The Royal Archive of Orestes was a cathedral of dead trees and living secrets. It was a massive, circular building where the air was kept perpetually dry by humming arcane heaters—a stark contrast to the soot-choked humidity of the streets outside.
For Leona, now ten years old, the library was the perfect vantage point.
"Argen! The logistics reports from the Southern Port are misfiled again," barked Magister Torvin, a man whose skin was so translucent he looked like he was made of damp parchment.
"I've already reorganized them by mana-density and arrival date, Magister," Leona replied without looking up from her desk. Her voice was soft, melodic, and entirely unremarkable—the voice of a girl who wanted to be forgotten.
"Hmph. Efficient as always. Don't know why a girl of your talent wants to spend her youth in a basement," Torvin grumbled, shuffling away.
Leona's eyes returned to the ledger in front of her. To anyone else, it was a boring record of iron ore shipments. To Leona, it was a map of a conspiracy. She noticed a 15% discrepancy in the "High-Grade Mithril" exports over the last three years. Large quantities of the rare metal were being diverted to a private estate owned by House Vane.
Mithril isn't used for farming tools, Leona thought, her mind whirring with the cold logic her father had instilled in her. It's used for mana-conductors. High-end armor. Or illegal weapons.
She felt a faint chill radiate from her skin, frosting the corner of the ledger. She quickly pulled her magic back, taking a steadying breath. Control was everything.
When her shift ended, she didn't head straight back to Master Bram's forge. Instead, she took the long way through the "Clockwork District." Here, the "modern" side of the world was on full display. Wealthy merchants rode in mana-carriages that hissed steam, while overhead, automated mail-couriers—mechanical birds powered by wind-crystals—flitted between the towers of the nobility.
She ducked into an alleyway, her eyes scanning the rooftops. Her father's training was a second skin. High ground to the left. Shadowed alcove to the right. Escape route through the sewer grate if necessary.
She reached the forge just as the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the city in bruised purples and golds.
"You're late," Bram said. He was standing over the central anvil, but he wasn't hammering. He was pouring a liquid that shimmered like starlight into a mold.
"The Magister was suspicious," Leona lied easily. She approached the anvil. "Is that it?"
"The base material," Bram whispered. "Mithril refined seven times and alloyed with star-silver. It's too brittle for a sword, too light for a shield. But for what you need..."
He looked at her, his eyes weary. "Silas told me you have the finest mana-control he'd ever seen. To use this, you can't just throw power at it. You have to weave it. This metal reacts to the user's soul. If your heart is chaotic, the threads will snap and kill you instead of your enemy."
"I am ice, Master Bram," Leona said, stepping toward the glowing liquid. "I don't have a chaotic heart. I have a cold one."
Bram grunted. "We'll see. The nobles are getting restless, Leona. The Duke's men were sniffing around the district today, asking about 'unregistered smiths.' Your mother's position at the clerk's office is protecting us for now, but paperwork is a thin shield against a knight's sword."
Leona reached out, her hand hovering over the cooling alloy. She felt a strange pull, a resonance. She closed her eyes and channeled a sliver of her frost magic—not as a blast, but as a delicate, stabilizing force.
The glowing liquid began to vibrate. It didn't solidify into a bar or a blade. Under Leona's subconscious influence, it began to coil, spinning into microscopic filaments that looked like spider-silk made of diamonds.
Bram gasped. "Impossible. I haven't even begun the tempering process."
"It wants to be thin," Leona whispered, her eyes still closed. "It wants to be invisible."
As the metal cooled, it didn't stay on the anvil. It surged forward, wrapping itself around Leona's right wrist. It felt searingly hot for a split second, then biting cold. When she opened her eyes, the metal had vanished. In its place was a delicate, intricate tattoo that looked like frost patterns etched into her skin, circling her wrist like a permanent bracelet.
"It's... integrated," Bram breathed, leaning in. "The Mithril Weave. It's no longer a tool, Leona. It's a part of your nervous system."
Leona flexed her fingers. With a thought, a single, nearly invisible thread of silver extended from her fingertip. She flicked her hand toward a heavy iron ingot across the room.
The thread sang through the air. There was no loud bang, only a faint shink.
The iron ingot slid apart, sliced clean in half. The cut was so smooth it mirrored the light of the forge.
"This is the masterpiece," Leona said, the silver thread retracting into her skin like a living thing.
"No," Bram said darkly. "That is a curse. And now that you've claimed it, the people who killed your father will be able to 'smell' the mana on you if you aren't careful. You must be a ghost, Leona. A librarian by day, a shadow by night. Because if they find you now, I won't be able to stop them."
Leona looked at the "tattoo" on her wrist. She thought of the 15% missing mithril in the ledgers. She thought of her mother, Elena, currently working late at the city hall to keep their records clean.
"Let them come," Leona whispered. "The library is full of stories about fallen kings. I think it's time to write a story about a fallen Duke."