I prefer records to rumors.

  Rumors demand interpretation, records demand attention.

  The Academy archives are quiet at this hour. Stone corridors, narrow alcoves, ledgers bound in dark leather stacked with almost devotional precision. Candlelight shifts along the walls as I walk, flame catching in the silver-threaded trim of my sleeve.

  I am not meant to be here this late.

  That is precisely why I am.

  I remove a ledger labeled Administrative Adjustments – External Funding and carry it to the central table. Noctyre prides itself on documentation. Every grant, every donation, every shipment requires three signatures.

  At least, that is the official structure.

  I turn the page.

  Kovarian Steel Consortium — shipment delay noted.

  Acting Quartermaster signature.

  Authorization seal verified.

  Nothing unusual.

  I turn another page.

  The same shipment appears two weeks later.

  Redirected.

  Lower vaults.

  I pause.

  The lower vaults do not house steel.

  They house artifacts.

  I mark the page with a folded strip of parchment and continue reading.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Within twenty minutes, two more discrepancies surface.

  A sealed wing opened for “maintenance.”

  Archive access granted to a faculty member who retired three years ago.

  This is not administrative incompetence.

  It is pattern.

  And pattern requires intent.

  I close the ledger, resting my fingers lightly against the cover.

  Careful. Measured. Repeated.

  Someone is moving something.

  I do not return the ledger to its shelf.

  If its absence is noticed, it will not be until morning.

  By then, I will have what I need.

  The courtyard is frost-laced when I step outside. Most of the Academy sleeps; lanterns dim behind shuttered windows.

  Movement catches my eye.

  Nyverra.

  Elmyrra.

  They cross the courtyard together, walking close enough that their shoulders brush occasionally. Not ceremonially. Not strategically.

  Comfortably.

  Princess of Kovaria.

  Oracle of Virelya.

  Two positions of power sharing easy proximity.

  I watch without expression.

  If anyone else understands what that alignment represents, they are not behaving as though they do.

  Attachment creates leverage.

  Leverage creates vulnerability.

  I will need to account for that.

  I turn away before they notice me.

  In my quarters, I lay the ledger open and begin copying dates, names, authorization seals.

  I do not write conclusions, only facts.

  A knock interrupts the silence.

  Three precise taps.

  I am not surprised.

  “Enter.”

  A junior administrative aide steps inside, posture tight with nervous energy.

  “Lord Noctyre, you requested shipment manifests from the past quarter?”

  “I did.”

  “There was an irregularity.”

  I look up.

  “The authorization appeared under your seal,” he continues, voice lowering. “But it was issued before you submitted the request.”

  I hold his gaze.

  “And?”

  He swallows. “Should I report it to the Head Administrator?”

  I close the ledger slowly.

  “No.”

  The word leaves without hesitation.

  “Return the manifests to storage. Do not mention this to anyone.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He leaves quickly.

  I remain seated.

  Someone anticipated my inquiry.

  Or someone is already watching me.

  Using my seal was not a mistake.

  It was a message.

  Not random.

  Not careless.

  Coordinated.

  A faint smile forms despite myself.

  Good.

  I prefer opponents who think ahead.

  I extinguish the candle and let the room fall into darkness.

  The Academy sleeps.

  Factions maneuver across the continent.

  And somewhere beneath Noctyre’s stone foundations, something is being moved.

  Quietly.

  Deliberately.

  Just as I am.

  I do not yet know what the pattern means.

  But I will.

  I always do.