The city felt heavier after returning from the abandoned ruins, even though no visible changes had occurred. The air still hung thick and stale, the streets just as dim under the glowglobes that buzzed faintly above. But Silas could feel it—a tightening. As if the silver thread he'd seen once before was slowly winding itself around his life.
He hadn't told anyone about the book. Not Velira. Not Cass. It sat beneath his mattress, wrapped in cloth, its stitched spine humming faintly in his thoughts. It wasn't just knowledge—it was an invitation to something dangerous.
So Silas stayed quiet. He practiced his spells. He took walks through the lesser districts, alone. And when he wasn't outside, he was in his room, re-reading the sections on soul domination, path alignment, and monster-ritual fusion. One line kept circling in his mind:
"You must overpower the invading soul. If you cannot, you will be replaced."
---
Velira noticed it, of course. Not right away. But slowly. The way Silas had become quieter, more distant. The way he no longer shared his spell ideas out loud. The way he didn't laugh.
So she knocked.
Not at the library, but at his door. An awkward, hesitant knock. Silas opened it, surprised. She stood there, a bundle in her hands.
"I brought soup. You eat like you're training to die."
Silas blinked. "That's… very poetic."
"And accurate," she said, pushing past him and entering. "Also, you missed training. Again."
He rubbed his neck. "I didn't realize. Time slipped."
She didn't sit immediately. She just looked around. Sparse room. Scuffed chalk on the floor. No food. Faint smell of burned parchment.
"You know," she said, setting the soup on his table, "you can talk to us. You don't need to carry the whole world by yourself."
"I'm not," he lied.
"Then what are you doing, Silas? You used to care. About things. About us."
"I still do."
"Then act like it."
He looked away. Eyes tracing the wood grain of the wall. The soup smelled of weak onions and a hint of dried meat. It reminded him of when he first arrived.
"Sometimes," he said softly, "the only way forward is alone."
Velira crossed her arms. "That's not true. You didn't survive alone. You don't cast alone. You don't fight alone. And unless you plan on breaking your soul again, you can't refine alone either."
The silence stretched.
Finally, Silas laughed. Not loudly. Just a breath.
"You're good at guilt-tripping."
"I'm good at noticing when someone is spiraling. And I hate watching people vanish in front of me."
Silas nodded, once. "Thank you. For the soup."
Velira gave a small smile. "Eat it. Then come to training tomorrow. Cass is waiting. We all are."
She left, closing the door gently behind her.
Silas sat down and began to eat.
He didn't touch the book that night.