The morning light had never looked so hollow.
Elara stood in the courtyard long after Lucien disappeared down the path, her cloak damp from the rain, the chill biting through the thin fabric. The golden pools of sunrise around her felt too bright, too clean as if the world was pretending not to notice what had just awakened beneath its skin.
Her hand still burned.
The mark pulsed faintly beneath her glove, gold threaded with silver, and now, a thin vein of violet. The colour of corruption. The colour of the Veil.
She pressed her palm against her chest, as though she could smother it.
But the beat matched her own heart too perfectly.
Whatever had bound her to Lucien… it wasn't just magic anymore.
"Elara?"
The voice startled her. She turned to see Lyra striding across the courtyard, her curls bouncing, her uniform slightly disheveled as always. Her freckles stood out sharply in the new light — too vivid, too alive.
"Elara Vane, where have you been? You missed curfew again!"
Elara forced a weary smile. "I was in the library."
Lyra crossed her arms. "Since before dawn? Are you studying or haunting the place now?"
"Something like that," Elara murmured.
Lyra frowned, studying her. "You look pale. You've barely slept for days. And don't say it's nothing — I can tell."
Elara hesitated. The lie hovered on her tongue, a reflex by now. But then she saw the worry in Lyra's warm amber eyes, the same eyes that would one day close forever, and the words caught in her throat.
"I'm fine," she said softly. "Just… tired."
Lyra sighed, exasperated. "One day, Elara, you'll actually trust someone enough to tell them what's wrong."
Elara looked away, toward the rising sun. "Maybe."
****
By midday, the Academy buzzed with rumors.
Whispers slithered through the halls like smoke: the restricted archives had been breached, strange lights had been seen beneath the library tower, and more chillingly, Professor Dalen had not appeared for his morning lecture.
Elara felt the shift immediately.
The air seemed to hum with quiet dread, as though the Academy itself had taken a breath and was holding it.
She found Lucien outside the northern walkways, sitting alone on the stone bench beneath the vine-covered arches. His posture was as composed as ever, back straight, hands folded loosely in his lap, but his face was drawn tighter than before. The silver in his eyes looked dulled, like metal clouded by ash.
"You heard," she said quietly, taking a seat beside him.
He didn't look up. "About Dalen? Yes."
The silence between them stretched. The faint scent of rain and ink clung to him, a contrast to the clean air around the gardens. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was low and distant. "They say he left before dawn. No trace. No letter."
Elara folded her hands in her lap. "He didn't leave."
Lucien's gaze flicked toward her, sharp, questioning.
"People don't vanish from the Academy without reason," she said. "Not someone like him. He knew something. Something the Council didn't want found."
He turned fully then, studying her face. In daylight, his features were too sharp for his age, high cheekbones, a strong jaw softened only by exhaustion. "You think they silenced him."
"I think," she whispered, "they're afraid of what's inside you."
A muscle tightened in his jaw. For a heartbeat, the silver in his eyes flared faintly, that same uncanny sheen that marked him as not entirely mortal. Then it faded again, leaving only the boy she remembered from before the end.
"I didn't ask for this," he said quietly.
"I know." She wanted to reach for him but stopped herself. Her fingers curled against her knee instead. "Neither of us did."
****
They went to the library again that evening.
The rain had returned, thin and cold. Candles flickered between the shelves, casting long shadows that shifted with every breath of wind. The air smelled of parchment and damp stone.
Lucien walked beside her, silent. He looked pale again, the faint violet hue in his aura flickering like a warning light beneath his skin. His movements were measured, almost too controlled, as if he was afraid of breaking something fragile, himself, or the world around him.
They reached the restricted wing doors. This time, they were sealed again, the wards thrumming with new power. Someone had reinforced them.
Elara frowned. "They know we were here."
Lucien's expression didn't change. "Then they'll know we came back."
He placed a hand against the rune-covered surface. The sigil on his palm glowed softly, but the wards didn't respond. Instead, a faint echo rippled through the air — not rejection, not resistance. Recognition.
A whisper slid through the silence. A voice not human.
"The Vessel remembers."
Elara's blood went cold. She spun toward the sound, but the corridor was empty.
Lucien's hand dropped to his side. His breathing was unsteady now, though he hid it well. "You heard it too."
"Yes," she whispered. "Lucien, that wasn't from the Veil — it was in the wards."
His eyes darkened. "Then they're watching."
He turned, the lamplight brushing the side of his face, the line of his jaw, the shadow beneath his cheekbones, the faint tremor in his fingers before he curled them into a fist. "If Dalen was right, the Council made me a vessel for something ancient. But if that's true, they must've made others before me."
Elara caught her breath. "You think there were more?"
"There had to be," he said. "And if there were… then their records are here, hidden somewhere in these walls."
Elara's gaze drifted up toward the high glass ceiling, where rain traced faint rivers against the light. "Then we'll find them. Before the Council erases the rest."
Lucien's lips curved — not quite a smile, not quite defeat. "You say that like we have a choice."
She met his eyes. "We don't."
****
Later that night, after Lucien had gone, Elara lingered alone in the library's upper hall.
The moonlight fell through the glass, scattering silver across the marble floor. Her reflection shimmered faintly on its surface, pale skin, dark hair pulled back, exhaustion hollowing her features. Her eyes looked older than they should have. Older than this time.
A soft crackle drew her attention.
One of the study lamps flared, then dimmed. A slip of parchment had appeared beneath it, fresh ink, edges still warm.
She picked it up.
Four words, written in an unfamiliar hand:
The Veil is thinning.
Her heart lurched.
The mark on her palm pulsed once, twice, gold and violet intertwining.
From somewhere deep within the walls, a faint hum began to rise, like distant thunder, or a voice whispering through stone. And for the first time since the world had rewound, Elara felt the timeline itself tremble, as if time was beginning to remember what it had tried to forget.