Roselys continued narrating while still working. "The Banshee showed him a mirror. He saw his kingdom, peaceful only because its people were dead inside. They breathed, but they were bound to his will. The harmony he made was a cage."

Her voice dropped. "The Banshee laughed and left him with a curse: Those who dream for others shall never wake alone. When Iseren woke, his whole kingdom slept. Every heart beat with his. He couldn't tell where his thoughts ended and theirs began. They say the ruins of Calithar still hum on windless nights."

Silence followed.

Then she asked, "What do you think the moral is?"

Her tone wasn't casual. She watched him closely, searching for his framework.

Vencian wiped dust from his hands. "The problem isn't the decision. It's that he got caught.

Her brows lifted.

"If your method depends on people not knowing, then their awareness destroys it," he continued. "That's not power. That's dependence on ignorance. If you must bind hearts, bind them in truth—or they'll drag you down to sleep."

For a moment she said nothing.

She did what anyone in her position would. She overplayed it and got caught. That cost my trust, but lying would have been worse. And I would have sabotaged her if the chance suited me. Pretending otherwise would be hypocritical.

They were the same kind, only on different sides of the mirror.

He wasn't accusing her, he thought.

Roselys tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable. A faint flicker crossed her face—something between awareness and challenge.

"And your alternative?" she asked. "Never trust anyone enough to let them see the mechanism?"

Vencian closed the crate lid. "Trust the mechanism, not the person."

He met her eyes. "If your plan only works when people don't know they're part of it, you haven't planned well enough."

Vencian's words hung in the air. Roselys checked the last shelf and brushed her palms together. "That's the last of it," she said.

Vencian nodded. "Good. The air in here feels like old bones."

They stepped into the corridor. Their footsteps echoed against the walls. Roselys spoke first. "There's a strange relief in being understood without needing to perform innocence or morality."

He gave her a sideways glance. "You're saying that like it's rare."

"For most people it is." She looked at him. "You're not normal."

His tone remained indifferent. "I'm not a commoner, if that's what you mean."

She shook her head. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

He stayed silent.

Roselys went on. "Back in Coriel—in that strange temple in that strange dimension—you were caught in it too, weren't you? The illusion."

Vencian's brow shifted slightly. "You sound sure."

"I am. I saw what that place did to minds. It used what we feared most. I was trapped in my own reflection, fighting it, and I failed to break through. But you…" She studied him. "You freed yourself. And you freed me. I'm curious to know how."

"I got lucky," he said.

Her eyes narrowed, unconvinced.

"I got lucky," he said.

Her eyes narrowed, unconvinced.

It wasn't luck. The thought came unbidden. It was a close call. I nearly drowned in that place.

He remembered the cold stillness of Coriel—the shapes of those he'd lost. Moses, Caesor, Jeriko. Death has rules, but it never warns. Jeriko still breathes, but barely. That's the kind of world this is.

He exhaled through his nose. I used to think restraint kept me human. I couldn't kill those men who murdered Larik and Talor. I thought I was better than that. But it only made me slower, weaker. I tried to change, but I'm still burying what I am. I have no plan to stop.

"Vencian," Roselys said, cutting through his thoughts. "You went quiet."

He blinked, returning to the corridor. "Thinking."

"About?"

"Something depressing."

She folded her arms. "You've been gathering pieces since you came here—records, lectures, contacts. Why? What are you hoping to find? The truth about something important? About the one who murdered your father and brother? Or the pattern on the moon?"

His gaze shifted. "You've been paying attention."

"Someone has to. You accuse others of hiding behind illusions, but you're doing the same. You move without direction, except away from danger. Fear too is power, but it makes you predictable. The people you're afraid of already know that."

He gave a short laugh. "And what will make me unpredictable? Your trust?"

Her stare held.

"What's the difference between you and me then?" he asked.

"Purpose," she said. "I know what I'm trying to build. You're only trying not to be buried."

Her words landed cleanly.

He kept walking, but the thought stayed. She's right. I've built networks, contingencies, escape routes—but never an end state. My architecture has no foundation beyond reaction. I try to solve every crisis, but none of it leads anywhere.

It unsettled him more than he expected.

He smirked to cover it. "You sound older than you are. How many decades did it take to get that wise?"

Roselys gave him a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm just twenty-three."

"Tragic. Already lecturing the youth."

She rolled her eyes and bumped his shoulder with her fist. It was light, unguarded.

The corridor ahead turned toward the main hall. Voices echoed from the other side—firm, authoritative.

They turned the corner and stopped.

Standing before them was Larion Marendil, High Preceptor of the Academy.

The least and most expected person they could have met.

The air changed before either of them spoke.

Roselys took a half step back, subtle but clear.

Larion Marendil's presence always had that effect. He filled the corridor as if authority itself needed space. His white-trimmed robes brushed the floor, his tone calm, almost warm.

"Roselys," he greeted. "You're still here. I thought Thalverin's assistant hours were finished."

Roselys composed herself. "They were. I stayed back to organize the reference models for archiving."

Larion smiled. "Good. Always thorough." His gaze shifted to Vencian. "You seem to look well than the last time, Lord Vicorra."

Vencian inclined his head slightly. "High Preceptor."

Larion's attention returned to his daughter—or rather, the assistant who happened to be his daughter in name. "Do you have work remaining?"

"Yes," Roselys said without hesitation. "Professor Thalverin asked me to prepare the annotations for the next session."

"Good," Larion said lightly. "Then you should attend to it. I'd like a word with Lord Vicorra."

Vencian's thought was instant. Perfect. Exactly what I wanted to avoid.

He opened his mouth, half intending to excuse himself before things could tighten, but Larion's tone had the pleasant finality of a locked door.

"Go on," the High Preceptor added. "We won't keep long."

Roselys hesitated. Her gaze flicked to Vencian. It wasn't warning, or concern. More like unwilling acknowledgment that the meeting was unwanted.

She doesn't want this to happen, he realized. But why she didn't stop it from happening?

Her nod was polite, her words simple. "Understood." Then she turned and walked down the hall, the sound of her boots fading behind the curve of the corridor.

Larion stepped aside, gesturing toward the upper passage. "Come, Lord Vicorra. We can talk in my office."

Vencian followed, though every instinct told him to leave. He kept his expression blank, his stride casual. I should have left when I could. I still haven't asked her what I needed to.

Larion walked at an unhurried pace. "You've settled into the Academy well, I assume?"

Vencian answered without effort. "Well enough."

"Good. It can be difficult for those coming from… unique circumstances."

Here comes the small talk. He had no patience for this man's habit of veiling interrogation with courtesy.

Larion continued, his tone friendly. "Tell me, what's your relation with my daughter?"

Vencian looked straight ahead. "We are colleagues with similar interests. Nothing else."

The words came out clean, unhesitant. Perfectly neutral. No reason to suspect anything.

Larion nodded, appearing satisfied. "That's good to hear. Roselys rarely spends time in such company."

Vencian frowned slightly. "Such company?"

"She keeps her circle small. To see her speaking so freely with someone surprised me."

Speaking freely? The thought nagged him. What did that look like from outside?

He considered how others might have seen their exchange in the corridor earlier. He hadn't raised his voice, hadn't moved close. Still, something about the way they spoke must have carried weight enough to draw notice. Maybe too much candor for his taste.

Before he could dwell on it, they reached the High Preceptor's office.

The guards at the door stepped aside. Larion opened the door himself. "After you."

The office smelled of ink and wax. Piles of ledgers lined the walls, each shelf ordered by subjects—history, policy, scripture. Vencian took the seat across from the polished desk. Larion settled opposite him.

"I imagine you're wondering about the purpose of this sudden invitation," Larion said.

"I am," Vencian replied. "It's rather unexpected."

Larion folded his hands. "Roselys told me what happened in Coriel."

Vencian's jaw tightened. So that's what this is about.

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