The academy felt different the next morning.
Not louder—quieter. Like something had been carved out of its bones while no one was watching.
Serena and I walked separate routes to breakfast. Just in case.
When I entered the dining hall, the usual chatter dimmed—not stopped, but curved around me, like I was a rock dropped into a flowing stream.
They'd seen the paper on my door. I didn't need to ask.
I ate without tasting, eyes scanning for more than food. Watching movements. Listening to what wasn't said.
Halfway through, a second-year student passed behind me—just close enough to drop something.
A folded scrap of parchment.
I waited until I was alone to open it. Inside, a single sentence:
"D-17 was only the beginning. Check the atrium vault before the full moon."
No signature.
Of course not.
I found Serena after lessons, pulling her into one of the spell-casting chambers under renovation.
"We have another thread," I said, passing her the note.
She read it in silence, then exhaled. "They're daring us."
"Or warning us."
"Same difference," she muttered. "Do you think the vault's even still active?"
I nodded. "There's supposed to be a backup of old tribunal records there. Paper only. No enchantments."
"And no tracking spells," she added, eyes sharpening. "Good."
We made our plan.
Midnight. Just before the waxing moon's peak.
The atrium vault was beneath the main library—sealed years ago after the archive digitization. Technically decommissioned. Functionally forgotten.
But someone remembered.
When we picked the lock that night, the hinges didn't creak. The dust didn't stir. The door opened like it had been waiting for us.
Inside: rows of shelves. Scrolls. Faded leather. And at the far end, a black iron cabinet—untouched by time.
It was already unlocked.
Inside were tribunal ledgers I didn't recognize. Years unmarked in the public registry. Names that didn't belong to students. Records that shouldn't exist.
One entry caught my eye.
Flameheart Reconstruction Oversight: Dossier 3C - Rejected
Serena's voice behind me was low. "These aren't records. They're redactions."
"They were hiding something," I said. "Or someone."
I reached for the dossier.
But before I could open it—
A voice cut through the silence:
"Don't touch that."
We spun.
And saw a figure in academy robes—not a student.
Someone older.
Someone who had been here long before we arrived.
And never left.