" she finally asked, steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Cassian stepped closer, boots echoing. "Why are you here? Seems we both have reasons to wander where we should not."
Her thoughts spun, weighing escape against discovery. Retreating could alert him—or worse, others—that someone was meddling. That someone cared.
"You are brave… or foolish," he said finally, voice low, almost amused. "Which is it, Aria?"
She swallowed hard, voice unwavering. "Neither. I am… necessary."
The word resonated in the tunnel, heavy and certain. She would not retract it. She could not. Erevan waited below, alone, and every moment she hesitated added weight to her chest.
Cassian's eyes lingered on her, sharp and unreadable, before he stepped aside, giving her space. The tension seemed to thicken, pressing against her, urging her forward.
Aria advanced, each step deliberate. The walls of the tunnel closed in around her, slick with moisture. The hum beneath her fingers grew stronger, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The scent of earth and metal mixed with the chill, biting at her skin.
She pressed deeper, aware with every nerve, knowing each footfall could expose her—but also knowing it brought her closer to Erevan.
A shiver ran down her spine as the realization settled in: there was no turning back. She had lit a candle in the dark, and she would follow its glow, through shadows, through danger, to the Lower Ward.
Her resolve hardened. There was no other choice.