At dusk, the east wing of the Academy library lay silent. Most students avoided it—partially out of superstition, partially because the magical locks on the annex were too tedious to undo. But Verena's key slid into the seal without resistance, as if the space had been waiting for her.
The door hissed open, revealing rows of ancient tomes and crystalline lamps that flickered to life at her presence. Dust danced like ghosts in the stale air. She stepped in without ceremony, boots tapping softly against marble.
Sera was already there, lounging on one of the long tables like a delinquent forced into detention, arms crossed, leg bouncing.
"Took you long enough," she grunted.
"I gave you six hours," Verena replied. "You barely arrived ten minutes ago."
Sera scoffed but didn't argue. The truth was written all over her—bloodied knuckles wrapped in gauze, a new rip on her coat's sleeve, and a frustrated flush that hadn't yet cooled.
