Kael sat on the stone steps at the entrance to the main building of the Hall of Ancient Research. The midday sun warmed the street, bathing the carved gates and tiled roofs in a soft golden glow. The air carried the scent of old parchment, oil, and herbs—even from outside, it was clear this place was steeped in knowledge.

  He sat in calm repose, wearing a lazy, unreadable expression, one leg crossed over the other, elbows resting casually on the step behind him. After the bustle of the Academy, the Hall felt like another world—quieter, sterner, free from the noise of students.

  Kael glanced toward the two guards by the gate and smiled faintly. Earlier, when he’d first arrived, they had eagerly asked about Violet—whether it was true that she secretly read scandalous novels.

  He’d simply joked that they should ask her themselves, and the pair had groaned in disappointment, muttering that “Kael wasn’t playing along with the lads.”

  “I wonder how long I’ll have to wait…” he thought, leaning his head back.

  “When the receptionist heard my name, she said she’d call Violet right away. Seems I’ve caught someone’s attention after all…” he murmured with a grin.

  Kael lifted his gaze to the sky. White clouds drifted lazily above the city, stretching into long, delicate ribbons as though someone were pulling them apart with invisible fingers.

  He let out a slow breath, watching as one cloud momentarily veiled the sunlight.

  “Once I’m stronger, I’ll give Lasthold a way to identify Form of Souls,” he mused, smirking faintly. “Could make an entire business out of that…”

  He paused, then gave a crooked smile.

  “Though I suppose the three great families would just beat me senseless and chain me up for such insolence,” he muttered under his breath.

  He tapped his finger idly against the stone step, marking the rhythm of his thoughts.

  “Speaking of the great families…” the thought flickered across his mind. “I really should learn more about them. In my previous life, I never had time for Lasthold’s political intrigues. My knowledge on that front is still barely above that of a teenager.”

  He chuckled quietly.

  The wind stirred the edge of his cloak, carrying with it the faint smell of dust and ink from the Hall. Somewhere beyond the wall came the metallic clink of chains—perhaps a researcher removing the seals from a rare manuscript. The sounds of the old building blended with the heartbeat of the city, creating a strange, tranquil harmony.

  Kael lowered his gaze, brushed his hand along the rough stone beneath him, and whispered softly:

  “It feels good to be free again…”

  He turned his head—just in time to see Violet rushing out of the entrance. Her cloak fluttered behind her, and the folder in her hands trembled slightly as she ran. She looked flustered, a little out of breath, like someone who had just sprinted halfway across the Hall.

  “Phew!” she exhaled when she spotted him. “You’re here… I was beginning to think something had happened to you!”

  Kael raised an eyebrow, glancing at her over his shoulder.

  “Good afternoon to you too,” he said evenly.

  Violet frowned, though relief flickered in her eyes. She took a few quick steps toward him, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

  “Why didn’t you wait inside?” she asked, a touch of reproach in her tone.

  Kael stretched out his legs, tilting his head lazily toward the sky, and replied with mild ambiguity:

  “I’ve spent enough time sitting in enclosed spaces. Wanted to look at the clouds for a change.”

  She stopped right in front of him, arms crossed, watching him in silence—her expression somewhere between irritation and bemusement. Then she let out a small huff.

  “Sometimes I think you deliberately try to act older than you are,” she murmured, though there was already a hint of warmth in her voice.

  Kael just smirked, not bothering to respond.

  Violet rolled her eyes, then smiled and held out her hand.

  “Alright, young philosopher,” she said with a teasing grin. “Get up. I have good news.”

  Kael looked at her hand, then back at her face.

  “What kind of news?” he asked, taking it.

  “Magister Duran is very interested in you,” she replied, helping him to his feet. “If all goes well, today might become a historic day—the appearance of the youngest Master in Lasthold’s history.”

  Kael rose to his feet, holding her hand just a moment longer than he should have. His mind immediately began turning over a dozen thoughts about the upcoming meeting—yet, inexplicably, his attention clung to something entirely different: the warmth and softness of her hand, the delicate, well-kept fingers that trembled slightly from haste.

  He glanced down at them—her skin was soft, almost translucent, her nails perfectly shaped and polished. Everything about her, even in such small details, revealed a certain habit of order… and a quiet femininity she seemed determined to conceal beneath the cool fa?ade of a scholar.

  Kael lifted his gaze. Violet was smiling—tiredly, but sincerely. The faint shadows under her eyes, perhaps traces of sleepless nights, only added to her unexpected charm.

  Violet noticed his gaze linger on her face longer than usual and frowned slightly.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, puzzled.

  Kael, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, replied calmly:

  “I was just thinking how beautiful you are.”

  His eyes flicked down to their joined hands, and he added in the same even tone:

  “And before that, I was thinking how beautiful your hands are.”

  A spark of crimson flared across Violet’s cheeks—her face flushed in an instant.

  “W-what?!” she stammered, nearly choking on her own breath. “B-beautiful… hands?!”

  “Yes,” Kael confirmed simply. “Very elegant.”

  “You’ve lost your mind!” she blurted, tripping over her words and clearly unsure where to look. “Th-thank you, I suppose, but that’s the sort of thing you should be saying to your classmates!”

  Kael raised an innocent eyebrow and, with the same composed tone, replied:

  “They don’t interest me. I prefer older women.”

  He released her hand, turned toward the entrance, and began walking calmly forward—as though he hadn’t said anything remotely provocative.

  He didn’t make it more than a few steps before something struck the back of his head—a short, but perfectly solid punch.

  “Ow!” he yelped, wincing and clutching the spot. “What was that for?!”

  “For being insolent,” Violet huffed, striding past him with her chin raised high. “Enjoyed embarrassing me, you little parasite? Don’t get used to it, unless you’d like another one.”

  Kael rubbed his head, squinting at her mischievously.

  “What if I do like it?” he drawled. “We could make a deal—I give you compliments, and you hit me with those lovely hands of yours.”

  Violet spun around sharply. A flash of outrage crossed her face, but her eyes betrayed her—she was fighting not to smile.

  “Aren’t you a bit young for that kind of talk?” she said sternly, trying to recover her teacherly tone. “Where on earth did you pick that up?”

  Kael put on his most innocent expression.

  “In the Academy library.”

  “Uh-huh,” Violet snorted, rolling her eyes. “Of course.”

  She quickened her pace, clearly eager to end the exchange, though the color in her cheeks hadn’t yet faded.

  Kael chuckled quietly under his breath and followed after her, perfectly content with how things had turned out.

  “I definitely like her… I can’t count on anything now. But in the future…”

  ? ? ?

  They moved quickly through the corridors of the main building. The air inside was cooler, heavy with the dust of old books and the faint, sharp aroma of ether lamps. The walls, adorned with bas-reliefs of ancient symbols, shimmered softly with reflected light, giving the uncanny impression that the building itself was watching their every step.

  Kael walked a little behind Violet, never missing a chance to tease her—sometimes deliberately strolling with an exaggerated swagger, sometimes making offhand remarks about “scholars who take their work so seriously they forget they have a personal life.”

  Violet, meanwhile, tried her best not to react. She walked straight, with the calm poise of someone long accustomed to eccentric students—yet deep down, she couldn’t deny that this particular boy managed to throw her off balance.

  “This boy…” she thought with a trace of irritation. “How can I possibly be flustered by something said by a kid?”

  Outwardly, she only gave a short huff and said in an intentionally cool tone:

  “We’re almost at the Magisters Hall, and you’re still fooling around. Is that foolishness or confidence?”

  Kael shrugged slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  “A little of both, I think.”

  “A shame Lasthold doesn’t have a Hall of Jesters,” she muttered, though her voice had already softened.

  Kael laughed and replied,

  “I wouldn’t go there anyway. With your sense of humor, they’d never let you in, Master Violet—and without you, I’d be bored.”

  Violet barely managed to suppress her reaction to that jab. She sighed, but a small, reluctant smile flickered across her lips. Kael irritated her in the strangest way—yet he amused her, too.

  “Perhaps this boy will bring a little life back into this place… The old men here forgot how to joke long ago. I suppose I’ve grown as dull as they are…” she thought wryly.

  They turned the final corner. Before them rose a pair of massive redwood doors, richly inlaid with ornate patterns and gilded trim. The metal hinges gleamed like sharpened blades.

  Kael slowed his pace. His gaze steadied; his movements became measured. In an instant, every trace of his earlier levity vanished. His expression hardened into that calm, restrained seriousness he always wore before important events.

  Violet noticed the change and gave a slight nod of approval.

  She stepped forward, lifted her hand, and knocked firmly on the door.

  “Magister Duran!” she called out clearly. “I’ve brought Kael.”

  From beyond the door came a deep, resonant voice, like a roll of distant thunder:

  “Enter.”

  Violet pushed against the heavy panel, and with a long, echoing creak, the door swung open—revealing the grandeur of the Magisters Hall.

  Before them stretched a vast circular chamber. The walls were almost invisible beneath the towering shelves that climbed all the way to the domed ceiling. Upon them stood rows of ancient tomes, neatly rolled scrolls, and metal tubes sealed with sigils blackened by age.

  At the center rose four massive columns of red granite, each etched with symbols of a long-forgotten tongue. Between them stood two wide tables, strewn with scrolls, books, diagrams, and records—as though history itself had paused here, frozen mid-study.

  Sunlight streamed through the round window beneath the ceiling, its rays drifting slowly through the air, catching on tiny motes of dust. The light fractured and shimmered, weaving a near-magical stillness—as though time itself moved slower here than in the rest of the world.

  One of the tables stood empty. At the central one sat a man—old, unmoving.

  His hair was long and thick, silver-white, combed neatly back. Two heavy braids extended from his temples and met in a single knot behind his head. His beard fell like a dense, rippling wave, vanishing somewhere beneath the table.

  He did not hurry to look up, but the instant they took a step inside, the old man slowly raised his gaze.

  At that moment, Kael felt the air itself grow denser.

  Everything about the old man exuded warmth—the gentle lines of his face, his calm posture, the faint smile that lingered at the corners of his lips. But his eyes… that sharp, piercing gaze carried weight, precision, depth. He wasn’t merely looking—he was seeing through, as if reaching into the very core of the soul.

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  The elder’s crimson eyes fixed on Kael. For a few long seconds, they studied him unblinking—and then the pupils suddenly narrowed, lengthened—like those of a serpent or a tiger poised to strike.

  Kael tensed, almost imperceptibly.

  “He’s partially merged with his spirit… Testing me?” the thought flashed through his mind.

  He narrowed his eyes, refusing to avert his gaze, as though trying to feel out the answer for himself.

  “I wonder what kind of spirit this old man possesses.”

  For a heartbeat, the air between them thickened, heavy with invisible pressure. Power emanated from the old man—not raw or violent, but ancient, commanding a wary respect.

  Then, just as suddenly, it vanished. The weight lifted, leaving only calm in its wake. The man’s eyes softened once more—serene, warm, touched with a flicker of gentle humor.

  He smiled kindly, the wrinkles by his eyes deepening with warmth.

  “So this is our little prodigy?” he said, his voice low, yet remarkably kind.

  With those words, he rose unhurriedly from his chair. His movements were fluid, assured—the bearing of someone long accustomed to power, but with no need to prove it.

  Kael noted instinctively—every step the old man took carried that quiet balance, that unshakable composure which marked a true master.

  As he approached, Violet quietly shut the door behind them and slid the bolt into place.

  The sound echoed through the hall, sealing them off from the outside world. Now, only the three of them remained.

  Duran’s face broke into a wide, almost contagious smile.

  “I’ve seen your written answers,” he said with a light chuckle, and genuine admiration colored his voice. “I must admit, it’s hard to believe someone so young could possess such knowledge.”

  Kael inclined his head slightly, accepting the praise with polite restraint.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Magister Duran,” he replied evenly. “You overestimate me.”

  But inwardly, he stayed alert.

  “The old man’s hiding something…” he thought. “He’s not just curious. He’s uncertain—maybe even suspicious.”

  Kael raised his head slightly, letting their eyes meet. The amber in his gaze caught a sliver of sunlight filtering from above.

  He smiled—respectful, without defiance, yet with a quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

  “Magister…” he said softly. “Forgive me for being direct… but a moment ago, were you assessing my mana?”

  The moment the words left Kael’s lips, the old man went still. The smile on his face did not fade, but it froze—becoming something too calm, too deliberate, like a mask.

  Violet blinked in confusion. Her eyes darted between Kael and Duran, head shaking slightly as if trying to grasp how the mood had shifted so abruptly.

  Then the old man laughed—a low, gravelly chuckle.

  “Ho-ho-ho… Such sharp eyes…” he said, tilting his head slightly.

  His gaze changed—no longer simply attentive, but probing.

  “Since you know what I did,” he continued, his voice quieter now, laced with steel, “perhaps you’d like to tell me something in return?”

  Kael straightened his back, regaining his full composure.

  “Then point me in the right direction of thought, Magister,” he replied with his usual politeness—but not a trace of submission.

  Duran squinted, the corners of his lips lifting again in a faint, almost cunning smile.

  “Let’s put it this way,” he said as he walked past them, stopping just to the side. “I’ve made a few inquiries about you—through an old acquaintance of mine, the Academy’s principal.”

  He paused briefly, stroking his beard.

  “What she told me… intrigued me a great deal. But now…” his gaze flicked sharply back to Kael, piercing and analytical. “I’m noticing a few inconsistencies.”

  Hearing that, Kael lowered his eyes slightly, though inside, he tensed.

  “He’s being cautious. I’m definitely missing something…” he thought. “But if his information came from the Academy, I think I know what unsettled him.”

  He gave a calm nod and said evenly:

  “I deciphered some ancient records that shed light on my ‘affliction.’ As you can see, I can now absorb mana.”

  After a short pause, he added honestly, without a hint of defiance:

  “I don’t intend to hide it. But I also see no reason to reveal more than necessary.”

  The old man studied him more closely, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. He stroked his beard, and a flicker of satisfaction passed across his lips.

  “And does your ‘recovery’ have anything to do with what you said about the Form of Soul?”

  Those words made Kael freeze. He raised an eyebrow and frowned slightly.

  “How do you know about that? I only voiced the theory in class—”

  “Answer the question,” Duran interrupted, this time with none of the earlier warmth in his tone.

  Kael nodded curtly.

  “Yes. I assumed that perhaps my Form of Soul was… strange, or simply rare, so I began experimenting—trying to construct something like my own magical canon.”

  He smiled faintly, as if acknowledging how audacious that sounded.

  “Well, that’s overstating it. Really, I just began reflecting on the different schools of magic—their philosophies, their emotions, their foundations… the things that resonated with me most.”

  Kael raised his hand. Concentrating, he summoned a faint gray mist above his palm—shifting, trembling, like a living breath.

  “It was risky,” he said quietly, watching the haze pulse. “But as you can see, there’s progress.”

  When Duran saw the swirling mist over Kael’s hand, his jaw literally dropped.

  “What in the—” he breathed, then abruptly stepped closer.

  He gently took Kael’s wrist, lifting his arm for a better view, leaning in as if afraid to blink. The elder’s fingers trembled slightly, and his face reflected pure astonishment.

  “Incredible…” he murmured, shaking his head slowly.

  Kael opened his mouth, intending to temper the reaction.

  “It’s merely luck, Magister. The notes about the Form of Soul—”

  But Duran cut him off, not even glancing up.

  “What do you think of the Three Great Families?” he asked sharply. “Has any one of them approached you yet?”

  Kael blinked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

  “What’s going on here?” he wondered.

  He took a brief pause before replying aloud, still composed:

  “Hmm… I know that the head of Lasthold is a descendant of the Ancient Roots Family. And that the city itself is governed by the Council of Elders—most of whom come from those same three families.”

  Then he shrugged lightly and added:

  “But honestly, I haven’t taken much interest in them. And of course, none of them have made me any offers.”

  Kael gave a small, almost weary smile—not mocking, simply calm.

  “If you’ve looked into me, then you already know they consider me a failure. I doubt I’d be of interest to anyone.”

  He said it plainly, without bitterness—as a simple truth he had long since accepted.

  Violet, standing nearby, tightened her fingers almost imperceptibly. A pang struck her heart; it hurt to imagine what Kael must have endured to say those words so easily.

  But Duran’s reaction was entirely different. His eyes lit up—not with magic, but with genuine delight. He placed a firm hand on Kael’s back, giving him an encouraging push as he began leading him toward the table.

  “Forgive me for pressing you, Kael,” Duran said softly. “I simply needed to make sure you weren’t serving one of the Great Families.”

  Kael frowned slightly, tilting his head.

  “Forgive my bluntness, Magister,” he replied carefully. “But right now, it sounds as if you have something against them.”

  Duran chuckled quietly and patted him on the back with a fatherly gesture.

  “Not at all,” he said—his tone carried both respect and a faint weariness. “They are the pillars upon which Lasthold still stands. Without them, the city would have crumbled long ago.”

  He paused for a moment, his eyes lowering.

  “But there is knowledge,” he continued more quietly, “that should belong to everyone—not rest in the hands of the powerful few.”

  Then, as if catching himself, the old man smiled again and shifted his tone abruptly, steering the conversation back into lighter waters more fitting for his young guest.

  “But don’t trouble yourself with that!” he said, waving a hand, his genial warmth returning. “I already know quite a lot about you. And considering your discoveries, I’m certain you’ll be a blessing to the Hall of Ancient Research!”

  He laughed heartily and began gesturing animatedly.

  “We’ll sign the official papers shortly,” he said with a note of satisfaction. “And you’ll become a full-fledged Third-Rank Master—the youngest in history!”

  Kael walked beside him, still slightly wary, though genuine curiosity flickered in his eyes.

  As they continued forward, Duran added casually:

  “Oh, and one more thing… Don’t tell anyone about the Form of Soul for now. Raw, unverified knowledge can cause all sorts of trouble.”

  He turned with a wink.

  “Anything you discover, you bring first to Violet or to me. Then we’ll decide how to proceed, understood?”

  Unexpectedly, Kael stopped. His stride broke off mid-step, cutting through Duran’s words. When he raised his gaze, it was calm—but cold as steel.

  “Magister Duran,” he said, his voice steady, stripped of any youthful uncertainty, “if I’m to become a Master, then let’s speak honestly.”

  He took a step forward, and in that instant, there was nothing of a boy left in him.

  “I may not understand the politics of Lasthold,” he continued, “but I can sense hidden motives in your words. And I have no interest in being used—or treated like a fool.”

  Duran froze. The smile on his face stiffened, and the hand he’d left hanging midair slowly fell back to his side.

  The silence broke with a short laugh from Violet. She crossed her arms, smirking.

  “Told you he wasn’t an ordinary boy.”

  Kael paid her no attention. His amber eyes remained fixed on the old man.

  “What’s going on?” he asked quietly—yet with a weight that made the air itself seem to tremble.

  For a brief moment, Duran saw not a youth before him, but a grown man—one who knew betrayal, and would never again let himself be led by the hand.

  The Magister’s brow furrowed; his gaze grew heavier, more thoughtful.

  “Perhaps it’s best to bring him into the truth immediately,” he thought. “If we want him on our side, we can’t treat him like a tool.”

  With that, he drew a deep breath and said with grave seriousness:

  “I’ll tell you more—if you sign a magical contract.”

  “Terms?” Kael shot back instantly, his voice cold, wary.

  Inside him, an old pain stirred—the memory of a contract once signed in ignorance, which had cost him his life and seven centuries of enslavement.

  Seeing the sudden tension, Duran immediately raised his hands in a placating gesture.

  “I’m not trying to trick you,” he said calmly. “The contract is only for one purpose—to ensure you’ll never speak of this conversation to anyone.”

  Kael narrowed his eyes slightly.

  “Hidden conditions?”

  “None,” the old man answered firmly. “I only need to be certain of privacy.”

  He paused, then added more quietly, his tone weighted with sincerity:

  “I want us to stand on the same side. I have no reason to betray or deceive you.”

  There was no falsehood in his voice, and Kael, sensing that, finally exhaled—evenly, calmly, like someone admitting he had flared up without reason.

  “Then there’s no problem,” he said more softly. “I’m curious myself why you’re being so cautious.”

  Duran nodded, stroking his beard with satisfaction. He gestured toward a chair nearby.

  “Sit down, Kael.”

  When the young man did, the Magister studied him more closely. For a fleeting moment, something like respect—and disbelief—flickered in his eyes.

  “You really are an unusual boy,” he said. “Tell me, are you this composed because of the bullying at the academy?”

  At those blunt words, Violet, who’d been standing off to the side, nearly jumped. She could hardly believe Duran had said something so direct.

  She was about to protest when Kael spoke first. Strangely enough, he almost seemed amused by the old man’s theory—and decided to play along.

  “To be honest, I’ve only thought about that recently,” he replied. “At the academy, I usually tried to stay out of trouble. But that strategy doesn’t work very well. This new approach—not pretending to be nice—turned out to be much more effective.”

  Hearing that, Duran nodded approvingly, as if recognizing in Kael something far beyond a foolish youth. Sitting back down at his desk, he said:

  “Truly, age can be deceiving. You may still be na?ve in some ways, but the core of an adult is already formed within you. That’s commendable.”

  He reached under the table and drew out a dense sheet that gleamed faintly, like polished silver. Along its edges ran faintly glowing lines—rune tracings that resembled veins of metal.

  Kael glanced at it and noted silently:

  “Hmm… He’s not sparing resources. For Lasthold, those are quite decent reinforcement runes. This isn’t an ordinary contract.”

  The Magister explained the terms—briefly, precisely—then signed the document with a sweeping flourish and handed it to Kael.

  Kael took it and read slowly, from start to finish. Then again. And a third time. Only once he was absolutely certain there were no hidden formulas did he take the pen, carefully write his name, and add a period.

  The paper trembled, lifted off the table, and floated into the air. Its surface glowed crimson, then burst into flame, scattering into ash. A faint metallic scent lingered in the air.

  Kael gave a calm nod.

  “So then… What’s going on, Magister Duran?” he asked respectfully, with genuine curiosity, thinking to himself: “Violet hasn’t been sent away. That means she’s in on this.”

  Duran drew a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, and said:

  “You’re very talented, Kael. What you’ve discovered about the Form of Soul—it’s valuable, but also dangerous knowledge.”

  “Dangerous?” Kael repeated. “Wouldn’t spreading that knowledge make Lasthold stronger?”

  The old man’s smile widened, but weariness crept into it.

  “Exactly,” he said. “The key word there is ‘spreading.’”

  At that, Kael noticed Violet frown slightly and lower her gaze.

  He inclined his head, signaling that he was listening.

  “Please, go on, elder.”

  For a moment, the old man’s gaze drifted—as though he were no longer seeing Kael, but the distant heart of Lasthold itself. His face grew thoughtful; his eyes clouded with memory.

  “Lasthold has always survived through the shared efforts of its people,” he began slowly. “Everyone within these walls once worked together for the common good. That unity—that was the city’s strength.”

  He paused briefly, his brow furrowing.

  “But in recent generations, that balance has changed. The Three Great Families think more of themselves than of Lasthold. Their influence and rivalries grow, and because of that, the spirit of unity weakens. What follows is slow… but inevitable decline.”

  Duran turned his gaze back to Kael, and in his eyes there shone a quiet resolve.

  “But there are mages who don’t accept that,” he said, lowering his voice as if even the walls might be listening. “And they are working in secret—doing everything they can to keep that fragile balance from collapsing.”

  He squinted slightly, his look piercing.

  “Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

  The moment Kael heard those words, many things inside him fell into place.

  “So that’s how it is…” he thought. “The situation in Lasthold runs far deeper and more complex than I imagined.”

  Turning that over in his mind, and considering the old man’s question, Kael lifted his head and said calmly:

  “Knowledge is a weapon. And in Lasthold’s reality, it will either rest in the hands of everyone—used for defense against spirit beasts—or in the hands of those in power.”

  Duran nodded in satisfaction.

  “Precisely. And how those ‘in power’ might choose to use it… that’s anyone’s guess.”

  For a few seconds, silence filled the hall. Only the faint crackle of the aether lamps and the soft rustle of scrolls on the shelves broke it.

  Duran bowed his head slightly, as though weighing something heavy, then spoke again—lower now, almost wearily:

  “Perhaps the decline of the Hall of Ancient Research is a blessing for Lasthold,” he said, his gaze drifting somewhere off to the side. “There are still countless records left undeciphered… but maybe it’s better if they remain forgotten.”

  His voice carried a trace of bitterness—the tone of one who had seen too much and grown disillusioned.

  But Kael, unexpectedly, chose not to agree. He smiled faintly, and a spark of life—even defiance—flashed in his eyes.

  “There’s knowledge that could benefit Lasthold but be of no use to those in power,” he said quietly but firmly. “Don’t write us off just yet, Magister.”

  A look of surprise crossed the old man’s face. For several seconds, he simply studied Kael, and then a spark of interest—even hope—lit his eyes.

  “Us?” he asked, squinting. “Do you mean the Hall as a whole… or—”

  Kael cut him off, meeting his gaze directly and speaking plainly:

  “I share what you’ve told me. You can be certain I have no intention of serving the Three Families. If there’s anyone I despise, it’s despots and usurpers.”

  Those words caught Duran off guard. He blinked, then burst out laughing—a deep, warm, rasping laugh.

  Rising from his chair, he extended a hand toward Kael.

  “Then it seems we’re on the same path,” he said with a smile.

  Kael stood and clasped the old man’s hand firmly.

  “I look forward to working with you, Magister Duran,” he said, with a faint trace of slyness in his tone. “I hope that, as one of your own, you’ll allow me access to the more ancient—and secret—records.”

  “Hm.” Duran chuckled, his beard trembling with amusement. “Prove yourself worthy, and there’ll be no problem.”

  He stepped back, but his gaze remained warm and attentive.

  “I’ll be glad to witness your growth, Kael. With young people like you, Lasthold still has a future.”