Six

I place my hand on the chilly stone outside the south gate of the Mage Academy. Like everything else in this world, it's sticky with rain. The uneven stones beneath my boots are the result of centuries of men passing through this gate with the belief that they owned it.

Midnight drips from the copper eaves in thick, silvery ropes, painting the courtyard in a hushed, holy dark. It's the kind of night the God might whisper into. Or maybe the kind they turn their backs on.

My fingers flex against the wall.

"Don't blame me when things turn ugly."

Jake's words, flung like a last warning as if I hadn't already stepped over the edge.

I breathe out, slow. Like Grandfather Idris taught me when I was a girl with soot on her cheeks and a wooden sword in her lap.

Jake—the High Mage's favorite mistake. Dressed in theory and old magic, with that silver hair that somehow still looks perfect even when it's raining. All glasses and quiet fury. The kind of boy who reads laws instead of breaking them. Who wants power, but only if it's clean and gifted.

I scoff, a sharp breath between my teeth.

Ugly?

He wouldn't know ugly if it sat across from him at the dinner table with a wine glass and a wedding band. If it screamed in his face while he looked away, pretending to be noble.

He threatened me that night in the garden. Cowardly. He said it like he was giving me a chance.

"Cruel, alright."

Then he walked away like it was finished.

But I know that boy. Jake always walks away.

And I can't let him walk me into ruin. 

No.

I won't wait until the priest throws flowers at our feet and signs away my name like a donation.

I came here tonight with one thing: leverage.

The Mage Academy is silent.

Sleeping.

The sort of sleep that belongs to old magic. I know its rhythms now. Jake's, too.

He's still in the East Wing, I know it before I even check. He's a creature of habit. He stays late. Studies alone. Always rewriting his father's lectures in the margin of sacred books like he's trying to impress ghosts.

I slip through the atrium on soft boots, the hem of my cloak dragging through puddled shadows.

He's there. Just beyond the brass doors of the archive, framed by candlelight. His silver hair glows like frost. His lips move, muttering under breath—some incantation I don't care to understand. And in his hand: the access ring.

A thin, unremarkable thing of stone and gold. But it pulses faintly with wards. Only it can open the Vault.

Good.

He brought it.

I watch him from behind the last column, not breathing. He doesn't see me. He moves, finally, toward the easternmost corridor. Toward the Vault.

The Codex Arcanum waits there—a thing no outsider's allowed to touch. A thing not even Jake fully understands. It's not a normal book. It's not even alive. It's worse. A breathing memory. Spells fused to spirit. Bone-bound knowledge from mages long dead.

They say if it were ever corrupted, the entire hierarchy of magic would collapse.

So what would happen if someone almost did? What would happen if the door glitched?

Just once.

And a shadow moved near it. And the alarms didn't ring—but someone swore they felt something.

Something wrong. Not broken. But… shifted. That's the kind of threat you can't punish. 

And it starts with me.

I follow Jake. Five steps behind, tucked into the rhythm of his stride. The eastern corridor is narrow, half-lit by floating lamps that buzz with tired magic. I keep to the shadows along the corridor, boots making no sound on the mosaic tile. He moves like he always does. Straight-backed, unhurried, humming something under his breath. He always hums when he's nervous. I know that now. He doesn't even realize.

We reach the Vault soon. That cursed door is black steel veined with old gold. Not decorated. Branded. It radiates power the way a sleeping animal radiates teeth.

He lifts the ring. It glows once on his hand faintly. The Vault recognizes him. It opens without a sound. He steps inside, reverent, like he's entering a chapel.

That's exactly what I need.

I wait just long enough for him to step in, for the heavy door to click shut behind him, sealing us in. The room is quiet. No guards. No alarms. No need—because no one is ever supposed to get in without bloodline clearance and that damn ring.

But here I am.

I pull a bottle from the lining of my cloak. Thick glass. Frosted. Stoppered with wax and sealed with a prayer I never bothered to read.

It's called Noctanox.

Sleep-draught. Strong. Pure. Banned in three provinces. They only use it for war mages who come back with screaming dreams, too haunted to rest. Sometimes used on patients who scream through every night. 

Not sold in markets. Not meant for girls like me. But money is a language everyone speaks. And I'm fluent in most dialects of bribery. I bribed a wandering healer for one. Gave him a sealed letter with the Duke's crest on it. Not real, but it looked good enough.

I unscrew the top. A sweet, heavy scent curls into the air mixed with lavender and crushed blueleaf. I dip the edge of a silk cloth into the liquid. Fold it back into a handkerchief. Tuck it in my glove.

Jake is too close to the Codex now. His eyes half-lidded, hand resting on the glass column that holds it. A mistake.

I step up behind him, smooth as smoke. "You shouldn't stare so long," I whisper.

He flinches—spins on instinct. "Kiana!?" His voice cracks at the edges, and he grabs for something—his ring, maybe, or the glyph-stone at his hip.

Too late.

I press the cloth gently over his mouth and nose. He jerks once and grabs at my wrists instantly. "What the hell are you doing?!"

I press closer, tightening the hold. "Shhh. I just need a minute, darling. Sleep."

He tries to twist free. He's stronger than me as always, fury burning behind his eyes now. "Stop! Let go of me—you don't know what you're doing!"

He's breathing in too much of it. I can feel his grip weakening. He jerks his head to the side, tries to throw me off, but his breath hitches. "What did you—what did you do?" His legs stumble against the edge of the Codex's dais. "You can't be in here. Do you know what they'll—" His words slur. "You think they'll let you live if you touch—"

"Always so dramatic," I say softly.

His hands fumble at my cloak, trembling. His knees knock together. "You—you can't just—" His voice breaks into a rasp. "My father—"

"Yes," I say. "Your father will be furious."

His eyes widen. Panic now, real panic. He stumbles back against the wall, clawing at the air like he might still escape. "No. No—Kiana, don't—please. If you touch that, they'll erase you."

He means it.

I let him see the look in my eyes.

I let him see that I'm already past caring.

"No, they will erase you and your father."

His mouth opens again, but the words don't come. He sinks. Eyes rolling, body folding. I catch him, just before his skull cracks the stone.

Sort of.

He's heavier than he looks. All those years of fencing and fasting made him tall and sharp and annoying. I ease him down. His hand brushes the pedestal as he collapses. "Next time," I whisper in his ear, brushing a strand of hair from his temple, "don't threaten me."

The Codex stirs.

I stand.

This thing... it's ancient. Terrible. Beautiful.

"Don't worry," I say to the book. "I'm not here to worship you."

Just mess with you a little. 

I circle it once. Slowly. Respectfully. I don't touch the binding. That's where the curses are, if they've got any brains at all.

The plan wasn't to touch it. Just to scare them. Just to plant the idea that someone could. That I could. So I reach for it. Not recklessly. I'm not stupid. Just a gloved fingertip pressed to the outer ward. The reaction is immediate—an arc of light flickers outward, scanning, testing.

I pull back.

Too fast for the alarm to go off.

Now for the show.

A page. Just one. That's all I need.

The Codex doesn't turn like a normal book. You don't flip its leaves. You think. You focus. It responds.

I channel everything I have into one sharp thought:

A warning. A betrayal. A wound that doesn't bleed.

The Codex stirs. A shimmer of light folds forward—a projection of a page, full of runes I can't understand. I don't need to.

I copy them. Sloppily, messily, onto the parchment I brought. Enough to scare them. Enough to make them wonder what I saw. Or worse—what I took.

The page is weightless in my hand. Which is absurd, considering it could bring down an entire bloodline. I fold the page once. Twice. Then I seal it in a black envelope. Slide it between the lining of my robe.

I step back from the altar where it rests, pulsing gently like a second heart. The security enchantments will reset by sunrise. No breach will be logged. The wards are smart, but they're not designed to catch a ghost.

A page from the Codex Arcanum… copied. 

That alone is treason. Heresy. A blasphemy against the laws that built this place. If I sell this to the black market, it would fetch more gold than any royal dowry. The crown will know the academy isn't as sealed as they boast. It would be a bloodbath. 

Because this academy—this shrine of sacred magic, wrapped in a thousand wards and centuries of blood-protection is not supposed to be breachable. Ever.

And if word got out that it was? 

Someone would hang for it.

And there are only two names on the access registry.

High Mage Emeran.

And Jake.

I smile, just a little. It's not a happy smile. It's the kind you make when your back finally finds the wall and you push right through it.

I don't even need to say I did it. No one would believe I could.

They'll look at the door. At the runes. At the timing. At the impossibility of it all.

And then they'll look at the only ones who could have done it.

Jake, the heir. Or Emeran, the guardian.

Either way, I've got them both by the throat.

And I will use it.

He'll break the engagement. He has to.

Because if he doesn't—

Well. Let's just say there's a buyer in Arvenia who collects forbidden texts like lovers collect scars. He's discreet. He's obsessed. And he's rich enough to bribe an entire council blind.

And then, the crown will know. When they do, it won't be me on trial.

It'll be him.

And there won't be enough prayers in the world to save him then.

Jake is still asleep on the floor when I leave, his hand twitching like he's dreaming something restless. I kiss his cheek. "You shouldn't have threatened me," I whisper.

And I disappear down the corridor like smoke.

* * *

It starts with an apprentice—Meira.

Pretty little thing. Nervous around authority. Sloppy with scrolls, sharp with numbers. She was kind to me once during the Summit, offered a cloak when I was drenched in rain. Just a quiet gesture, nothing grand.

But I never forget kindness.

Or weaknesses.

We talked. Once. Then again. Always by accident. Always brief. I let her lead. Let her feel clever. She liked the attention. I asked her questions like I was curious about the logistics of academy life.

When does the southern barrier refresh?

Every full moon.

Is it true only instructors and east-garden apprentices are allowed to walk the lower halls?

Yes. Just as long as they flash their patch rings at the perimeter check.

How are patch rings assigned?

Assigned upon admission.

She didn't even notice she was answering. She was just happy someone remembered her name.

I thanked her.

And then I stole her patch to etch a copy. Not the full key, obviously. That would've taken hours, and I didn't have hours. But a partial flicker signature—fifteen seconds of access if combined with a glyph-disruptor?

More than enough.

The ring went back to Meira's satchel. She never noticed it was gone.

But Cyril didn't know I'd aim for the Codex. He would've bolted if he had. 

He's not a coward, but smart to know there are some things the Academy doesn't forgive. And Codex breaches? That's not just expulsion or exile. That's execution. They turn your name to ash before the ashes even cool.

Cyril's not a student here.

He used to be, back when he still believed in the sanctity of knowledge, before they chewed him up and tossed him out for something petty. He'd been banned from the inner sanctum three years ago after a sealed file went missing. No proof, no punishment.

He is the kind of person who knows how to vanish even when standing in front of you. Informant. Supplier. Problem-solver, if the price is right. You want blackmarket enchantments or sealed archives decoded? You find Cyril.

And me?

I went to him with a lie.

"Jake won't answer me. He won't leave the academy. He's avoiding me like I'm plague-touched, and I just… I need to talk to him, Cyril. It's personal."

He squinted at me, suspiciously.

"You could write."

"He burns my letters."

"Maybe he's done with you."

That one stung.

"Help me get in. Just for an hour. I'll slip in. I'll talk to him. I'll leave. I swear on your miserable little life."

"You don't even like him anymore."

"I don't. But he owes me a goddamn conversation."

He didn't budge.

So I smiled and changed tactics. Pulled out the envelope.

Inside: an old, signed shipping manifest bearing Cyril's name from after he was formally dismissed. Contraband. Stolen goods. One signature away from ruin.

His face drained.

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"That was three years ago."

"And now I want a favor. Balance, Cyril. You taught me that yourself."

He gave in.

The glyph-disruptor is delicate. Old tech. Dangerous in the wrong hands. He called it experimental. He lied about that.

It's clean. Elegant. Untraceable.

I tucked it into the heel of my boot. Layered its core with spell-silencing cloth and steps laced with runes that told the ground I wasn't really there.

The patch ring—etched with Meira's flicker—went under my glove. Close enough for the wards to taste it.

The guards weren't the problem anymore.

See, the guards trust the barriers. The barriers trust the system. The system trusts names. Names trust blood.

I didn't need to become someone else. I just needed to convince the walls I was expected.

I slipped in during the fourth prayer watch—just before dawn, when the magic resets for the daily alignment and the halls drop into stillness. Eight minutes. That's the gap. Too early for instructors, too late for night sweepers. And no student is ever allowed out of their quarters during it.

That's the flaw.

They assume discipline equals safety.

Idiots.

I entered through the southeast terrace gate, used the disruptor on the first ward, and kept to the scholar's wing where the lighting dims at night and the sentient lanterns only glow when spoken to. I didn't speak.

My robes weren't mine. They were borrowed. Crestless. Deep blue. The kind worn by silent-order mages from the Dust Reaches—servants of the high sanctums. Outsiders with limited access and infinite dread.

The robes smelled like smoke, iron, and something like old perfume soaked into the hem. Cyril said the stink would help. "People trust fear more than logic," he told me.

He was right.

Even the statues didn't turn their heads as I passed.

I moved in silence. I knew the direction. I knew the blind spots.

I knew Jake would be there, checking on the Codex, as he always did every full moon, without fail. Routine is a beautiful thing. It tells you everything you need, if you're listening.

There's a moment, just after I pass the final barrier, when I stop.

Not because I hear something.

Not because I'm afraid of being caught.

But because I feel it—this bone-deep dissonance in my chest, like I've ripped something out of myself and left it behind in the corridor.

A daughter of the Duke, sneaking in the academy like some gutter-born thief with nothing left to lose. Me. The girl who was trained to curtsy on command, who was drilled on heraldry and etiquette before she ever learned what hunger felt like.

Breaking in. Lying. Stealing.

And doing it better than most criminals would dare to dream.

I should have felt shame. Disgrace. Some kind of moral collapse. But I didn't. No, what I felt was clarity. Because the truth is—I don't want to be one of them.

Westermere.

I don't want to sit at their table. I don't want their crest stitched into my collar or their expectations carved into my spine. I don't want to wake up every morning being told who I am, what I should be, who I should love, what I must protect.

But most of all—More than the fear. More than the crime. More than what I've just stolen—

I don't want to wake up every morning beside a man whose heart only ever loved that girl.

Her.