From behind, a smooth, familiar voice cut through the quiet, halting Vencian before the next turn.

When he turned, Aline was there, walking quickly to catch up, a book hugged to her chest.

"Were you talking to someone?" she said, falling into step with him, her brow creased.

He hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Old habit. Thinking out loud."

She studied the air beside him as if the silence might answer. Then she relaxed. "You should be careful doing that. People already think you talk to ghosts."

"I suppose that would fit the family reputation." His tone was dry, not defensive. "How have you been? You look less exhausted than last term."

Her mouth twitched. "A miracle. I started sleeping. My mentor finally stopped making me retranslate temple inscriptions every night." She glanced down the hall. "And you? You vanished after the last symposium."

"Research work," he said. "Archives. Dead ends mostly."

Aline tilted her head. "Where are Elias or Rapheldor? You're usually with one of them."

"Do you think we move as a unit?" he said. "They have their own lives, I assure you."

"Since when are you close with Rapheldor anyway? You two barely spoke before this term."

Vencian shrugged. "I'm not sure. He's good-natured, bad impulses, but means well. It seemed easier to accept his friendship than question it."

Aline gave a knowing smile but said nothing. They stepped outside. The air smelled faintly of ink and wet stone after rain. Students crossed the flagstones in groups, voices low.

Aline looked sideways at him. "You've changed, Ven. I don't mean the hair or the way you dress. You look... lighter, somehow."

He met her gaze briefly. "That's rare praise, coming from you."

"Don't dodge it."

"I'm not. I think it's because I stopped expecting everything to make sense."

She frowned, uncertain whether that was wisdom or evasion. "You sound like one of those philosophy tutors."

"Let's hope I'm paid better."

She shook her head, smiling. "You should come to dinner next week. Cassar keeps asking if you're alive."

Vencian paused. "Cassar? He's here?"

"Yes," she said. "Mother and Cassar are in Ralan right now. The engagement preparations pulled half the nobility toward the capital. Father's still at the estate but he'll join us on the day itself."

Vencian nodded slowly. "That explains the quieter corridors."

They walked until the cloister came into view. Aline stopped, adjusting her grip on the book. "I should go. I promised the company."

She nodded toward one of the pillars running along the cloister. A girl sat there, blond hair catching the light, eyes downcast—Seris.

Vencian said nothing. He understood. Aline stood between them, cousin to one, loyal friend to the other. The kind of line that could only fray, never mend.

He watched her cross the courtyard and join Seris. They walked away together without looking back.

Only then did he tear his gaze from them. His meeting with Seris was coming soon; Sagiel had already given him the details. He would go, and this time he'd see for himself what truth remained in her eyes.

With that thought, Vencian turned and walked off.

— — —

Vencian sat in the carriage, resting his head against the backrest, thinking of Abnet's last session—the motions repeated, the deflection drills, the way Abnet's strikes landed with unnerving precision.

Even now, the rhythm of it lingered in his mind like an unfinished equation. It wasn't enough.

No matter how far he advanced, Abnet's movements carried something he couldn't yet read.

He folded one leg over the other, eyes half-lidded. The training had honed his reflexes but left him restless. Abnet's warning had not faded either—Amadeus sees people as tools. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps it didn't matter.

The carriage lurched, slowed, then halted. Outside, the driver muttered something sharp before climbing down. The brief silence pressed in. Vencian leaned toward the window, pushing the curtain aside.

"Problem?" he called.

The driver turned his head. "Inspection barricades, my lord. Forest route. They're saying it's temporary."

Through the half-open window, Vencian saw them—rows of wagons and scaffolded wooden beams along the edge of the road, engineers in brown coats, and masked Church workers with pale insignias on their sleeves. They moved briskly, erecting posts and setting rope lines across the tree line.

"What kind of inspection needs construction?" he asked.

The driver adjusted his cap, uneasy. "They claim it's for the Everlight festival. Preparations starting early."

"Mid-spring?" Vencian's voice was mild, but his brow lifted slightly. "They never begin before the thaw's end."

The Everlight festival marked the year's turning, yet this time the season was only halfway through.

"That's what I thought," the man said. "They've also sealed Tolstall Forest. Said no one's to enter. Even the woodcutters got turned back. Something about hazards."

Hazards. Convenient words. Vencian let the curtain fall, fingers resting against the leather seat. Outside, a hammer struck metal, sharp and rhythmic. Festival preparations made for good cover. Too organized for mere festivities.

After a few minutes, the barricade loosened. The driver remounted, flicked the reins, and the carriage creaked forward again.

Then the movement slowed again. A second halt. This time deliberate.

A banner fluttered across the intersection ahead—dark blue trimmed with silver. Montaro colors. The horses snorted, restless. A line of armored guards blocked the road, and from among them stepped a man Vencian recognized at once.

Marvik Montaro removed his gloves with unhurried precision. His smile was a studied gesture, pleasant enough to disguise intent.

"Lord Vicorra," he said. "What an unexpected sight on this road."

Vencian lowered the window. "I pass through here everyday, Professor Montaro. It's you who's the unexpected sight. I see. You've expanded your duties. From lecturing half-asleep students to checking forest roads—quite the transition."

A murmur of amusement stirred among the guards. Marvik's smile held, though the corners of his eyes hardened. "Inspection is a noble duty. The High Preceptor and the Church have assigned me to oversee safety for the upcoming festival. I trust you won't object to a brief search?"

"I would be offended if you didn't," Vencian replied. "It would suggest I'm not worth suspecting."

Marvik inclined his head, feigning civility. "Of course. Then I'll have your driver open the compartments."

The driver hesitated. Vencian gestured lightly—permission. Better to let them dig their own shallowness. The men moved, unlatching the trunks, inspecting scrolls and clothing bundles with unnecessary care.

Marvik stepped closer to the window, lowering his voice. "You've been keeping interesting company lately. Certain names resurface in records. Vicorra blood has always drawn attention."

Vencian regarded him with faint amusement. "I didn't realize your inspection extended to genealogy. Tell me, is that part of the Church's safety protocol now?"

"Merely ensuring stability. The last thing we need is another incident like what happened in Coriel. You know how the Church panics when villagers start seeing omens in their wells."

"Indeed," Vencian said. "If you're worried about stability, you should know—balance was never your family's strong point."

The nearest guard coughed to hide a laugh. Marvik's expression turned flat.

Marvik leaned closer, keeping his voice low. "Rumor says you've been seen with the High Preceptor's daughter. Ambitious choice. Her father must admire your nerve."

Vencian looked unimpressed. "I prefer good conversation. You'd find that hard to relate to."

Marvik smiled without warmth. "You think that tongue makes you clever."

"No," Vencian said. "It only makes me honest."

Marvik's tone shifted. "Careful, Vicorra. The world already thinks you can't stay out of trouble. One girl leaves, another appears. Looks like habit."

"Habit?" Vencian tilted his head. "You make it sound like you'd know. How many broken hearts are you counting these days, Professor?"

"You'd do well to mind your words," Marvik said.

"Or what? You'll assign me detention?" Vencian's voice stayed mild, but his eyes said he'd already dismissed him. To him, the Montaros were parasites in finer coats—men who thought name could stand in for worth.

The guards hurried, slamming the compartments shut. The atmosphere had shifted, the smirks now faintly turned toward Vencian instead of against him. Marvik exhaled through his nose, controlling the line of his jaw.

Marvik stepped back, the civility reset on his face. "You're clear to proceed, Lord Vicorra. But take the warning seriously—stay clear of the forest. No one's sure what's buried in it."

He placed a hand on Vencian's shoulder, half-friendly, half-condescending. "Some roads don't forgive curiosity."

Vencian brushed the hand off with a quiet slap, flicking the dust from his coat as if an insect had touched him. "Then I'll remember to tread where the meek won't."

Marvik's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He turned back to his men.

Inside the carriage, Vencian leaned back, expression unreadable. The contempt still hung like smoke, but his pulse was steady.

The forest stretched again on their right, dense and dark beyond the new fences. A faint shimmer in the air drifted near the window—Quenya, barely visible, face turned toward the treeline. Her outline flickered like a reflection seen through rippling glass.

Vencian watched her silently.

Minutes passed, the sound of hooves steady again. Then he noticed the stillness of her expression—far too intent.

He clicked his fingers beside her. "You were staring."

She blinked, turning to him. "That place," she said softly. "It feels familiar."

"Tolstall Forest?"

"Yes. Like something's calling from within."

Her tone carried no drama, only certainty. Vencian looked once more toward the trees. The wind shifted; a warm current brushed through the narrow window slit, touching his face. Warm, unnaturally so for spring.

He held it there in thought, feeling the weight of the day compress into silence—the forest, the inspection, the names that followed him like shadows.

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