"Scholar Quill," the unfamiliar voice said evenly.
"I believe we need to speak."
Lioren lowered his wrapped hand slowly from his chest.
The sigil still burned beneath the linen, a steady, deliberate pulse that did not fade even as he forced his breathing into something resembling calm. The man standing at the entrance of the restricted Hall wore no scholar's robes. His attire was darker, structured, the fabric cut for movement rather than ceremony. A thin insignia of silver thread glinted at his collar.
Imperial Intelligence.
Behind him, two uniformed guards remained at the stairwell, silent and still.
Lioren stepped out from between the shelves.
"You have me at a disadvantage," he said carefully.
The man's gaze flicked once over the lanternless Hall before settling back on Lioren's face. His eyes were sharp and unhurried, the sort that catalogued without appearing to.
"Istraen Korr," he replied. "Intelligence Division."
Halvric's footsteps descended a moment later, measured and composed. "Scholar Quill has been cooperative," the High Archivist said, as if this were a routine exchange. "I trust this will not require disruption of the archives."
"That depends," Istraen said mildly.
The sigil flared faintly at the sound of his voice.
Lioren suppressed the urge to react.
"Disruption would be unfortunate," he said. "The Fifth Script catalog is already undergoing revision."
Istraen's expression did not change, but something sharpened in his gaze. "Is it?"
The air felt thin.
Halvric folded his hands into his sleeves. "We maintain accurate records."
"I am sure you do," Istraen said. His attention returned fully to Lioren. "Walk with me, Scholar."
It was phrased politely. It was not a request.
Lioren inclined his head and moved toward the stairwell.
Each step upward felt heavier than the last. The sigil in his palm pulsed in steady rhythm, heat gathering beneath the linen wrap. It reacted not to fear, but to proximity—to something unseen and yet drawing nearer.
They did not stop in Halvric's office.
Instead, Istraen guided him through a side corridor rarely used except for formal review sessions. The chamber they entered was narrow and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp mounted against stone.
A table stood at the center.
Two chairs.
No shelves.
No distractions.
Istraen gestured for him to sit.
Lioren did.
The guards remained outside.
The door closed.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
Istraen rested his hands lightly on the table, fingers interlaced. His posture was relaxed. His eyes were not.
"You have worked within the Ivory Vault for six years," he began conversationally.
"Seven," Lioren corrected before he could stop himself.
A flicker of something—approval?—crossed Istraen's face.
"Seven," he agreed. "Specializing in restricted texts."
"In translation and preservation," Lioren said.
"Preservation." Istraen tilted his head slightly. "A curious word."
The sigil warmed.
Lioren kept his hands beneath the table.
"There are records of increased activity in the restricted levels over the past two days," Istraen continued. "Unscheduled access. Unusual temperature fluctuations."
The pulse in Lioren's palm spiked sharply.
"Temperature fluctuations?" he repeated.
"Localized," Istraen said. "Brief."
The oil lamp flickered.
Lioren forced his breathing steady. "The lower levels are prone to drafts."
"Stone does not draft upward," Istraen replied softly.
Silence settled between them.
Outside the chamber, footsteps echoed faintly along the corridor.
"Tell me," Istraen said after a moment, "what do you know of Drakefall Ridge?"
The sigil flared.
Heat shot through Lioren's palm so abruptly he nearly jerked.
He kept his face composed.
"It is dragon territory," he said. "Officially classified as unstable."
"Unstable in what sense?"
"Geologically," Lioren answered. "Volcanic activity. Residual magic. The archives are not precise."
Istraen watched him carefully.
"Reports from the western watchtowers describe heat distortions in the sky," he said. "Shadows crossing cloud cover without visible form."
The sigil burned hotter.
Lioren clenched his fingers beneath the table.
"Such reports are often exaggerated," he said. "Fear distorts perception."
"Does it?"
Istraen leaned back slightly.
"Troop mobilization has begun," he added.
Lioren's pulse faltered.
"Toward Drakefall Ridge?"
"Yes."
"For what purpose?"
"To secure stability," Istraen said evenly.
The phrasing was careful.
Lioren understood what it meant.
Containment.
Or extermination.
The sigil pulsed again—harder now, as though reacting to the mention of troops.
Istraen's gaze dropped to the table.
"Your hand," he said.
Lioren froze.
"It trembles."
"I have not slept," he replied.
"From fatigue," Istraen prompted.
"Yes."
The sigil flared painfully at the lie.
He swallowed the reaction.
Istraen's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Scholar Quill," he said, voice softening just enough to become more dangerous, "your name was flagged in our system before last night's relic incident."
The words struck like cold water.
"Flagged?" Lioren echoed.
"For repeated access to Fifth Script fragments beyond your assigned parameters."
Lioren forced himself not to glance away.
"I follow catalog assignments."
"Of course."
The silence stretched.
The sigil pulsed again—once, twice—almost impatient.
Istraen's gaze sharpened further.
"Something changed yesterday," he said. "Within the Vault."
Lioren held his expression steady.
"I am not aware of any structural damage beyond minor archival disturbance."
"Not structural," Istraen replied. "Energetic."
The oil lamp flickered again.
Heat crawled beneath Lioren's skin.
"You believe the disturbance originated here?" he asked.
"I believe," Istraen said slowly, "that certain texts react when proximity conditions are met."
The sigil flared bright enough to seep warmth through the linen wrap.
Lioren's heart hammered.
He forced his hands to remain still.
"Are you suggesting," he said carefully, "that the archives are sentient?"
Istraen's lips curved faintly. "Not the archives."
The air felt thinner still.
"Tell me," Istraen said, "have you encountered any fragment that felt… responsive?"
The sigil burned.
Not in pain.
In warning.
Lioren shook his head.
"No."
The heat surged sharply through his palm and into his wrist.
He did not flinch.
Istraen studied him for several long seconds.
"You are aware," he said at last, "that certain ancient contracts were designed to bind across distance."
Lioren's breath caught despite himself.
"Contracts?"
"Old treaties," Istraen amended. "Before the Empire formalized governance."
"I am not versed in unverified folklore."
"Mm."
Istraen rose from his chair and began to pace slowly around the narrow chamber.
"Drakefall Ridge has not shown measurable magical surge in over a decade," he said. "Until now."
The sigil pulsed again, this time with a rhythm that did not align with Lioren's heartbeat.
It was faster.
Responding to something beyond the room.
"Yesterday evening," Istraen continued, "a watchtower reported a silhouette across the western sky."
Lioren's throat tightened.
"Silhouette?"
"No wings," Istraen said. "No visible form. Only distortion. As if the air bent around something that should not have been there."
The sigil burned hotter still.
Lioren felt it now not only in his palm, but in his chest.
Drawing.
Pulling.
He pressed his wrapped hand against his thigh beneath the table.
"I cannot comment on military reports," he said evenly.
"I am not asking you to."
Istraen stopped pacing and faced him directly.
"I am asking whether you have encountered anything that might explain it."
The sigil pulsed once more.
Then twice.
A pattern.
Not random.
Not reactionary.
Answering.
"To my knowledge," Lioren said slowly, choosing each word, "the Fifth Script primarily encodes historical deviations."
"Historical deviations," Istraen repeated.
"Yes."
"And what of encoded binding systems?"
The sigil flared violently.
Pain lanced up Lioren's arm so sharply he sucked in a breath despite himself.
Istraen saw it.
His eyes narrowed.
"Scholar Quill," he said quietly, "if something has activated within the Vault, concealment will not protect you."
The words landed heavier than threat.
They were statement.
The sigil pulsed again.
Lioren's gaze flicked involuntarily toward the door.
Toward the outside.
Toward the sky.
Something was moving.
He could feel it.
Not close.
But nearer than before.
A pressure at the edge of perception.
Istraen followed the direction of his glance.
"You feel it," he said softly.
The realization struck colder than any accusation.
He did.
Not clearly.
Not visually.
But the sigil did not react to mere words.
It reacted to presence.
And whatever caused the sky distortions over Drakefall Ridge was no longer contained there.
"I feel nothing," Lioren replied.
The lie burned.
Istraen studied him for a long moment.
Then he stepped back and moved toward the door.
"Your cooperation is appreciated," he said lightly. "For now."
The door opened.
Light from the corridor spilled briefly into the chamber.
"We will remain in Emberis," Istraen added without turning. "Until stability is restored."
The door closed behind him.
Lioren remained seated.
The sigil pulsed steadily.
Not calming.
Not fading.
Listening.
He exhaled slowly and rose from the chair.
When he stepped into the corridor, the guards had already repositioned.
Intelligence would not leave the Vault unwatched.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
He was no longer merely a scholar.
He was under observation.
And something else—
Something far older—
Was drawing closer.
As he ascended the final steps back toward the main levels of the Vault, the air felt warmer than it should have.
Outside, beyond the thick stone walls of Emberis, a low rumble echoed faintly across the distant horizon.
Not thunder.
The sigil flared once more.
And for the briefest moment, Lioren could have sworn the heat in his palm was not alone.
It was answering something in the sky.