Lecia trudged through the orphanage’s dimly lit corridors, her small feet barely making a sound on the worn wooden floors. The evening rain drummed steadily against the windows, the rhythmic patter a minor comfort to her weary mind. Big Badi, who often acted as the disciplinarian in Melora's stead whenever she was busy with other work, would be calling for lights out any minute. Bedtime was fast approaching, and Lecia had seen neither hide nor hair of Orin or the others.
Not since last night, after he and his crew had trapped her in the cellar. Not this morning either, now that Lecia thought about it. He hadn’t been there when the cellar doors opened—only strangers in Academy black and silver. If Orin had returned at all, he’d done it out of Lecia’s sight, which meant he’d either been avoiding her or Matron... or both.
She'd searched every nook and cranny of the orphanage, peering into shadowy corners and behind stacks of discarded furniture, but Orin and his gang were nowhere to be found. As the minutes ticked by, Lecia’s unease grew. Were they watching her from somewhere she couldn't see? Had Orin been watching her since that morning? Would he and Derik strike the moment she let her guard down and fell asleep?
Lecia had no idea, and she didn't like not knowing. She hadn't been too worried about Orin and the others earlier in the day. She figured it would be enough to keep an eye out and avoid them whenever they returned. Now? Now she was worried that Orin was playing a longer, more dangerous game. Orin was both clever and, when the mood struck him, cruel. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd toyed with Lecia and a few of the other kids like this.
It often happened when Orin felt he himself had been wronged in some way. He wouldn't retaliate directly, he had Derik for that. He'd play it off as no harm no foul, leave you alone until you let your guard down, and then you suddenly found yourself alone with only Derik and a few cronies to keep you company.
Lecia had been in that position more than a few times over the years, left bruised and battered somewhere in a dark corner, the sound of Derik's boisterous laughter ringing in her ears as he and his ilk walked away from their brutal work without a care in the world. Could she have defended herself? Well, as things were now, almost certainly, but to do so would cost more than Lecia was willing to risk.
Which was why Lecia would've rather avoided such a situation altogether. She paused in the hallway outside the dormitory, thoughts churning as she considered what Orin might be planning. The grimoire wasn’t on her in any visible way, yet she could still feel it lodged in the cold, quiet space behind her sternum, lingering like an unseen splinter.
That knowledge should have been reassuring—and in practical terms it was, since nothing that answered to intent alone could be stolen by chance—but the thought of sleeping while Orin and Derik might be plotting still set her teeth on edge. If they cornered her the book would be safe, but there were other ways to make the night miserable, and none of her options felt clean.
Just as she was about to decide, a distant commotion caught Lecia's attention. Curious, she returned to the orphanage's foyer just in time to see the heavy wooden doors that made up the shelter's entrance fly open with a bang, the sound echoing through the entrance hall. Lecia watched from the shadows of the hallway as a diminutive figure stumbled through the entrance.
It took a second for Lecia to recognize that the figure was little more than a boy—a fellow orphan, and a familiar one at that. Rain poured in from the outside, soaking the thin boy who staggered into the orphanage, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. It was Ricklen, one of Orin's gang. His usually confident, sneering expression was nowhere to be found.
Instead, his face was pale and twisted with fear, his wide eyes darting around as if expecting something or someone to jump out at him. His clothes clung to his thin frame, drenched and muddy, and his hands shook as he slammed the doors shut behind him, completely ignoring the curious stares and questions of the other children as he leaned heavily against the doors and caught his breath.
Lecia’s curiosity quickly burned away the anxiety that had been gnawing at her for the past hour. She quietly observed Ricklen as he took a moment to steady himself, and her placid gaze followed the drenched boy as he bolted down the hallway, his wet shoes leaving a trail of dirty water in his wake. He didn't head towards the dormitory or the common room, but straight for Matron Melora’s office.
Without a second thought, Lecia and several of the other more curious orphans followed. When he reached the office door, he didn’t bother to knock. Instead, he burst inside, his panicked voice carrying through the partially closed door. Lecia slid her way through the small crowd of children that had bundled around the office hoping to catch every word.
"Ricklen?!" the Matron began, the loud scrape of a wooden chair sliding back as she started to rise from behind her desk in surprise, "Where have you—"
"Matron!" Ricklen’s voice was frantic, tinged with desperation as he cut Matron Melora off. "You have to help! Orin… Orin and the others… they got grabbed!"
Matron Melora’s voice was sharp and demanding. "Grabbed? By whom? Speak clearly, boy, what happened?"
“Slavers!” Ricklen gasped, the word scraping out of him. “In the... in the market! Th-the bad one! They... they grabbed ’em and hauled ’em off like sacks—”
“You mean the black market further south?” Melora’s voice sharpened into something dangerous. “Why in Bellatina's good name were the lot of you anywhere near the black market?”
Ricklen’s breath hitched. His eyes flicked past the desk, past the Matron’s shoulder, as if searching for an exit that wasn’t there. “We… we were—”
“Do not lie to me, boy.”
Ricklen flinched hard enough that Lecia heard his wet clothes slap against his skin. “We didn't wanna go, honest!” he blurted. “We went to see Old Man Mikalo. Orin said he had a job lined up, said he would pay good money for some info—crowns! He even showed 'em to us—”
“Never mind the fact that Orin completely disregarded the task I gave him,” Melora cut in, her voice dangerously flat. “Never mind that he lied to my face, or that the lot of you left Lecia trapped alone in a dark cellar for an entire night.”
She paused, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath before continuing in a calmer tone that simmered rather than soothed.
“We will address all of that later,” she said. “I've warned you all time and again not to associate with that conniving wretch of a man. Orin is not a dull child. He should have known Mikalo had no intentions of parting with those crowns, promise or no, and now he's sent him and his little group off to the night mart—”
“I-It wasn't like that!” Ricklen cried, panic and desperation causing his voice to crack. “Orin had some other place he wanted to go, but Derik said the black market was worth checkin’. Said he knew someone who might know some stuff. Orin tried to drag him back, I swear it, Matron, but Derik wouldn’t listen and— and then they came out of nowhere.”
His words tumbled out in a rush before he faltered at the end, a mix of fear and guilt choking off the last of his words.
Lecia blinked in surprise. Out of all the possible reasons for Orin's disappearance, being captured by slavers had been so far down on the list, Lecia hadn't even considered it. Orin knew full well to stay far away from Darkreach's active marketplace, as did the rest of his cronies.
The active marketplace—or the black market—was a far cry from the ruined marketplace Lecia had passed through on her way back to the orphanage. It was a sorry excuse for a market, nowhere near as grand as the many markets seen in Tradehaven and certainly nowhere near as sanitary. It was also incredibly dangerous for several reasons, slavers chief among them.
All manner of illicit goods could be found at the black market, up to and including slaves. There was a time when "fetter merchants" were far more common and open about their "wares", but the High Council had cracked down on the slave trade in recent years. Thanks to their efforts, the threat was much reduced, but that didn't mean it didn't exist—far from it. The slavers had just fled deeper into the shadows of Veilheim.
To put it bluntly, you only shopped at the black market if you were desperate, well-protected, or just plain foolish.
Not only had Orin blundered in a way that was very much unlike him, but he’d done so by letting Derik steer the situation out of control. Orin had tried looking for information elsewhere, had even tried to pull them back when Derik pushed south—but hesitation had cost him. Lecia still found it difficult to reconcile the mistake with Orin’s usual caution, but at least the shape of it made sense now.
Her expression settled as the pieces fell into place. Derik was the largest and strongest out of all the kids in the orphanage, but he was also as dull as a butter knife. All muscle and malice, no forethought for consequences. Even so, Lecia couldn’t understand why he would have insisted on checking the black market. Derik was an idiot, but even he knew not to linger there.
And he claimed to know someone? Who exactly did Derik think he knew in that place? Another child desperate enough for scraps or coin to go snooping around the black market?
Not likely.
Regardless of Derik's reasoning, Lecia found herself unable to summon more than passing curiosity. She could untangle the reasons all night, but the outcome remained the same. Orin was gone. Most of his gang was gone. Whatever danger they'd posed before was no longer a problem, nor was their fate any concern of hers.
More importantly, she could probably read her grimoire in peace, assuming she could find an isolated space somewhere. With Orin gone, that wouldn't be too hard. The other children never actively sought her out unless the Matron or one of the other adults wanted her for something.
The conversation continued, but with the mystery of Orin's disappearance resolved, Lecia decided there was no need to listen any further.
She was about to slip away, but Badi's thick voice suddenly rang out. He'd finally noticed the gaggle of eavesdropping children and marched over with an ugly expression, words of admonishment already spilling from his fat lips. The orphans scattered at his approach but Lecia ignored it all. She'd gotten her answers and now could rest in her own cot without fear of reprisal from Orin and his group.
Ricklen was a coward and almost as scrawny as Lecia herself so she likely had nothing to worry about from him, but she decided to keep an eye out just in case. In the meantime, she returned to the shared dormitory just as Badi called for bedtime preparations. Slipping her cloak off to use as a makeshift blanket over her worn, too-thin sheet, Lecia settled into her cot.
Exhausted from the day's chores, it wasn't long before the muffled patter of rain and distant thunder lulled her into the comfortably cold embrace of her recurring dream.
***
The Magehollow District, often called the Scholar’s Quarter, occupied the southwestern stretch of Veilheim’s outer ring, set between Tradehaven and Ironclad. Widely regarded across the nations of Prathus as a haven of arcane knowledge and scholarly pursuit, it was a place where ancient stone towers loomed over newer brick-and-mortar dwellings, their weight of history pressing visibly into the streets below.
The smooth cobblestone streets, lined with elaborate runic street lanterns, provided ample illumination throughout the entire district. Walk into almost any home or institution in Magehollow and the air would likely be thick with the scent of parchment, ink, or alchemical ingredients.
The meticulously structured roads of the Scholar's Quarter were rife with the hurried footfalls of busy Academy students, mages engrossed in their research, or scribes, alchemists, and artificers looking for materials to further ply their trade.
Libraries and bookstores, like the lofty and storied Grand Library of Veilheim, held extensive collections spanning millennia. Workshops and laboratories brimmed with alchemical apparatuses and enchanted tools, their interiors alive with the hum of magickal experimentation. Elegant townhouses and dormitories, infused with enchantments for comfort and security, provided serene environments for study and rest.
At the heart of Magehollow stood the prestigious Veilheim Academy of the Runic Arts, a towering, almost castle-like edifice of obsidian and silver. Its tall walls of dark stone and iron were adorned with hidden enchantments. The veiled runes were engraved long ago to protect staff and students from old evils long since banished to the shadows of history. The grand archway entrance led into a vast atrium where the very atmosphere hummed with ambient aether.
Classrooms and lecture halls, designed to inspire and challenge, featured tiered seating and massive wall-bound chalkboards displaying arcane formulas. The Academy's own library, nearly rivaling the Grand Library, housed rare manuscripts and ancient scrolls, while restricted Archives held the most powerful and dangerous texts.
Laboratories and practice rooms, scattered throughout the Academy, were equipped with the latest alchemical and magickal tools, allowing students to conduct experiments and hone their spellcasting skills. Beautiful gardens and serene courtyards, meticulously maintained with rare aether-rich plants, provided perfect spaces for relaxation and reflection. Faculty offices and residences, filled with personal libraries and arcane artifacts, reflected the unique specialties of the instructors.
It was in one of the Academy's faculty offices that the clock struck nine in the evening, the soft chimes reverberating through the hushed halls of the Veilheim Academy of the Runic Arts. The office, dimly illuminated by the warm glow of a single ornate oil lamp, carried an air of abandonment.
Its lavish oak desk, piled high with clutter, hinted at the recent return of its occupant, though the rest of the room seemed suspended in a state of long-forgotten stillness. Dust clung stubbornly to the ancient tomes and scrolls that lined the shelves, their spines cracked with age.
The occupant, a woman whose years had left indelible marks on her visage, sat behind the desk with a posture that betrayed neither frailty nor overt strength. Her weathered face bore deep-set lines, the legacy of decades—nigh on a century even—spent in the pursuit of the arcane. Her silver-white hair was swept into a loose, unkempt bun, stray strands falling to frame her sharp features.
Though she wore the Academy’s distinct black robes, trimmed with intricate silver accents that glimmered like threads of moonlight, the garments seemed oddly ill-fitted. Their austere design spoke of authority, but on her slight frame, they served as little more than a formality. She had long ceased caring about appearances.
What she did care for was arcane knowledge, and the quiet strength that came with it. Though her body might have grown frail with age, there was no mistaking the latent potency in her presence. The keen edge of her violet eyes—brilliant, sharp, and endlessly observant—drew attention away from her withered frame.
Beneath thin brows, they gleamed with a cunning intelligence that made it clear she saw far more than she ever let on. Her gnarled hands moved with practiced ease as she leafed through a stack of parchment, long fingers pausing occasionally to trace a rune or jot a note. Her lips moved silently, arcane mutterings so faint that even the room seemed hesitant to intrude.
Two years had passed since she’d returned to the Academy after an absence so lengthy and mysterious that speculation had become sport among faculty and students alike. Some claimed she had ventured into the furthest reaches of the Aetheric Realm, while others whispered of forbidden magicks too dangerous to speak of aloud.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
She never bothered to address the rumors, letting them swirl like the tempest outside her window. Explanations were a luxury she owed to no one. Her reasons for returning were her own, though the work awaiting her—a veritable mountain of neglected duties—suggested she had not planned for the chaos left in her wake.
She worked now with a facade of grim determination that hid her boredom and frustration far too well. The focused, rhythmic scratch of her quill filled the room, but even her rather infamous ability to focus regardless of intense tedium faltered when the persistent ache in her joints. It was further aggravated by the damp chill of the evening rain, growing too pronounced to ignore.
She shifted in her seat, irritation flickering across her otherwise composed expression. The irritation spiked as an unexpected knock at the door came softly but insistently. Her brow twitched, and her thin lips pressed into a line. She thought about just ignoring whoever it was until they left, but then sighed.
Interruptions at this hour were rare, and those bold enough to risk her displeasure often regretted it.
But alas, it was too late in the evening for that kind of ruckus. So instead, she set the parchment aside with deliberate care and raising a bony finger. With a rapid blur of movement, a pale green sigil wordlessly flashed into existence and dissipated just as quickly as it appeared. A faint breeze ruffled the parchment atop the desk as it blew across the room and, an instant later, the door creaked open to admit her uninvited guest.
She waited, her expression growing sour as a familiar figure stepped into the room. The man carried himself with the unmistakeable bearing of a noble. His robes, identical in design to her own but perfectly tailored to his tall, lean frame, seemed to amplify his air of quiet confidence.
The stag’s head emblem on his chest glinted in the dim light, a reminder of his standing within both the Academy and Veilheim’s noble circles. His black hair, streaked lightly with gray, fell neatly to his shoulders, and the rectangular spectacles perched on his nose gave him the appearance of an erudite scholar.
She studied him as he entered, irritable violet eyes noting every detail—from the measured precision of his movements to the faint, habitual tightening of his jaw that betrayed some inner tension. A distinguished man, perhaps, but far from flawless. His pale blue-gray eyes, quick and calculating, unsettled her in a way she could not entirely dismiss. Though he was several decades her junior, his presence was impressively intimidating.
He inclined his head in greeting, but she did not rise. The old woman remained seated, her hands folded atop the desk as she met his gaze without blinking. The silence stretched just long enough to remind him that, despite his rank and influence, he stood in her domain now.
Then she gave the man a smile that was far from welcoming.
“Magister Threvin,” she finally rasped. “To what do I owe this rather inconvenient visit at such an ungodly hour?”
The words hung in the air, cold and dismissive. Whatever brought him here, Hattica Mae could already tell it was trouble she neither needed nor wanted to deal with. Felicio Threvin, for his part, merely inclined his head once more in a respectful bow, though his voice betrayed the faintest undercurrent of annoyance.
“Archmagister Mae,” he said, tone measured and formal, “I apologize for coming by at such a late hour, but I felt the matter warranted both a bit of privacy and urgency."
The old Archmagister's brows rose at that. Her smile widened a touch and she leaned back slightly in her chair, the faint creak of the ancient wood breaking the quiet.
“Oh, does it now?” she replied, her voice dry and brittle as parchment and her tone thick with false cheer. “And what, pray tell, could possibly be so pressing as to disturb an old witch like me in the dead of night? Surely, a man of your standing has no need to be coddled by his elder?”
Threvin’s mouth pulled into the faintest approximation of a smile—polite, bloodless.
“I am not here to be coddled,” he said. “I am here because I have encountered a construct that does not acknowledge our methods, and despite your... eccentricities, I believe you are uniquely qualified to assist me prying open its secrets.”
That earned him a brief stillness from her—attention, if not approval.
Hattica paused a moment, thinking over Threvin's words. After a second, she sat up in her chair and eyed the Magister, her smile falling away as if it had never been. “You are nothing if not ambitious, Threvin. Speak plainly. What is it you seek from me? What is this 'construct' you speak of?”
“I merely seek collaboration,” he said at once, and did not decorate the word. “A collaborative effort for mutual gain—not for power or prestige, but simple knowledge and perhaps a chance to aid not just the city, but the frontline as well. That, and your expertise and authority would act as a second key on any decision that risks turning a discovery into an incident.”
"And the construct?" the Archmagister pushed, impatience seeping into her scratchy voice. "I'm a busy woman, Magister. If you're just going to pussyfoot, then get out of my office and leave me to my work."
Threvin, politely neutral expression slipped and he frowned. But rather than argue, he considered for a moment, then stepped closer—not to loom, but to narrow the distance enough that his next words would not carry beyond the room.
“It concerns a threshold,” he said. “A constructed one. It predates sigaldry, and it does not engage with it. In the plainest terms, I speak of a door that rejects entry by both magickal and physical force. Not even I, with my mastery of the Runic Arts, could penetrate such a barrier.”
Mastery.
The claim pulled a snort from the old woman, though her interest was, once again, piqued. Her fingers tapped against the oak surface of the desk as she pondered the information. She glanced down at the many unfinished documents spread before her and gave a long, weary sigh.
"Go on then," she prompted with a small incline of her chin. "I know you have more to say."
This would likely set her back, and sleep didn't come easy as it was, but the Archmagister supposed it wouldn't be too disruptive. And at the very least, she wasn't ready to keel over from boredom anymore.
Threvin hesitated a moment, as if uncertain how to proceed or more likely, Hattica surmised, unsure of just how much to reveal. Eventually, the Magister found his voice and spoke, quiet but resolute.
“My students reached a fixed location beneath Darkreach,” he continued evenly. “They found a door embedded in stone—petrified growth, accreted cuts in the face, a frame that has been unnaturally twisted into shape rather than carved by hand or runecraft."
The Archmagister's cracked lips thinned, her brow furrowing, but she didn't interrupt as the bespectacled man continued.
"They attempted several methods of orthodox access. Unlocking logic, disenchanting authority, earth-aspect fracture, physical force—both mundane and aether-infused, and finally array work. All equally useless.”
"And you attempted to do the same I presume?" Hattica inquired.
Threvin nodded once. "I did. Once my students reported back to me, I arrived and applied my own methods to breach the door. The fact that I'm here asking you for help should tell how successful my efforts were."
He paused, and a grimace crossed his face briefly before his expression smoothed out. "In truth, I had another meeting to attend to tonight," he admitted, "but in light of current circumstances and my other duties to both the Academy and my House, I had no choice but to postpone and come here."
Hattica dismissed the comment with an impatient wave. "Never mind that, you mentioned this door rejected both physical and magickal force. How? In what manner?"
“There are some ancient artifacts that can resist runecraft, and that resistance can come in many forms, but this threshold did not simply resist,” the Magister explained. “It refused to engage outright. No backlash. No recoil. No absorption. No dissipation pattern. Intent ceased as if it had never been applied.”
The Archmagister leaned forward over her desk, violet eyes alight with an intrigue that had been too absent since her return to the Academy. She stared the Magister down, the intensity of her gaze making the man's carefully curated expression faltered slightly.
"Where specifically did you find this door?" she pressed. “And more importantly, do you know if anything has emerged? Any disappearances, distortions, signature voids, dead aether zones?”
"The eastern depths of Darkreach," Threvin replied after some thought. "Beneath the crumbling estate within the ruins of the old noble district. And no, not to my knowledge. There's been no reports of any strange incidents in the area. There are dead aether zones, but that is not uncommon in a place like Darkreach and none were found at or near the site in question."
"And you're certain?"
"As I can possibly be."
The Archmagister gave Threvin a long look, searching for any signs of deceit, but found only a passive frown that spoke of the seriousness of the situation. She hesitated, but eventually gave a slow nod and let her thoughts slip briefly.
Darkreach.
For a brief moment, Hattica's eyes glazed over as she thought about the Beggar's Quarter. Several memories flashed through her mind, threatening a wistful smile that she viciously suppressed. It was neither the time nor the place nor the present company to get caught up in reminiscing about better days.
"How did you come across this information to begin with?" the Archmagister asked, coming back to the matter at hand. "You don't strike me as the type to take a casual stroll through the Beggar's Quarter."
Threvin's lips curled into a thin smile. "I have many trustred eyes and ears across Veilheim, Archmagister," he replied easily. "And believe it or not, Darkreach has always held a particular interest to me, given its... robust history."
"Is that right?" Hattica answered with a hint of skepticism. "So what then, you believe there's some kind of heirloom or artifact left behind from that vile bloodbath? Some forgotten inheritance or the like behind this door of yours?"
Threvin didn't bother to acknowledge the venom in the woman's voice as he calmly replied.
“I believe it may be a sealed legacy of some sort,” he said. “What it contains matters less than safeguarding access against potential bad actors.Not to mention there exists a class of constructs like this threshold within our city that our orthodox magicks cannot address. These are serious concerns, Archmagister, whether the door reveals a relic or a corpse or something far worse.”
"So you're telling me you've no care for what this barrier holds, merely the barrier itself and who gets their grubby hands on what's beyond it?" Hattica barked out a derisive laugh and shot up from her chair. "Do you think me a fool? I'd sooner hang up my robes, move out to the Greenfield District, and spend the rest of my days as a farmer before I believe that for even a moment."
Her mirth died in an instant.
"I know you, Felicio," she continued, her tone icy. "I know your type. I know how you work. Perhaps I can believe that you do this for the sake of knowledge, but to aid the city? The frontline?" she sneered at the man. "I'm old, but I'm not so senile as to believe you're so altruistic."
Threvin hesitated, but only for a moment. "I have my own goals to accomplish, Archmagister, that I do not deny," he replied, his jaw tight and his tone curt. "Not that it's any business of yours, but as the last living pure-blooded heir and Lord of House Threvin, I have much to deal with and live up to, even now after all these years. As for an explanation, that is all you will get from me."
A long, tense moment of silence passed as the two locked eyes from across the desk. The Magister held Hattica's gaze, unflinching, daring her to press the issue. Hattica stared back for another few seconds before giving the man a small smile, the tension in the air dissipating like smoke on the wind.
"Well, it's nice to see that some of you noble types still have the stones to stick to your convictions, questionable though they may be," she said, plopping herself back down in her seat.
She gave Threvin an appraising look as she continued. "Say I agree to help with this little investigation of yours and we crack that door open. What do you plan to do then? You do realize the Council will need to be informed and they will want whatever we find inside," she paused and narrowed her eyes. "This venture is sanctioned by the Council?"
"Naturally. I brought this case directly to the Grand Chancellor of the High Council myself to minimize risk of information leaking to the wrong sort—and yes I'm well aware," the Magister replied with a slow nod. "And though a shame, such an outcome can't be helped."
"And if the information leaks to the 'wrong sort'?" Hattica pressed.
"Then proper measures will be taken by the Watch with the full authority of both the High Council."
His response was smooth and immediate. The Archmagister narrowed her eyes, but the man swiftly moved on before she could question him further.
"I assure you, I have the matter well in hand," he continued. "Now, regarding my plans..."
The Magister reached into his robes and pulled free a roll of parchment. Stepping forward, he set it down on the Archmagister's desk. He slid it forward, prompting the old woman to read it. Hattica glanced down at it, then back up to Threvin, eyebrow raised. He gave a tight smile in response, as if to say "this is what you wanted, isn't it?".
Threvin released the scroll and stepped back as the Archmagister snatched it up with a huff and unfurled it. Threvin didn't wait for her to finish scanning the details contained within the scroll before he continued speaking.
“One of my students believes the door has some kind of condition required to interface with the threshold," he explained. "Assuming this is the case—and at this point I see no reason to believe it's not—first, secure the threshold. Second, determine what it acknowledges. Third, if and only if we can establish engagement conditions without triggering unknown failure modes, proceed with controlled access.”
The Archmagister didn't reply, the old woman still taking in the information provided in the scroll. Still, Threvin knew she was listening so he pressed on.
"And that, when we get right down to it, is precisely why I am in this room. I can assemble materials. I can secure a perimeter. I can write governance. What I cannot do—what I will not do—is improvise against a pre-sigaldry threshold, a potential artifact in and of itself, with only my own judgment as the brake.”
With that, he fell silent and waited for Hattica's response. She too remained silent for another minute or so before finally tossing the unrolled parchment back onto her desk. She leaned back in her seat and studied Threvin for a long moment, then spoke, her voice calm, but firm.
“You speak of containment," she said slowly, "but I can still see the hunger in those icy blues of yours, Felicio. I don't care about your noble House. I don't care about the story you’re wrapping this in—city, frontline, all of it. And curious as I am about the door and what it hides, that's all it is to me. A curiosity. What I really care about are your motivations. Tell me what you truly want, Magister Threvin.”
For a moment, Threvin’s expression tightened—an internal adjustment, like a document being revised mid-sentence. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, and harder.
“I want Veilheim to remain governable,” he said. “The war is only the pressure. Under pressure, the city stops behaving like a system and starts behaving like a scramble—Houses hoard, the Council dithers, the Academy stalls, and the Church calls anything it can’t name ‘corruption.’"
He held her gaze.
"If this threshold sits inside our walls beyond our reach, it will not stay unclaimed. Someone will move on it first—quietly, privately, with their own people and their own rules. I would rather that be handled under containment than ambition. I am not asking you to help me ‘recover secrets.’ I am asking you to prevent a future incident by ensuring that the first competent hands on this problem are ours.”
A brief but weighty silence followed.
Hattica slowly nodded. “And how does this benefit you specifically? You make a fine claim, but to me this sounds like more altruistic nonsense."
Threvin did not blink.
“And I already told you I will not divulge my personal motivations,” he said. “All I will say is that my House is currently standing atop a knife's edge, and the successful containment of this situation may make or break it. I'm putting everything on the line here, Archmagister. All I ask is a bit of your time and assistance.”
Then, after a beat.
“And if we do not handle it,” he added, “it may cost a district.”
The Archmagister started to scoff, but then stopped and frowned.
She wanted to dismiss the notion. It was just a door, after all, ancient artifact or not. But that didn't account for what was behind the door. In fact, for all she knew, whatever lay behind that door could've been the catalyst for the Revival. Then again, if that were the case, wouldn't the High Council already know about it? And who's to say they didn't? Who was to say this whole investigation wasn't being backed by the Council to begin with?
Hattica let the thought sit, turning it over like a chipped coin between her fingers. The Revival had left scars that never quite healed—gaps in records, absences explained away too neatly, structures whose origins no one could convincingly trace. She had learned long ago that the most dangerous things in Veilheim were not the ones loudly condemned, but the ones quietly tolerated because no one knew how to name them.
She exhaled through her nose and leaned back, joints protesting as she did. The hunger she’d glimpsed in Threvin’s eyes had not vanished, but it had been joined by restraint. That alone gave her pause.
“You’re asking me to step into a mess that will not remain academic,” she said at last. “Once I set foot near that threshold, it becomes real. Council scrutiny. Academy politics. Church interference. And if I don’t like what I find, I won’t just stand by as a simple witness.”
“Correct,” Threvin replied evenly.
“And you’re prepared for me to shut the whole thing down if I decide it’s too unstable to touch?”
His features stiffened, but he nodded. “If that is your judgment.”
Hattica eyed the Magister for a good moment or two, then snorted softly. “Bellatina take it. You’ve always been terrible at lying, Felicio. You dress it up well, but you push too hard when you believe you’re right.”
She rose slowly to her feet, robes whispering against the stone floor. “I will not help you open your door,” she said, holding up a finger before he could speak. “Not yet. What I will do is verify that it exists as you describe. I will examine the threshold itself, nothing beyond that until I know what I'm dealing with. No students. No government oversight beyond beyond the absolute minimum requirement. No clever shortcuts.”
A flicker of relief crossed Threvin’s face before he smoothed it away.
“I also want full disclosure on anyone else that might know about this,” she continued. “And as Archmagister acting on behalf of the Academy's interests, I claim authority to halt the investigation the moment I smell improvisation. If this thing truly predates sigaldry, then curiosity alone is a liability.”
Hattica wasn't the Archon of the Academy, but she still held enough power within its walls to make that kind of call at least. She hadn't just clawed her way up the hierarchy for her own health, and it was times like these that her title paid off.
She met his gaze, violet eyes sharp despite her age.
“I’m not doing this for your House, the Council, or the war,” Hattica said. “I’m doing it because I refuse to believe an anomaly like this, if what you say is true, has been left undiscovered for so long.
She gave the Magister a pointed look. "I'm also doing this because, to put it bluntly, dear, I simply don't trust you. I don't trust that you have the city's or the Academy's best interested at heart.I don't trust you enough to leave you alone with this, so yes, I'll tag along because something about all of this smells of bogrot, and I will have the truth of things, Magister, one way or the other.”
Threvin let her words slide past him and inclined his head, deeper this time. “As long as your assistance is assured, that is all I require.”
Hattica nodded once. "Good, I'll notify you once preparations on my end are made—ah, and I'll require you to bring me any copies of the data you've already obtained."
And, with the conversation concluded, she sat back down, her eyes already focused on the unfinished mess of reports and dossiers scattered across the desk.
"Now kindly get out of my office so I can finish all this blasted work and go to bed."
