Zephyrian’s robe hugs every angle of him, the fabric jet black and trimmed with gold sigils at his cuffs and throat—each thread perfectly in place, not a wrinkle to be found. His nose is sharp and his eyes even sharper; they’re so still and dark that Gai has the uneasy sense Zephyrian could watch him through a blink, never missing a thing.

  Gai keeps the proper distance behind Elle, trying not to let his gaze settle anywhere for too long: tracking Zephyrian’s hands, the slow movement of his sleeves, the measured way he breathes like this is his chamber and they’re just visiting. He forces himself not to react to the hint of a second shadow skirting the edge of his sight—a smaller presence that always manages to stay out of clear view.

  By the doors, Raimondis stands stiff as ever, posture perfect, his hands folded neatly behind him. Unlike Gai, he makes no effort at subtlety—he stares outright. For once, Gai doesn’t mind sharing surveillance duties; two pairs of eyes might just be enough.

  Elle enters with her head up, blue dress rippling behind her, cheeks touched with rain, her expression focused and intent. The wind rattles outside; for a moment the shutters bend inward with its force. Zephyrian seems to notice—the corners of his mouth twitch, not quite breaking into a smile but hinting at some private amusement.

  “Master Zephyrian,” Elle greets, voice lowered but steady—formal without being deferential. “Apologies for keeping you waiting. You weren’t expected today.”

  Zephyrian’s reply matches his look: flat, dry, cold enough to chill the air. “I work on my own timetable, Highness. It’s the only sensible approach.” His gaze sweeps over Gai and Raimondis quickly before pausing on Elle a beat longer. “A new set of attendants since last time—I’ll give you credit for efficiency.”

  Elle pulls out a chair with just enough force to make a point and sits directly across from him. She doesn’t match Zephyrian in size but meets him for presence all the same, leaning into the conversation as if daring him to take up more space. Gai remains standing behind her; old habits ingrained by protocol.

  “My retinue changes as needed,” Elle answers evenly. “I serve at my mother’s discretion.”

  Zephyrian tips his head as though conceding something trivial. Then he flicks his sleeve in an absent gesture toward the shadow beside him—his apprentice coming into focus.

  Myrkenna moves forward with easy certainty—someone who’s never learned how to doubt herself. Her cloak swallows what little light finds it; she holds herself perfectly still behind Zephyrian’s chair, hands folded before her. There’s nothing soft about her gaze: eyes gold-centered and rimmed in icy grey.

  Gai recognizes her from Old Town—the memory hits hard and sudden. He can feel her picking through every detail about him with those predatory eyes: cataloguing old wounds, reading subtle tells—making notes for later use. He wonders if she remembers him from that night or if he’s just one more forgettable face from another job gone violent.

  Elle clears her throat, a hint of confusion in her voice. "Master Zephyrian, this is... unexpected. I don't believe we had any meeting scheduled for some time. Has something urgent arisen?"

  Zephyrian's thin lips curl into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "My dear princess, when I heard your afternoon appointments had been unexpectedly cancelled, I saw an opportunity I couldn't resist. After all, our discussions are always so... illuminating."

  Elle's posture stiffens almost imperceptibly. "I see. How... fortuitous for you then. Though I wonder how you came by such information about my schedule so quickly."

  "Oh, word travels fast in these halls, Your Highness," Zephyrian replies smoothly, clasping his hands on the table. His nails are trimmed to points; Gai wonders if it's deliberate or simply the result of habits carried out with such discipline that the body adapts. "Especially for those who know how to listen. Now, shall we make use of this fortunate turn of events? For us, the matter at hand is urgent enough to warrant this intrusion." His gaze slides back to Gai, then fixes on Elle again. "We have come for the book."

  There is a second where Gai can feel the room hold its breath. Rain rattles the window. Myrkenna’s mouth curves up, the ghost of a smile. Gai suspects she knows exactly what book Zephyrian means.

  Elle doesn’t flinch. “The library contains many. Which one do you mean?”

  Zephyrian's eyes do not leave her. "Artifacts of the Lost Age. The original. The one you borrowed from the academy library. I want it."

  Myrkenna moves then, a slow, gliding step to the side that brings her directly into Gai’s eyeline. “There are only a handful of copies remaining on the continent,” she says, voice low and monotone, with no trace of an accent. “The one in this palace is annotated. Marginalia by the founder herself.” She says it as if it’s a riddle, or a threat, or both.

  Elle folds her hands, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles show white. “It is in my care until I finish reviewing it. If the council wishes to see it, they can make a request through the usual channels.”

  Zephyrian doesn’t so much as blink. “You misunderstand. I am not the council.”

  “No,” Elle agrees. “You’re the king’s creature. But the rules still apply.”

  Gai admires the nerve. Zephyrian’s reputation was that he’d never needed to raise his voice or even threaten—he simply made people feel that whatever consequences lay ahead were unavoidable, like the end of the world or a devastating storm. But Elle meets him measure for measure.

  The silence that follows is dangerous. Raimondis, from the door, shifts his weight and curls his lip in the direction of Zephyrian’s boots. Gai notices the twitch of Myrkenna’s left hand: not a nervous tick, but the controlled flex of someone mapping every possible motion of every body in the room.

  Zephyrian finally speaks, his tone as bland as before. “I would ask you to reconsider, Highness. My apprentice requires that book for her studies, and time is not in our favour.”

  “She can wait,” Elle says. “Or she can consult my notes. The text is not leaving the room until I am done.” She fixes her gaze on Myrkenna, as if daring the apprentice to argue. “You may stay and review it here, under my supervision, but nothing leaves. Not even the margin scribbles.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Gai feels Myrkenna’s stare on him again. This time it lingers, almost curious. She steps closer, now just an arm’s length from Gai. The gold in her eyes is brighter up close, but her face is so pale it’s almost translucent, veins mapped blue just under the skin.

  Myrkenna leans in, her breath just above a whisper. “You were in the colosseum last week.” It’s not a question, but Gai nods anyway.

  “You fought the Dustor,” she says. “I saw the aftermath.”

  He shrugs, uncomfortable. “It was a match, not a war.”

  Her mouth bends. “Wars are just longer matches. The only thing that changes is the prize.” Her gaze dips to his sword, then back to his face. “You shouldn’t have won. Dustors don’t lose to…squids.”

  The word is out before Gai can react. He doesn’t answer. He waits for the offense, but Myrkenna just stands there, calm and unblinking. He gets a flicker of discomfort from her focus—not the ordinary kind, but a sense she’s reading him as a set of instructions, looking for the flaw. He matches her stare anyway and lets the silence hang, then forces a shrug that’s more bravado than ease.

  "I’m sure a master’s apprentice wouldn’t lose to a squid," he says, dry as he can manage. "Though you look familiar. Maybe we’ve met—say, Old Town, a few weeks back?"

  Myrkenna’s answer is soft, but it hits with the same force as a thrown knife. “Doubtful,” she says, the syllables clipped, “I don’t make a habit of haunting Old Town.” She cocks her head, and for a second—just a second—Gai sees a flicker, a seam down the mask of her face as if she’s running through a crowded ledger of faces and names and finding his, unexpectedly, near the top. He wonders if she’s catalogued him as “potential threat,” or just “loose end.” Either way, the effect is immediate: her right hand curls imperceptibly tighter around the spine of the chair, and she doesn’t look at him again for the rest of the conversation.

  Zephyrian drums one nail against the lacquered table, a patient, predatory sound. “This is tedious,” he says, but the words are for Elle, not Gai or Myrkenna. “You have the book, I need the book. Let’s not pretend there are more than two solutions.”

  Elle’s answer lands with the precision of a dropped blade: “Then you’ll need to wait, Master Zephyrian, or seek another copy. I’m not finished.” She doesn’t blink, doesn’t budge. She sits there, small and regal and absolutely immovable, as if she’s planted roots through the thick carpet into the stone beneath.

  Myrkenna tilts her chin, just a little—a calculation, maybe, or a tic—then merges back into the shadow behind the master’s chair. Zephyrian lets the silence stretch, so thin and taut Gai thinks it might snap. Then Zephyrian smiles, and it is the coldest thing in the room.

  “Very well.” His voice is gentle, but the words are knives. “I hope you are aware, Princess, that your mother’s trust in you is the only reason I am not escalating this request directly to the king.” He lifts a finger, index only, like he’s about to tap a chess piece. “But do be careful. The King of Bodubania is not known for patience, and your mother would, I am sure, be most disappointed to see another trade alliance ruined over something so trivial as an overdue library book.”

  He stands, the movement so fluid the fabric barely ripples, and Myrkenna is by his side before the chair finishes creaking. He gives a single, shallow nod to Elle, then glances at Gai—just long enough to freeze Gai in place, like a bird in the shadow of a hawk’s wings.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Zephyrian says, the syllables shaped to cut, “and for the splendid company.”

  Myrkenna glides after him, pausing only at the threshold. She looks at Gai with a peculiar intensity—as if she’s seeing him not as a person but as a lock she’s already solved—and then lingers a half-beat longer on Elle. She does not speak, but Gai feels the promise of unfinished business hovering in the space between them all.

  The door closes with a click, and the silence left behind is thick enough to chew.

  Elle slumps for a moment, just a flicker—the tension releasing from her neck and shoulders. Gai wonders how long she can hold that level of defiance without folding. He wants to say something—anything—but what comes out is bone stupid: “He’s not what I expected.”

  She almost laughs, which is better than nothing. “He never is.”

  Raimondis, who has been so rigid he might have fossilized, lets out a shaky exhale and steps forward. “Princess, that was—” He stops, searching for the polite word, settles for, “dangerous. He could make trouble for you.”

  Elle doesn’t look at him. “Let him try.”

  Elle stands, just long enough to work the kinks from her posture, then gestures wordlessly for Gai and Raimondis to join her at the table. There’s a new, almost reckless ease in the way she moves, like she’s already shifted the weight of Zephyrian’s threat to some distant part of her mind where it can't reach them.

  “Raimondis,” she says, not looking at him, “find Sheh’zar. Tell her no one else gets in for the rest of the afternoon—not even the king’s lapdog. If there are more interruptions, she’s to handle them herself.” She nudges the chair out with her knee and parks herself in it, back to the window, face angled down at the black-polished table.

  Raimondis hesitates, then bows—deeper than usual—and leaves, closing the door behind with a faint snick. The tension in the air softens not gradually, but all at once, as if his absence revoked some invisible curfew.

  Elle waits until Raimondis’s footsteps have faded down the hall before speaking. “Sit,” she says, and this time doesn’t bother masking the fatigue. “I know you have questions. So do I, frankly.”

  Gai sits. His hands find each other on the table, fingers locking and unlocking, restless. Elle watches him, chin propped on the heel of her hand, eyes blinking slow and heavy. The rain is steady now, less a battering than a constant wash, the world beyond the windows gone blurry and indistinct.

  She exhales, a long, measured breath. “Zephyrian wants the book because of the marginalia,” she says, rolling the word in her mouth like a black marble. “Every copy has the same core, but only ours has the extra notes. The founder’s own hand—her theories, her warnings, her corrections of the academic record.” She closes her eyes for a moment, then reopens them, steady on Gai. “I’m almost done with the translation. But the last section is…not what I expected.”

  She stands and fetches a thick, battered volume from a locked cabinet, the key already in her palm. When she sits again, she opens the book with care, finding a page marked not by a ribbon but by what looks like a feather, blue-black and iridescent. She lays it flat between them, the candlelight turning the ink almost gold.

  She slides the book toward Gai—closer than any protocol should allow—and leans in. Their heads nearly touch as she traces a passage with her fingertip, the print so dense and spidery it’s almost illegible.

  “Here,” she says. “The gate requires not just the elementalist, but a set of… keys. It’s not clear if that’s metaphorical or literal. It says the gate is dormant,” Elle reads aloud, voice just above a whisper, “until it is spoken into by the sixfold pattern—Fire, Air, Water, Earth, Light, Dark—at the hands of those ‘unbound by blood, but chained by will.’ The founder writes here—” she taps the shredded edge of the margin— "that the hierarchy of the elements matters, but the true unlocking is by intent, not by birth. She calls it ‘the last threshold.’"

  Gai tries to follow the tangle of script, but the ink dives and loops, the handwriting shifting from careful block print into a feverish scrawl. Some lines have been crossed out so many times the words are nearly gouged through the paper. He can make out the diagram, though: a hexagon, each point labelled with a sigil. More notes spiral around it—corrections, additions, little arrows knifing between sentences.

  He reads what he can: The gate will not open for one alone, nor for any who come as kin. They must be rivals, or strangers, or enemies, each element at odds with its twin.

  He glances at Elle. Her mouth is set, grim and thoughtful.

  “If Zephyrian wants this,” Gai says, keeping his voice low, “why not just copy the notes and take them? Why bother with the original?”

  “He’s afraid of forgeries,” Elle says. “

  He looks again at the hexagon. The six sigils are neat, but there’s a blank at the centre, ringed by stains and, on closer inspection, a faint metallic shine to the page—silver or maybe mercury, pooled and dried.

  A chill traces his spine. “What’s in the middle?”

  She flips the page, careful not to smudge the margin. "That's the part I can't translate. The script isn't any language I know. She calls it the 'Null Sign,' but it's drawn differently every time—sometimes a circle, sometimes a star, sometimes just a line. The founder obsessed over it." Elle leans closer, her hair briefly grazing Gai's shoulder. "There are six references to the original gate. The first is in the north—abandoned, supposedly sealed. The second is beneath a city in the east, dissolved in some war. The third lies hidden in the depths of an ancient forest, guarded by creatures long forgotten. The fourth reference speaks of a gate submerged beneath a stormy sea, accessible only during the lowest tides. The fifth is said to be concealed within a dormant volcano, waiting to be awakened. The last..." She hesitates. "No one knows. The text says 'the final threshold is hidden in the unbuilt city.' I don't know what that means."

  Gai frowns. “An unbuilt city?”

  “Maybe a metaphor. Maybe something worse.” She closes the book, the threads of the binding crackling. “Regardless, Zephyrian wants this to open the gate. He’s not just looking for history—he wants something inside.”

  The rain keeps up its steady attack on the window. Neither moves for a long second.

  Gai stares at the closed book, acutely aware of how close Elle is, her presence still lingering beside him. He traces the memory of that six-pointed sigil in his mind, committing every angle to memory. He doesn’t ask what she’ll do next—there’s no need. He can already tell she’ll push herself to finish the translation before Zephyrian returns, even if it means working by candlelight when everyone else is asleep.

  He can’t tell if she wants him to offer help or just stay nearby as a silent backup. Maybe both; maybe it doesn’t matter. The headache that’s been simmering all afternoon throbs in time with the rain. He tries to wrap his mind around this “unbuilt city”—trying to decide if it’s an unsolvable puzzle or just another historian’s bad joke. But with Zephyrian in the mix, he doubts it bodes well for anyone.