It should have been a night like any other: the scent of fish and spiced wine, laughter in the taverns. But now, in Eryssan, more often than not, there were only whispers.

  Voices hushed when the wind shifted from the north, carrying with it a sharp smell of damp stone. Eyes flicked too often beyond the city walls, toward the black line of cliffs where the land bore its wound.

  The Fracture.

  It split the coastline beyond the northern rise, a jagged seam carved deep into the cliffs. By day, it shimmered like crystal beneath sunlight. But as dusk settled over the city, it pulsed with a low, intermittent violet-tinged glow.

  Lyra Colwyn reached the final stretch of marble steps just as the bells of evening began to ring across Eryssan. She paused, drawing her shawl tighter against the sea wind as loose strands of pale-gold hair slipped free of her braid. Her gaze drifted back toward the cliffs, unable to pull her eyes away.

  Even from here the Fracture was visible.

  She had grown up eight hours up the coast in a village, where the Fracture was mostly a story told over mended fishing nets and half-empty wine cups. It was something distant; something people argued about.

  Here in Eryssan, it loomed over everything.

  The city itself clung to the cliffs beneath it. White towers rose above crowded streets and a harbour thick with ships, their sails flashing emerald, crimson, and cobalt as they rocked against their moorings.

  Normally the docks would still be loud at this hour, but the taverns were quiet. The loudest sound was the clang of shutters closing early.

  Lyra forced herself to turn away from the cliffs and continued up the steps.

  At the top, the Grand Archive waited. Made of marble pillars and shadowed arches, its great domed roof darkening against the sky. Candlelight flickered behind its high windows like watchful eyes.

  Inside, the air smelled of salt, parchment, and hot beeswax. A steward in grey robes gathered the newly arrived apprentices near the entrance hall and began leading them through the vaulted corridors. Their footsteps echoed against the stone as they followed, some whispering nervously, others craning their necks at the endless shelves of books.

  Lyra kept her hands folded tight in her sleeves.

  She had barely arrived in the city before being ushered here, summoned by scholars whose names she had only ever seen on the spines of ancient texts. Her own name had been a small one at the bottom of the list.

  She still wasn’t certain why it was there.

  “And the rumours are true, then?” one of the apprentices asked quietly beside her.

  The steward did not slow, but she saw him roll his eyes.

  “Are what rumours true, Scribe Julen?”

  The apprentice hesitated. “The Umbralyn. Is it true they live amongst humans here?”

  A few people in the group shifted uneasily. Lyra felt her pulse quicken, intrigued.

  She had spent years reading fragments of contradictory histories about them. Some were referred to as invaders, exiles or guardians, depending on the source.

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  The steward did not slow his pace. “Some do. Their knowledge of the ancient tongue is… indispensable. You may be introduced to one tomorrow.”

  Julen made a small, incredulous sound. “And we are expected to treat them with humanity?"

  The steward stopped then and turned, his gaze sharp. “You are in Eryssan,” he said. “If we are to understand the Fracture, we must understand those bound to guard it. That includes the Umbralyn.”

  Silence followed. The apprentice scoffed, but no one else spoke. Lyra swallowed, her pulse loud in her ears now.

  The steward studied them a moment longer before turning again and resuming his brisk pace through the corridor.

  “Come along,” he said. “You will have plenty of time for questions tomorrow when you begin.”

  They passed beneath a series of high arches where narrow windows looked out toward the harbour. From this height the sea stretched black and glassy beneath the darkening sky, lanterns bobbing between the ships below.

  Lyra tried not to look north again.

  The corridor opened into a circular chamber lined with narrow staircases that spiralled upward into the Archive’s upper levels. The steward gestured toward one of them.

  “Apprentices’ quarters are above. Some of you will be sharing rooms. Others may find a little solitude. The Archive is not an inn, so you will forgive the modest arrangements.”

  A few of the apprentices exchanged uncertain glances but began climbing. Lyra followed near the back, her fingers brushing the cool stone of the banister as they wound higher and higher into the tower.

  At the landing, the steward produced a small iron keyring and began handing out keys. When Lyra reached him, he paused briefly to glance at a parchment list he had pulled from his robes.

  “Colwyn,” he said.

  She nodded. “Lyra,” she confirmed.

  “I’ve heard that name before. You came from the coastal villages, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hm.” His gaze lingered a moment longer before he handed her a key. “Room seven.”

  Lyra stepped aside as the others collected theirs. As she turned toward her assigned room, Julen appeared beside her again, looking both nervous and eager.

  “Did you know?” he said quietly. “About the Umbralyn being here?”

  “I’d heard stories,” she said quietly, “about them guarding the Fracture. I didn’t know they worked in the Archive.”

  “Work with us, you mean.” He grimaced. “That’s certainly not what I signed up for.”

  Before Lyra could answer, the steward cleared his throat loudly.

  “If you are quite finished speculating,” he said, “there is one matter you should understand before tomorrow.”

  The apprentices stilled.

  He rested both hands behind his back, looking suddenly older in the flickering torchlight.

  “Three weeks ago,” he said, “multiple fragments were recovered from the cliffs north of the city. Broken from the Fracture itself.”

  A ripple of murmurs passed through the group. “Crystal?” someone asked.

  “Glass,” the steward corrected. “Or something very like it. Etched with writing none of our scholars have been able to decipher.”

  A script no one could read. Despite the unease in the room, a spark of curiosity stirred in Lyra’s chest.

  “Which,” the steward continued, “is why each of you received a summons. The Elders requested those with knowledge of dialects and dead languages that have long been… overlooked.”

  He looked directly at Lyra as he said the last word. Heat crept up the back of her neck. Her father had always insisted the old coastal dialects were worth studying, but most scholars had disagreed.

  “You will begin assisting the senior archivists tomorrow,” the steward said. “If the script cannot be translated, we will remain blind to whatever the Fracture is trying to tell us.”

  The words settled heavily over the group. Someone shifted uneasily.

  “And the Umbralyn?” Julen asked again, unable to restrain himself. “What part do they play in this?”

  The steward’s expression tightened slightly. “They have knowledge of the language used in the earliest records surrounding the Fracture. Knowledge we do not.”

  Julen muttered something under his breath, but the steward ignored him.

  “You would do well to remember that the peace we live under was not easily won,” he said quietly. “Those who guard the cliffs have kept this city standing for generations.”

  He paused, then added:

  “But the Fracture has begun to stir again.”

  The words sent a chill through Lyra. Outside the narrow windows the sea wind rose suddenly, rattling the shutters. For a moment she imagined she could see the faint violet glow from the cliffs reflected in the glass.

  Tomorrow, she might stand face-to-face with one of the beings born from that wound. And if the scholars were right, that creature might hold the key to a language no human could read.

  Lyra had spent her life chasing half-forgotten words. But tonight, for the first time, she wondered if some were meant to remain unread.