The Hall of Restricted Manuscripts did not breathe.
It did not echo, either. Sound entered and died between the shelves, swallowed by parchment and dust and the quiet weight of knowledge that no longer wished to be known.
Lioren Quill preferred it that way.
The lower levels of the Ivory Vault of Halren were rarely disturbed by footsteps. Most scholars worked above, where light filtered through tall arched windows and students whispered over copied texts. Down here, there was only candlelight and the slow settling of old paper.
And secrets.
He adjusted the small lantern at his desk and leaned closer to the catalog ledger spread open before him.
Shelf C–17.
Third row.
Fifth Script classification.
His brows drew together.
The entry was wrong.
Not incorrect—no, that would have been simpler. It was adjusted. The ink tone shifted halfway through the line, darker and more recent than the rest of the page. The stroke pattern was too controlled to be accidental. Someone had overwritten the original entry carefully enough that most eyes would never question it.
But Lioren's work was noticing details others dismissed.
He ran his thumb lightly over the page. The paper fibers dipped where the first ink had been scraped away.
Something had been removed.
He closed the ledger and stood.
The corridor between shelves was narrow, designed to preserve space rather than comfort. He counted the columns automatically as he moved. Twelve steps from the central table. Right turn. Four more.
Shelf C–17.
His lantern cast trembling gold over the spines of bound volumes, their leather cracked with age. Fifth Script materials were rare. Restricted. Some were incomplete copies, others partial translations. Most were fragmented enough to discourage casual study.
He scanned the third row.
The gap was subtle—half the width of a book, hidden between two thick tomes. If one did not know what to look for, it would appear perfectly natural.
He slid his fingers into the space.
There.
A thin binding wedged deep behind the visible row.
His pulse quickened—not from fear, but from recognition. This had not been misfiled. It had been concealed.
Lioren eased the fragment free and returned to his desk.
The cover was unmarked. No classification seal. No Custodian insignia. The leather was old, brittle at the corners, and faintly warm under his touch.
Warm.
He frowned.
The Hall was always cold.
He set the fragment beneath the lantern light.
The script inside was not common imperial. Nor was it one of the documented variants used in older treaties. The symbols curved and intersected in unfamiliar geometries—precise but organic, as though drawn by someone who understood movement rather than structure.
Fifth Script.
Or something older.
His breath slowed as he traced the first line.
The ink shimmered faintly.
That was impossible.
He leaned closer.
The characters did not sit still. Not visibly—but there was a subtle tension to them, like muscle beneath skin. The more he focused, the more the shapes seemed to align with the rhythm of his breathing.
Lioren's fingers hovered above the page.
He should report this.
He knew that.
Fragments of this level required authorization for examination. Halvric would demand to know where it was found. The Imperial Review Board might take custody of it. And once removed, it would vanish into sealed archives, never to be seen again.
Someone had hidden this deliberately.
Someone had not wanted it erased.
He swallowed.
Just a glance. Just enough to determine its classification.
His fingertips brushed the parchment.
Pain exploded through his palm.
He jerked back with a sharp intake of breath, knocking his chair against the stone floor. The lantern flickered violently. For a heartbeat, he thought the candle had gone out—but no, the light was dimmer, thinner, as if something else was drawing heat from the room.
His hand burned.
Not surface heat. Not a cut.
It was deeper—inside the bone.
He stared at his palm.
Lines of light crawled beneath his skin.
No. Not light.
Marks.
They spread outward from the center of his hand, branching like veins, etching themselves in deliberate, intricate patterns. The shapes mirrored the script on the page—curved sigils intersecting in impossible angles.
He clamped his other hand over it, but the glow bled through his fingers.
"What—"
The fragment on the desk shifted.
Not physically.
But the air around it trembled.
The lantern flame bent toward the page as if drawn by gravity.
Lioren forced himself upright, heart hammering, and stepped back.
The marks on his palm pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Each pulse sent a spike of pain through his wrist and into his chest.
He staggered against the shelf behind him.
This wasn't a reaction to contact.
This was recognition.
The thought formed without permission.
The glyphs weren't attacking him.
They were answering.
"No," he whispered, though there was no one to hear.
The marks tightened, lines interlocking, sealing themselves into a cohesive sigil that centered over his pulse point. The glow intensified—white, then gold, then a fierce crimson that made his vision blur.
The fragment's pages flipped on their own.
Wind roared in his ears.
But the Hall did not move.
The shelves remained still. The dust did not stir. The silence pressed in, heavy and absolute.
Only he was changing.
The sigil burned.
He bit down on a cry, tasting iron where his teeth cut his tongue. The pain peaked—not chaotic, not random—but precise, carving.
Writing.
When the light finally dimmed, it left behind no wound.
Only ink.
The sigil rested beneath his skin in faint, dark lines. It looked as though it had always belonged there, nestled into the natural creases of his palm.
Lioren stared at it.
The fragment lay quiet once more, its pages still.
The Hall was silent.
Slowly, carefully, he reached toward the manuscript again—this time without touching it.
The ink on the page had changed.
Where before there had been scattered lines, there was now a single phrase centered on the parchment.
Not in common script.
But he understood it.
He should not have.
He had never studied this variant.
And yet the meaning pressed against his mind as clearly as spoken words.
Bound by blood. Bound by memory.
His throat tightened.
The sigil in his palm pulsed once more, softer now.
A response.
To what?
To whom?
He forced himself to breathe.
This was a magical anomaly. A relic reaction. Nothing more. There were documented cases—rare, unstable artifacts that imprinted residual energy upon contact.
But those left scars.
Not deliberate script.
His gaze flicked toward the stairwell leading upward.
No footsteps.
No voices.
The Hall remained undisturbed.
Which meant—
No one else had seen.
Not yet.
He closed the fragment carefully and pressed it flat against the desk.
He should seal it.
Report it.
Erase all evidence of his involvement.
Instead, he stared at his palm again.
The sigil shifted faintly beneath his skin, aligning itself with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Not fading.
Settling.
Somewhere deep beneath the Vault's foundation stones, something resonated.
A vibration too subtle to be sound.
Lioren felt it in his bones before he understood it in his mind.
This had not been an accident.
The fragment had not activated randomly.
It had been waiting.
For him.
The realization struck colder than the pain had.
His breath fogged in the sudden chill of the Hall.
And far beyond Emberis—beyond the reach of lantern light and scholar law—something ancient stirred in answer.
The sigil in his palm burned once more.
Not in warning.
In acknowledgment.