Chapter One —
The halls of the Chancery were never silent. They only pretended to be.
Ithrel walked carefully, boots soft against the stone, the sound swallowed almost immediately by tall, narrow shelves that climbed toward a ceiling lost in shadow. Books filled them in uneven rows, bound in leather, linen, bone, and materials he did not have names for yet.
Some people breathed faintly. Some whispered when no one listened. Others sat heavy and inert, as if offended by the presence of anyone who passed.
The air smelled of dust and old ink, layered with something sharper like metal, maybe, or the dry bite of preserved glyph resin.
Light fell in thin columns from the high windows, never quite reaching the floor. It made the hall feel like a place built for thought, not movement.
Ithrel adjusted the strap of his satchel and slowed as he approached the door at the end of the corridor.
—Miss Peggy's Cabinet.
He had been called without explanation. That alone meant it wasn't routine.
The door was plain dark wood, no ornamentation, but Ithrel knew better than to trust appearances. He paused, steadied his breath, and knocked once.
"Come in," came her voice, calm and precise.
The Cabinet was smaller than the halls suggested it should be. The warmth brushed Ithrel face. Shelves lined the walls, but these were curated, no clutter, no excess. Each book sat where it belonged. A wide desk occupied the center, its surface layered with parchment, tools, and one very unhappy-looking volume resting atop a linen cloth.
Miss Peggy sat behind the desk, spectacles low on her nose, stylus in hand. Her hair was pinned back neatly, streaked with gray that caught the light. She did not look up as Ithrel entered.
"You're punctual," she said. Not praise. Observation.
"I try to be," Ithrel replied, inclining his head. His eyes drifted, despite himself, to the book.
It looked ruined.
Water damage was obvious, pages swollen, edges warped, the spine bowed like it had given up resisting. Several sections were fused together entirely, ink bled into murky shadows. It was the kind of damage most junior Archivists quietly hoped they'd never be assigned.
Miss Peggy followed his gaze.
"A bestiary," she said. "Fourth tier. Pulled from the lower stacks after a pipe burst."
Ithrel frowned slightly. "I thought the lower stacks were sealed."
"They are. Seals fail." She finally looked up at him, eyes sharp. "Sit."
He did, carefully, on the chair opposite her desk.
"Fix it," she said simply.
No instructions. No constraints.
Ithrel hesitated for half a breath. That was enough to tell her everything she needed to know.
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands, watching him the way one might watch a door they suspected was unlocked.
He reached into his satchel and withdrew his stylus.
Iron. Ordinary. Scarred along the shaft from hours of practices. Nothing special about it, no argent gleam, no embedded sigils. A student's tool.
Miss Peggy's gaze flicked to it, then back to his face.
Ithrel placed the stylus against the edge of the book and closed his eyes.
The damage revealed itself slowly.
Not visually, He already saw that but structurally. Threads of binding strained and twisted beneath the surface, glymph-strands tangled where water had forced them to swell and knot. Ink-lines bled into one another, confused, displaced. The book wasn't broken so much as… lost.
He exhaled.
Drying it would be easy. Most would do that. Heat, separation, reinforcement.
But the book wasn't asking to be dried.
It was asking to be remembered.
Ithrel traced the first glymph in the air, careful and precise. It hovered briefly, pale and thin, before sinking into the page. Another followed. Then another. He worked slowly, unraveling the strands one by one, coaxing them apart instead of forcing them.
Miss Peggy watched without comment.
He didn't copy existing patterns. There weren't any intact enough to follow. Instead, he studied the tension where the strands wanted to go, how they curved when released. He redirected them gently, guiding them back toward the book's central node.
His breathing stayed even. His focus narrowed.
Time slipped by.
The Cabinet felt farther away with each correction. The shelves blurred at the edges of his vision. All that mattered were the threads beneath his stylus, the quiet resistance as they yielded.
The iron warmed in his grip.
Ink reserves thinned.
He noticed too late.
The last section resisted more than the rest, stubborn, compressed by damage layered over damage. Ithrel hesitated, then adjusted the glymph mid-formation, reinforcing it with a sharper angle.
The stylus cracked.
Not loudly. Just a sharp, brittle sound, like bone under pressure.
Ithrel's hand stilled.
The final strand settled.
The book… exhaled.
The pages relaxed, unwarped, ink lines snapping back into crisp clarity. The spine straightened. The cover darkened to a rich, even hue, as if it had been bound that morning.
New. Not preserved. Not repaired.
Silence filled the Cabinet.
Miss Peggy rose slowly from her chair and approached the desk. She touched the book once, then again, fingertips brushing the page as if confirming it was real.
Her brows lifted. Just slightly.
"Interesting," she murmured.
Ithrel swallowed and looked down at his stylus. A thin fracture ran along the shaft, glyph-channel ruptured beyond easy repair.
He set it on the desk.
Miss Peggy returned to her seat and lifted her own stylus. With a brief motion, she scribbled in the air. Symbols flared, then collapsed into a single line of text that inscribed itself into the ledger before her.
She turned the book toward him.
87/100
Ithrel stared at it unsatisfied.
"…May I ask why?" he said carefully.
Miss Peggy met his gaze. Calm. Assessing.
She tapped the broken stylus with one finger.
"You exceeded the task," she said. "And ignored a constraint."
"I restored the book fully."
"Yes."
"...but the damage to the stylus—"
"—is not minor," she interrupted. "For a student."
Something tightened in his chest.
"I followed the logic of the work," he said. "The result—"
"—is not the metric," she replied, voice cool. "Control is."
The word landed heavy.
Ithrel inclined his head. "Thank you for the lesson."
His mind repeated the word, Control. That's what this citadel is all about.
He stood, shoulders straight, disappointment sitting quietly behind his ribs. He had expected the score. He just hadn't hoped for it.
He turned to leave.
"Wait," Miss Peggy said.
She reached beneath her desk and placed a small, narrow box on the surface. Dark wood. Sealed.
"This was left in my care," she said. "For you."
Ithrel hesitated, then stepped forward and opened it.
Silver gleamed.
An argent stylus, untouched by time. Clean lines. Perfect balance. Power pressed against his senses the moment he saw it, restrained but undeniable.
His breath caught.
"Your father's," Miss Peggy said softly. "A gift he was never allowed to keep."
Ithrel looked up, stunned.
"You're doing well," she continued. "Very well. But you must learn when not to ask why."
He frowned faintly. "Why?"
For the first time, Miss Peggy looked… tired.
"Because the last man who asked that question too often broke more than tools."
She closed the box gently.
"Be careful with the laws, Ithrel," she said. "You may go."
He left the Cabinet with the box held close, the hall swallowing him once more.
As he walked, one thought followed him, quiet and persistent;
If asking why was so dangerous…
why did it feel like the only honest thing left?