The rain hadn't stopped.When Megan slipped back into the library, stormwater streaked the tall windows and rattled the panes like restless fingers.
The aisles were empty. No Prefects, no librarian. Just the tick of the great clock and the damp smell of paper.
She told herself she came for quiet. A place to shake off the words F-tier, failure, useless.But her steps carried her toward the velvet rope across the restricted wing.
Cold leaked out from the gap. Not an ordinary draft—this chill felt deliberate, like something beneath the floor exhaled.
Megan hesitated, then pushed the rope aside.
The restricted shelves towered over her. Dust coated the spines thick enough to leave streaks. Gold Latin letters flaked away like scars.
She passed an atlas of constellations that no longer existed,a poetry book filled with cruel notes scribbled in the margins,and a bestiary whose beasts seemed to twitch when her shadow brushed the cover.
Then she noticed it.
Not the largest, not the oldest.But unlike the others, its cover glowed faintly—as if a piece of moonlight had been locked inside the leather.
Stamped into the cover was an eye, raised as though something inside had pushed outward.
Her throat tightened. She pulled the book free.
It opened on its own.
The words writhed.
Ink bled and rearranged until they formed lines she should not have been able to read:
The label you wear is not truth.You are already at a door.Turn away——or knock.
The lamps dimmed. The book glowed bone-pale in her hands.
Her voice cracked. "I didn't knock."
You were heard anyway.
The voice slid under her thoughts.
The library dissolved.
She sat at a black table that reflected nothing, only depth.
Mist gathered across from her—no face, no form, only presence. A deck of cards lay between them, the backs etched with the eye.
"Who are you?" Megan whispered.
I am the Witness.
The words pressed into her skull, smooth as oil, heavy as stone.
"I didn't ask for this."
Choice is nothing. You were seen, Megan Cross. That cannot be undone.
Her name in that voice hollowed her chest.
"Seen by what?"
By what watches. By what waits.
Three cards slid forward.
There are Paths of Sight: the Seer, who notices; the Diviner, who reads; the Oracle, who speaks. Every path takes a cost. Every truth needs an anchor.
"What cost?"
Time. Pain. Mistakes you cannot erase.Safety? That belongs to cages. Cages never open.
The first card flipped.
A chain stretched thin. A crack widened in a chandelier's hook.Then—before it moved—she saw the crash. Glass shattering, fire scattering, the boy in the green sash screaming.
The second card turned.
A corridor lined with mildew.Salt poured into three neat lines, forming a triangle around a metal grate.
From beneath rose not cold, but a hunger—breathing steady, patient. Thirsty not for water, but for lives.
Megan swallowed iron. "East wing."
The third card flipped on its own.
A boy's face from the newest missing poster. His mouth shaped a word no one could hear.
In the shadows, fingers lifted one by one.Not counting coins.Counting people.
One.Another.Another.
A tithe not of gold, but of names and lives.
Megan slammed the card down. "Stop."
Silence pressed.
"You think I can fix this? I'm nobody. F-tier so the Academy can sleep at night."
Labels are for records. You were not made for drawers.
Her nails dug into her palm. "What do you want?"
To choose.
"Choose what?"
To look when others turn away. To act when order says wait. To pay when the price is fair, and to refuse when the price is theft.
"That's not an answer."
It is the only one that matters.
A fourth card slid forward. A single word glowed:
Tithe Night.
"What does that mean?"
You'll hear the name whispered in dorms, never explained. And when you understand—it will already be too late.
Heat seared her palm. She tried to pull away, but it sank beneath her skin.
The library snapped back.
She staggered against a shelf. The book lay open on the floor, its pages blank.
Her palm burned. Beneath the skin, faint and unblinking, an eye shimmered. She rubbed. It did not fade.
"Megan?"
She flinched.
Lena stood at the end of the aisle with a lantern. "You missed dinner again."
Megan forced a smirk. "I was hungry for knowledge."
"Restricted shelves aren't funny."
"They've got velvet ropes. Very safe."
Lena stepped closer. "What did you read?"
"Nothing. Didn't make sense." Megan shoved the book back.
"Then why hide your hand?"
"I'm cold."
Lena frowned.
They walked out together. The rope brushed Megan's sleeve like a warning.
At the doors, Lena lowered her voice. "Did you hear? New salt traces. Three lines, evenly spaced."
"What happened?"
"Cleaned. But they'll come back."
"Salt forbids. Salt invites," Megan muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Her palm pulsed once. In the glass, beside Lena's reflection, chandeliers swayed like threats. A chain—soon—would break.
The taste of peppermint filled her mouth.
"Promise me," Lena said. "No wandering."
"I promise to meander instead."
"Megan."
"I'll be careful."
It wasn't a promise she could keep.
Above them, the clock ticked toward dawn.Below, through a grate, water dripped steady as counting.
One.Another.Another.
Not coins. Lives.
Megan clenched her fist until the mark ached.
All sight requires an anchor, the Witness had said. Take yours, or drift.
She whispered, "Maybe losing control once wouldn't be so bad."
The mark warmed in reply, almost mocking.
She laughed under her breath—sharp, defiant—and followed Lena into the storm-dark corridors, carrying the weight of an eye that refused to close.