The palace was never truly silent.

  Even at this hour — when most lamps had guttered out and the halls were near empty — there were still the subtle creaks of timber, the hush of river wind against the shutters, and the occasional footstep of a guard pacing somewhere out of sight.

  But the library… the library knew how to hold its breath.

  Candlelight flickered low across marble floors. The windows were dark mirrors. Books lined every wall — old, heavy tomes bound in leather, cracked parchment, ink faded by time and thumb.

  And there, at the long center table beneath the reading lanterns, sat the Duchess of Foher.

  Her coat was draped over the chair behind her. Her bodice loosened just enough to suggest she’d stopped caring about appearances an hour ago. Her hand cradled her head as she stared down at yet another page of indecipherable trade math.

  Fifty-seven pages. Four ledgers. Seven conflicting annotations.

  Still no answers.

  She exhaled slowly through her nose. Closed her eyes. Counted to four. Opened them again.

  The numbers still didn’t align.

  “I didn’t expect to find anyone here,” said a voice behind her, rich with amusement.

  Fran turned her head.

  He was there — halfway down the aisle between the geometry shelves and tax history, coat open, carrying two enormous tomes beneath one arm.

  Master Dekarios.

  Of course.

  Of all places, he had to choose this one.

  She tilted her head. “Then you clearly haven’t heard about my sleeping habits.”

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  He arched a brow. “On the contrary. I’ve already begun a betting pool with myself about how many hours you’ll burn through this month.”

  She didn’t smile. Not really. But her lips twitched.

  “Shouldn’t you be asleep? Or charming a noble widow?”

  “I was. She fell asleep halfway through my brilliant theory on infernal convergence. I took it as a sign.” He dropped one tome onto a side table with a gentle thud. “Besides, I needed a few more sources. The librarians in Candlekeep were far more lenient about me stealing entire shelves.”

  “Try it here, and I’ll have the guards strip you of your title.”

  He considered. “Which one?”

  She meant to return to her notes.

  She did.

  But she could feel him there — not hovering, not crowding, just… present. Moving softly between shelves, muttering half-thoughts, occasionally humming some scholar’s tune under his breath. He glanced at her papers once. Didn’t comment.

  She expected him to offer help.

  He didn’t.

  He waited.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty.

  The numbers still made no sense.

  She stared at a column of deductions marked in a script so antique it might have been a riddle. Her vision blurred.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, too low for the books to judge her. Then, louder: “Dekarios?”

  He looked up from the shelf, startled by the use of his name. “Yes?”

  She hesitated. Her pride was thick in her throat.

  “…If you wish to help,” she said carefully, “and if you’re not too busy—”

  “I’m already insulted by the implication.”

  “I beg your pardon—”

  He dropped the second tome onto the table beside her, slid a chair around, and sat.

  “I mean the idea that I’d be too busy for a chance to gloat. This is going to be a highlight of my week.”

  She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

  He took the papers, eyes scanning quickly. She watched as his brow furrowed, then lifted.

  “Oh,” he said, almost delighted. “This is wretched.”

  “I know.”

  “No, I mean truly — this makes no economic sense at all. Who wrote this?”

  “According to the seal, Lord Halvern’s deputy scribe.”

  “Did he use a stylus or a club?”

  He flipped two more pages, pulled a pencil from his coat, and began marking notes in the margin — arrows, loops, numbers, symbols she didn’t recognize.

  He explained as he went. Not in the tone of a man trying to show off, but someone guiding a conversation forward — clear, clipped, faintly sarcastic. She understood more than she expected.

  Not all. But enough.

  And when he finished, he leaned back in his chair and pushed the paper toward her.

  “Now it’s only moderately incomprehensible,” he said.

  She glanced down at the markings.

  She didn’t touch them.

  Just looked.

  And, slowly, almost imperceptibly — smiled.

  He saw it.

  Didn’t comment.

  Didn’t need to.

  Later, when he had gone, and the candles burned low again, Fran remained at the table.

  She hadn’t meant to ask for help. She never had.

  In a lifetime of quiet studies, of borrowed tomes and unslept nights, no one had ever offered it. And if they had, she never would have accepted.

  Until now.