I believe you, she said simply. But we need answers. Real ones, not ministry halftruths and redacted files. Cassian nodded, his mind already racing ahead. Quinn Lee practically invited us to break into the archives tonight. He checked his pocket watch. We have several hours to prepare. A hint of Liora's familiar smile tugged at her lips. Breaking rules, Thor Blackmore. What would your orderly spell books think? Despite everything, the unsettling revelations, the looming questions, the sense that they were being manipulated. Cassian felt his own mouth curving upward in response.
They'd be scandalized. utterly scandalized. The binding band warmed again, a gentle pulse that seemed almost almost pleased. Whatever connection existed between them, whatever had allowed them to stabilize to try when it should have collapsed, it was real and possibly more important than either of them yet understood. "Right then," Liora said, straightening her shoulders. "Ellicit archive raid tonight. But first, she winced, pressing a hand to her temple. Food and possibly a nap. Memory magic always leaves me feeling like I've been trampled by a herd of enchanted throw pillows.
I can imagine. Cassian hesitated, then offered his arm. Shall we go home? I believe Mim Seville has been experimenting with comfort food charms. The house smelled suspiciously like cinnamon this morning. Liora's expression softened as she looped her arm through his "Home!" she repeated as though testing the word. "Yes, let's go home." The unfinished vow. Liora wiped the last speck of dust from the leatherbound spine, narrowing her eyes at the collection of journals stacked in precarious towers around her. Three days. Three whole days of tiptoeing around each other since the memory echo trial had left Cassian's emotions spled open like a book dropped spine first.
And what had he done? Retreated so far inside himself she needed magical sonar to find him. Processing the trial experience, she mimicked under her breath, carefully arranging four identical black notebooks in chronological order. need to contextualize the magical resonance fluctuations as if putting fancy words around feelings made them less real. Above her, the study's ceiling light flickered sympathetically. Mim Seel had been working overtime, dropping hints all morning. Books on emotional communication mysteriously appearing on Cassian's pillow. Teacups arranging themselves for two whenever he entered a room.
Even the shower adjusting to precisely the temperature that encouraged long, thoughtful soaks. Nothing worked. Cassian had mastered the art of acknowledging nothing. "Fine," Jenx muttered, Sparks dancing between her fingertips as she paced barefoot across the study's worn rug. "If he won't talk about what we both saw, I'll organize something that should get his attention." She turned toward the one chaotic corner in Cassian's otherwise pristine study, the spell journal shelf. Decades of magical research crammed together without system or sense. Some books standing properly, others shoved in sideways, a few balanced precariously on top like academic jenga.
Some bore elegant titles in Thorn's precise script. Others were labeled with hasty scrolls that suggested late night inspiration. It was the magical equivalent of finding out someone who alphabetized their spice rack also kept their socks in a laundry basket. Fascinating, irritating, and the perfect target. Right, she said, hands on hips. Let's give Mr. I need space something specific to complain about. The binding band on her wrist warmed slightly as she grabbed the first stack of journals. Interesting. It liked when she thought about what Cassian would want, which only made her frustration spike higher.
Even the stupid magical marriage approved of her efforts, while Cassian himself couldn't be bothered to discuss what they'd both seen in that memory trial. His younger self, his pain, his no. She wouldn't spiral down that particular thought hole again. Instead, Liora began humming, a nameless tune that rose and fell as she sorted journals into piles, alphabetical first, then chronological within subjects with color coding as the final touch. The bookcases creaked in protest when she began rearranging their contents. "I know, I know," she said, patting a particularly stubborn shelf that seemed determined to cling to a collection of weather manipulation studies.
He doesn't like his things moved, but even he can't argue with alphabetical chronological color coordination. It's basically the love language of the pathologically organized. The shelf seemed unconvinced, but finally relented with a wooden sigh. As she worked, Liora found herself talking to the journals themselves. Many seemed almost grateful for the attention, covers brightening as she dusted them off and gave them proper places. You've been stuck behind that boring tax codeex for months, haven't you? She sympathized, freeing a slim volume on atmospheric enchantments. No wonder your binding is cracked.
That thing probably lectured you about deductions all night long. The journal's cover warmed under her fingertips. All the while, the attic journal remained snug in her pocket, occasionally vibrating when she touched certain spell books. she'd taken to carrying it everywhere, hoping its mysterious contents might reveal themselves if exposed to the right magical stimulus. So far, it had remained stubbornly vague, offering only occasional glimmers of insight before fading back to blank pages. When she reached for a leather-bound volume about vault architecture, though, something changed. The attic journal practically convulsed, emitting a high-pitched whining noise that made her drop the vault book with a startled yelp.
"What in the name of Mimyvel's mood lighting?" she began, then stopped short. The fallen book had knocked against the shelf in a peculiar way, causing a small section of the wall to shift. "Bind where the book had stood was a loose stone, almost imperceptible unless you were looking directly at it." Liora's familiar curiosity surged. "Well, hello there," she murmured, bending to examine the stone. "Aren't you interesting?" "It wasn't just a loose stone," she realized as her fingers traced its edges. "It was a rune plate, a sophisticated, magical lock designed to hide something valuable.
The symbols carved into its surface were ancient, predating modern spellcraft, but they seemed to respond to her touch, glowing faintly gold where her fingertips passed. Rather than attempting formal unlocking spells, which would almost certainly trigger whatever protective wards Cassian had placed, she relied on her familiar's intuition. Sometimes the best way through magic wasn't countering it, but understanding it. You want to be opened, she murmured to the rune plate, sensing its underlying patterns. But you're afraid of what happens next. A slight vibration hummed beneath her fingertips.