Ryneth sat tensely at the corner table, hands folded, eyes flicking briefly to the window outside. The restaurant's muted bustle seemed distant, almost irrelevant. His mind, however, was alert, anticipating the weight of whatever Arven had summoned him here to hear.
Arven leaned forward slightly, his calm expression contrasting sharply with the gravity of his words. "Calder… there's something you should know."
Ryneth braced himself, a quiet tightening in his chest.
"Leslie Rhyne is dead," Arven said, his voice low but unwavering.
The name hit Ryneth like a physical blow. He blinked, trying to process it. Dead? Leslie? He remembered her precision, her diligence, her golden hair that seemed to glow faintly even under the dim light of her office. And now… she was gone.
Arven continued, his tone measured, each word deliberate. "She was found in the Confinement Zone last night. The young night guard who had been assigned there… he's dead as well. His body… twisted beyond recognition. Eyes gouged out, limbs bent in ways that defy understanding. Blood everywhere. And beside him, Leslie… she had… ripped her own heart from her chest."
Ryneth's stomach churned. Every instinct screamed at him, but he kept his hands steady. So that's what really happened… and I never saw it coming. His pulse raced, chest tightening as he absorbed each detail.
"The Directorate has closed the case," Arven added. "No one outside this room is to know. You will resign from your post at the Arcanum today. Your position, your allegiance — it is now with the Directorate."
Ryneth forced a calm nod. Resign… abandon the Arcanum… leave behind everything I've known? The thought pressed against him, but he kept his voice neutral, betraying none of the storm inside.
"Yes, sir," he said, steady, controlled. But inside, his mind whirred. They've sealed off every path, kept me in the dark until this moment. They think I'll comply blindly. But I am not so easily bound.
Morwen's eyes flicked toward him briefly, subtle but calculating. Callen leaned against the wall, foot propped casually, observing. Arven's gaze remained locked on Ryneth, calm yet suffocating, as if weighing every microsecond of his reaction.
Ryneth took a slow breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders. I've survived horrors within my own mind. I will survive whatever the world throws at me next. Control… I will not lose that, no matter what.
The streets of Ovrun were already bustling as Ryneth walked toward the Arcanum. Morning light filtered between the closely packed buildings, brushing over the uneven cobblestones and casting long, sharp shadows. Vendors shouted from the corners, children darted between legs, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with the dust of the streets. Ryneth kept his pace steady, satchel slung over his shoulder, the parchments inside pressing lightly against his side. Each step felt deliberate, measured; even the faint breeze seemed to whisper against his thoughts, and for a brief moment, he imagined he could predict its path.
As he passed familiar stalls, he noted the way people moved—a hawker shouting, a child tripping over a stone—and instinctively, he felt the sequence of their motions a moment before they happened. Not always, not perfectly, but enough to keep his mind occupied and focused, a faint, persistent hum beneath his awareness.
Near the Arcanum's heavy doors, he noticed a familiar figure. Herlan, the copyist he had seen days before, was busy adjusting a stack of papers, green eyes darting nervously up as Ryneth approached. There was no conversation, no acknowledgment beyond the fleeting glance, yet Ryneth's mind registered it—the slight hesitation in Herlan's posture, the subtle anxiety in his movements. Just another minor detail in the busy life of the Arcanum, but it pulled Ryneth's attention for a heartbeat.
He adjusted his satchel again, weighing the stolen texts within. The thought of them sparked a cold, quiet tension in his chest, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the path ahead. The doors of the Arcanum loomed closer, dark wood framed by carved stone, the silence beyond promising order and rules in contrast to the chaos of the streets. With each step, Ryneth's pulse quickened, but he kept his face neutral, the faintest hint of a calm mask settling over the storm of thoughts beneath.
Inside, the familiar scent of parchment and ink greeted him. The quiet shuffle of feet and the soft rustle of papers felt oddly grounding. He moved past copyists and translators alike, aware of each footstep, each subtle glance cast his way. Herlan's presence lingered in the corner of his mind, a reminder of the network of observers and peers surrounding him, small and unassuming, yet part of the intricate machinery of the Arcanum.
Ryneth finally reached the inner hall, the doors closing behind him with a soft thud. The city outside, the morning sun, the voices in the streets—they all fell away. Here, there was only the weight of knowledge, the hum of hidden hierarchies, and the quiet pulse of opportunity waiting to be navigated.
Ryneth's steps echoed softly against the polished floors of the inner hall. The morning sun, filtered through tall windows, cast long beams that danced faintly across the desks and shelves, illuminating dust motes that hung in the air like tiny stars. Every sound—shuffling papers, a quiet cough, the scrape of a chair—was sharper here, sharper than in the streets, and it demanded attention.
He moved past the lower-ranking copyists, noting the careful way they handled their parchments, the subtle hierarchy that dictated even their smallest movements. Herlan lingered near one of the desks, fumbling with a stack of notes, eyes flicking nervously toward Ryneth again. This time, Ryneth allowed a faint nod, almost imperceptible, as acknowledgment. The gesture passed unnoticed by everyone else, yet it grounded him—a small connection in the intricate web of the Arcanum.
The satchel at his side felt heavier now, the parchments inside pressing against him like a reminder of his previous night's encounter with the texts, the void, and the reflections that had consumed his mind. He shook the thought away, focusing instead on each measured step, each movement he could predict even before it fully occurred. A small, almost imperceptible whisper of foresight—or perhaps a curse—followed him through the hall, as fleeting as it was untrustworthy.
Reaching the translator's section, he paused. The desks were organized neatly, each one a small kingdom of notes, inks, and open tomes. He placed his satchel carefully on the edge of his assigned desk, eyes scanning the room. Everything seemed normal, too normal, and that alone made him uneasy. The world of the Arcanum always carried hidden weight, and Ryneth knew the silence of order could mask far more than the chaos of the streets.
He pulled out the scattered parchments, laying them flat. The markings stared back at him, unfamiliar and familiar at once. He traced a finger over one of the symbols, feeling the subtle texture of the ink and parchment. Nothing dangerous yet, he reassured himself, but the memory of Leslie's fate—the whispers, the reflections—lingered at the edge of his thoughts, a quiet reminder that knowledge could kill if handled incorrectly.
A soft shuffle drew his attention. Herlan approached, careful, hesitant. "I… I saw you were back," he muttered. His voice was low, almost afraid of being overheard. Ryneth looked up, catching the green of his eyes, noticing the nervous tremor in his hands. "Yes," Ryneth said simply, his voice calm, neutral. "Back for work."
Herlan nodded, eyes flicking to the parchments. "Those… those aren't for general review, are they?" he asked softly. Ryneth's lips curved into the faintest smirk. "No," he replied, letting the weight of the statement hang in the quiet hall. Then he turned back to the parchments, tracing the ink with his eyes, aware that every motion, every pause, might be noted by those watching.
The city outside was still alive with movement, yet here, in the silent hall of the Arcanum, time felt stretched, almost eternal. And in that quiet eternity, Ryneth's thoughts wandered, as always, to what had been and what was yet to come.