Liora's fingers tightened around the letter until the paper creaked.
She stepped forward, but not all the way into the doorway. Not yet.
"Sir," she said, and held the letter out first, like a shield offered politely. "I have my acceptance."
The man's gaze dropped to the crescent seal, and for a heartbeat the warmth in his face turned… exact. Like a jeweler looking at a stone he already knows the weight of.
He didn't take it right away.
He looked back up at Liora. "And your name?"
Mina, at Liora's shoulder, went very still. The parcels under her arm seemed to quiet too, as if every wax seal had decided to listen.
Liora swallowed.
Old-school magic hummed in her bones in the aftertaste of the spell she'd cast, and it made her suddenly aware of how dangerous names could be. How easily a name could become a handle.
So she did what her village tutor had taught her in the one lesson that had never sounded like a lesson at the time: She chose.
"I'm Lark," she said.
The word felt strange and right, like putting on a cloak that had been hanging on her shoulders her whole life without her noticing. Lark. A name that could fly away if it needed to. A name that didn't promise obedience.
The man's eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but in appreciation. He nodded once, as though ticking something off a list only he could see.
"Lark," he repeated, tasting it. "A chosen name. Sensible."
Something in the air shifted. Not dramatic. Just… a latch easing. The crescent above the door stopped turning and settled, as if satisfied with the shape of what had been offered.
Only then did the man reach out and take the letter.
The wax seal did not crack under his fingers. It softened.
The crescent in the wax lifted like a lid. The letter unfolded itself, pages sliding out that Liora swore hadn't been there a moment ago. Ink swam across them, rearranging into lines that were too neat to be written by any hurried hand.
The man skimmed, and with each line his smile deepened into something that looked dangerously pleased.
"Well," he murmured. "You've arrived intact. That's already better than my last apprentice."
Liora's stomach dropped. "Your last—"
"Later," he said lightly, and then his gaze flicked past her, to Mina. "And you. You brought her?"
Mina lifted her chin. "Your street tried to take her name before she got here."
The man sighed, like an embarrassed landlord hearing complaints about a troublesome stairwell. "Of course it did."
Then he looked at Liora again, and the warmth returned, threaded now with a thin bright curiosity. "You used the dark brick shortcut."
It wasn't a question.
Liora's cheeks heated. "Yes, sir."
"Good," he said, and the way he said it made Liora feel as if she'd just stepped into a test she hadn't known she was taking and somehow passed. "The pale stone road only brings me students who want rules. The dark brick brings me students who want answers."
He stepped back from the doorway, finally making space. "Come in, Lark."
Liora took one step over the threshold.
The moment she did, the house acknowledged her. She felt it in the soles of her boots first: a faint tremor, like a cat purring through floorboards. The air smelled of steeped herbs and ink and warm bread. Lanternlight glowed from nowhere visible, soft and steady.
Mina didn't follow. She hovered at the edge of the doorway, as if the threshold had teeth for couriers.
The man glanced at her again. "Mina, was it?"
Mina blinked. "How do you—"
"The city talks," he said, as if that explained everything. He tilted his head. "Payment for your trouble will be waiting at the fountain by sundown. Don't argue. You'll only make it more complicated."
Mina's mouth opened, then shut. "Fine. I won't," she said, and shot Liora a look that was half warning, half encouragement. "Don't let him peel your brain open."
"I wasn't planning to," Liora muttered.
The man smiled. "Most people don't."
Mina backed away a step, then another. "See you around, Lark," she said softly. Then, with a last glance at the crescent over the door, she turned and disappeared into the bright orderliness of High Row.
The door swung shut behind Liora with a gentle click.
Not locking her in.
Closing the world out.
The man walked ahead, bare feet silent on the polished wood, and Liora followed into a narrow hall lined with framed pages. Each frame held a single sheet of paper covered in handwriting. Some were neat, some frantic, some so faint she could barely see the ink.
She slowed. "Are these… spells?"
"Some," he said over his shoulder. "Some are warnings. Some are apologies."
They reached a room that felt too big for the size of the house from the outside. Shelves rose up three stories, crammed with books, jars, folded maps, and oddments that made Liora's eyes itch to look away: a small mirror that showed the back of her head; a teacup filled with fog; a feather that kept writing the same word, over and over, in invisible ink.
In the center stood a worktable. On it lay a closed book bound in dark leather, the cover stamped with a crescent.
The man stopped beside it and finally faced her fully.
"You gave me a letter," he said pleasantly. "And you gave me a chosen name. Which tells me you've had at least one good teacher, or you've survived at least one bad one."
Liora kept her hands close to her sides so she wouldn't fidget. "I… had a teacher."
"Mm." He tapped the closed book once with one ink-stained finger. "Now I'll ask you something different."
His eyes held hers, steady and bright.
"Lark," he said softly, "why did you come to Lanternfall?"
And as he spoke the city's real name, the lanternlight in the room flared as if the question had power all its own.