The moment the door shuts, something in the air thickens.
You stand there for a breath too long, listening to the click of the lock as Levi turns it behind you. It echoes—not loud, just final. Like drawing a line behind the night.
He moves without a word, crossing the room to the desk where your decoy letters still sit in a careful pile. With one smooth sweep, he clears the surface. Parchment flutters to the floor, and the candlelight flares as if startled by the sudden motion.
You set the cipher down first. Then the journal.
The leather is still damp from your cloak. It smells of mildew and age, the cover stiff and worn, etched with twisting marks that make your eyes ache if you stare too long. You trace them with one gloved fingertip, not touching—just hovering.
"They're not just design," you say quietly. "They're deliberate."
Levi is already beside you, close enough that your sleeves brush. "They're a lock," he mutters. "Which means this—" he nods to the cipher "—is our key."
You sit. The wooden chair creaks beneath you as you lean forward, opening the journal with slow care. Pages crackle. The ink inside is uneven, faded in some spots, but you catch repeating shapes, fragments. Notes. Some in code. Some in panic.
Levi props one hand on the desk, the other flipping pages with methodical patience. He doesn't speak unless there's something worth saying. You find yourself matching his rhythm before you even realize it.
His shoulder presses lightly against yours when he leans in. The contact is small—accidental, you tell yourself. But it doesn't stop.
You don't want it to.
"Here." Levi's voice cuts into the quiet. He taps a faded column. "These repeat. Every seven entries. Same pattern."
You lean closer, candlelight catching the edge of the ink. "It's a cycle. Like a report log."
You grab the cipher, flipping between its pages. As the two of you map the symbols, the fragments begin to take shape. Bit by bit, they whisper the truth.
Test subjects—Stage Three. Injection holding. No cognitive regression.
Aggression increased. Monitoring ongoing.
Northern Containment Zone mapped. Civilian access sealed.
Vaergan present. Witnessed awakening. Noted loss of self-awareness.
—vaulted chamber above gallery. Skylight access only. Entry restricted.
Rotation halted. Risk containment breach.
You freeze.
Your eyes dart back to the words vaulted chamber above gallery.
"The solar," you whisper. "There's a skylight above the solar. I saw it once—from the western conservatory. It's not on the maps."
Levi's voice is barely audible. "You're sure?"
You nod, heart thudding. "It's a domed ceiling. Made of glass. But the servants' maps don't show any second story above that wing. No stairs. No rooms."
"Because it's hidden."
He pushes off the desk, pacing once. "Whatever he's keeping up there, it's not meant to be found."
You rise slowly. "We need to get inside."
"We will."
There's a long beat. Levi watches you for a moment longer than necessary. His expression is unreadable. But his gaze lingers on your mouth before it flicks away.
You don't breathe until he turns.
—
The greenhouse exhales warm air and the scent of crushed rosemary the moment you enter. Afternoon light drips through the stained glass overhead, casting fractured colors across the tiled floor. Red. Gold. Green.
You spot Marla near the herb beds, fingers buried deep in the soil. Her sleeves are rolled up. Her hair pulled back. She doesn't turn to greet you.
You kneel beside her, brushing a hand over a sprig of mint.
"I'm looking for something," you say softly. "For clarity."
Marla snorts, pulling a dead leaf from the stem. "Aren't we all."
You pluck a piece of thyme, but your voice drops to something sharper. "We've found a room. Above the solar. Vaulted ceiling. No visible access."
She stills—just for a second. Then resumes pulling weeds.
"No one talks about that room," she says. "Not because they're told not to. Because they're scared to."
You glance at her. "Why?"
"I've worked this estate five years. I've never cleaned it. Never been asked to. Never seen anyone who has." She lowers her voice. "But there are always footsteps. Around midday. Heavy ones. Men bringing crates. Not food. Not linens. Equipment."
"Equipment?"
She nods. "Covered. On trolleys. Silent. Straight through the upper gallery. Same time every day."
You exhale slowly. You hadn't said anything about timing.
"And at night?"
"Guards. Doubled patrol. Never posted in pairs anywhere else, not even near the treasury vault."
From her apron pocket, she pulls a key. Old brass. Dull with age. "This opens the servants' stairwell. It won't take you into the solar, but it'll get you one floor beneath it."
You take the key, your fingers brushing hers. She squeezes your hand once before letting go.
"I don't know what he's hiding," she says. "But I know what it costs to guard something that tightly."
You meet her eyes. "Have you ever tried to find out?"
Her smile is thin. "No. I've seen what happens to the ones who do."
—
The courtyard is louder than usual. Steel rings out against steel. Nobles cheer, gossip, drink. The late sun slants across the stone in warm, golden sheets, blinding and too bright.
You stand near the balustrade, posture casual. Inside, your blood is a drumbeat. Levi is beside you, arms folded, face carved from stone.
Then—
"Captain Marchand," Vaergan calls, emerging from the fencing ring in fine white linen, blade already in hand. "Care to join us? My men are eager for a challenge."
Levi's expression doesn't change. "Not interested."
Vaergan smiles wider. "Afraid?"
"No," Levi says. "Bored."
Gasps rise from the sidelines. Nobles laugh behind raised fans.
You touch Levi's sleeve lightly. A warning. But he's already moving—shrugging out of his jacket, handing it to you without looking. His fingers brush yours. Cold. Steady.
The match is brutal. Clinical. Levi doesn't toy. He ends it fast.
Vaergan's man is disarmed in under thirty seconds and sprawled across the stone, gasping.
Levi bows—just barely.
Vaergan claps once, then again. "Efficient," he says. "But graceless."
Levi's smile is a blade. "I fight to win. Not to entertain."
You catch it then—the flicker in Vaergan's eyes. The crack in his mask. Not offense. Not outrage.
Recognition.
Later, in a narrow hallway lined with velvet curtains, Levi pulls you aside.
He doesn't touch you, but he's close. The kind of close you feel in your throat.
"He knows," he murmurs.
You already knew it. But hearing it aloud chills you anyway.
"Not everything," he adds. "But enough. He's watching us now."
You hold his gaze.
There's a heartbeat between you. Then another.
And the war neither of you speaks presses silently between your ribs.