Aysel's day unraveled with an uncanny sense of repetition.
Classes blurred into one another, voices of lecturers dissolving into meaningless background noise. She sat through lectures beside Zephyr just as she had yesterday, but her mind drifted elsewhere—anchored not in the present, but in the echo of something strange and impossible.
Zephyr noticed, of course. He always noticed. But instead of probing, he merely shot her a sidelong glance, filing away her silence for later.
Later came during lunch.
Without warning, he hooked his fingers around her wrist and all but dragged her to the cafeteria. She blinked at him in surprise, half tempted to protest, but his grip was firm and oddly resolute. Once they'd settled at a table, trays laden with food between them, Zephyr finally broke the silence.
"You've been daydreaming a lot lately." His gaze sharpened, mischief curling at the edges of his words. "What's on your mind? Don't tell me it's a guy?"
Her eyes widened. "What? No! Absolutely not!"
But even as she denied it, an unbidden image flared in her mind—dust, candlelight, the scent of old parchment. The library.
She remembered Aylin's memories—the ruined village wreathed in smoke, the ground littered with blood and splintered wood, and the deep roars of monsters echoing through the haze. Amid the devastation stood a tall man with long midnight hair, a black blindfold concealing his eyes, yet his movements were unnervingly precise. His voice was calm but heavy with an undercurrent that clung to her, the weight of his words—half warning, half prophecy—lodging in her mind and refusing to let go.
"It's just…" Her voice faltered. She hesitated, then leaned closer. "I… have something to ask you."
He gave a noncommittal hum, still chewing. "Shoot."
"It's about our library," she began cautiously. "Yesterday, I found Shelf Twelve in the west wing—"
"Wait."
His tone sliced through her words. Zephyr put his fork down slowly, the lighthearted mask slipping from his face. When his eyes met hers, they were unreadable, the air between them suddenly taut.
"Shelf Twelve… in the west wing?"
She nodded warily. "Yes."
He leaned back, studying her as though she'd just confessed to trespassing into a forbidden tomb.
"Aysel," he said quietly, "there is no west wing in the library."
The cup in her hand slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor. The sound ricocheted through the cafeteria, but she barely heard it over the pounding in her ears.
"No… west wing?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Zephyr's expression didn't waver. "Not anymore. It burned down last year. The school rebuilt it, but… every time they did, it caught fire again. No explanation. Eventually, they walled it off completely. Now, if you head there, you'll find nothing but an ugly slab of stone."
Her skin prickled, gooseflesh rippling down her arms. "But yesterday…" She swallowed hard. "I saw rows of books."
"You're not the first," he murmured, leaning forward now. "Some students claim they've stumbled inside. An ancient-looking library, dust thick as velvet. Some made it back. Others… didn't."
The unspoken weight of the word didn't made her throat dry.
"Why do you ask?" Zephyr's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Don't tell me you wandered in there yourself?"
She hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.
Should I tell him? The question warred in her mind. Trust was dangerous currency in this academy. But if anyone could make sense of it… perhaps it was him.
"I was looking for study materials," she began slowly, "and the crystal sphere told me to check Shelf Twelve in the west wing."
Zephyr's brow furrowed. "The magical locator sent you there?"
"Yes. But when I arrived, there was only an empty shelf—dusty, cracked, no books at all."
"That's… peculiar," he said, voice low. "The spheres don't make errors. They're crafted with the finest enchantments."
She hesitated, then asked the question that had been gnawing at her since she left the library. "Zeph… do you think it's possible to witness someone else's memories?"
His reaction was fleeting but telling—the faintest flicker of alarm in his eyes before his usual composure returned. "Why do you ask?"
She forced a casual shrug, masking her own unease. "No reason. I read it in a book, that's all."
He studied her for a moment longer, then leaned back. "It's not my field, but I know someone who can give you a real answer."
Her curiosity sharpened. "You do?"
"Mm-hmm." A sly grin touched his lips. "He's an insufferable know-it-all when it comes to magical theory. If anyone can unravel your little mystery, it's him."
He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Come on."
"Now? I still have classes—"
"Your next one's Alchemy and Potioncraft, right?" His grin widened. "Perfect. He's in that class today. Special senior-junior collaboration project."
Her intrigue deepened. "So he's a senior?"
"Top of his year. You'll see."
They wove through the corridors, the echo of their footsteps mingling with the distant hum of conversation. When they reached the lab, Zephyr pushed the door open with a mock flourish.
"There," he said, nodding toward a cluster of students.
She followed his gaze—and froze.
"Riven…?" The name slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
The young man turned at the sound, golden hair catching the light like spun sunlight. He was surrounded by younger students, each vying for his attention, but his eyes found hers instantly.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
"Aysel," he said, as though the syllables themselves were a quiet revelation. "You came."