The echo of the argument still lingered in the corridor long after the Directorate men had gone.
Master Leon stood by the sealed door of Leslie's old office, his breath fogging faintly in the cool air. The chamber smelled of dust, oil, and the sharp sting of old ink — the scent of work abruptly abandoned. For a moment he simply watched the golden seal of the Directorate harden over the lock, its faint hum merging with the low drone of the building's lamps.
He despised that sound. It was the sound of jurisdiction — of something once belonging to scholars now belonging to soldiers.
The exchange replayed itself in his head. He had reasoned, pleaded, even tried to invoke the Arcanum's charter rights, but it had all been like shouting into stone.
The Directorate men had listened with that same cold patience that bureaucrats reserve for the condemned — letting him finish before repeating, "All relevant material falls under Crown custody until the case concludes."
When he protested again, one of them — the senior among them, his insignia glinting faintly under the lamplight — gestured for the guards to begin sealing the door.
Leon had felt a rare flash of helpless anger. He watched as the sigil burned gold across the lock, cutting him off from the very research he had helped approve.
Leslie's name was already being spoken in past tense by the apprentices. Was. Had been. The Directorate wasted no time erasing the living from their ledgers.
Leon's hands were still trembling slightly from the exchange. "Those texts are Arcanum property," he had said — perhaps too loudly. "You don't know what you're tampering with."
One of the investigators had simply looked through him, repeating the same line as if reciting scripture: 'All relevant material falls under Crown custody until the case concludes.'
Now, alone, Leon let out a long breath. "Fools," he muttered. "You think knowledge bends to seals and chains."
He turned, letting his eyes wander across the dim hallway. Every lamp seemed to flicker a little differently tonight. Perhaps it was only his nerves.
For the briefest moment, he thought he saw a shadow move near the stairwell — a shape too quick, too slight. He dismissed it. The assistants had been scattering since dawn; no doubt one of them still loitered, curious.
But when he approached the office again, a faint draft brushed his sleeve — from the window that should have been locked.
He frowned, stepping closer. The latch was unfastened. Papers had shifted on the desk, though none were missing at first glance.
He felt an odd stillness settle in his chest. Leslie's research had already claimed one mind; he would not let it swallow another.
"Whatever you took," he murmured under his breath, almost as if speaking to the air, "may the Reach spare you the sight she saw."
The lamps hissed once, then steadied. Leon turned away, unaware that the faint residue of perception still clung to the room — invisible but listening.
Ryneth had read through the journal a dozen times by now. The air had grown colder as night deepened, shadows pooling in the corners of the room. Candlelight trembled across the pages, but no new insight emerged. There was nothing pointing to any particular text — only the gradual, harrowing record of Leslie's symptoms.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly. "But she was already an Echoed Resonant… why would she suddenly develop symptoms of the Glassmind?" His brow furrowed.
The question lingered in the silence, unanswered.
"And why would she attempt the act of Climbing? Money? Fame? Power? No… she wasn't that sort of person," he muttered again, more to himself than anyone else, shaking his head. The thought felt heavier with each repetition, pressing on him like the cold stone walls of the Arcanum.
He closed the journal for a moment, letting his fingers trace its worn edges. Nothing in these entries explained the madness that had overtaken her — only a slow, methodical collapse of mind and perception.
Ryneth's gaze drifted to the scattered manuscripts beside him. "If it wasn't ambition… then what drove her to push herself this far?"
Ryneth sat hunched over his table, the candle casting long, trembling shadows across the scattered papers. His fingers hovered over the journal, rereading Leslie's words with meticulous care. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, but the silence of the room felt heavier than usual.
He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the unease that had settled over him. "She was already Echoed… why would she push herself to climb further?" he murmured, almost to himself. "She understood the risks… she knew what she was doing… yet…"
A sudden flicker caught the corner of his eye. The candlelight shivered, though there had been no draft. He turned sharply, but the shadows had not moved — only the edges of the parchment danced in the dim glow.
He frowned. "I'm imagining it," he said, forcing a small laugh. But as he leaned back, the shadow of his hand stretched unnaturally across the table, bending slightly before settling back in place. His pulse quickened.
Ryneth's gaze returned to the journal. The words, the dates, the descriptions of headaches, hallucinations, nightmares — they felt alive now, pressing against his mind. He traced the sentences with a finger, noting the meticulous care of Leslie's script, the blotches that seemed almost like tremors frozen in ink.
"What did she see… what did she feel?" he whispered, his breath shallow. His mind raced through the symptoms: insomnia, sleep paralysis, flickering perception, voices echoing backward. He had read the Crown's report multiple times, but imagining it firsthand made it visceral.
The candle flickered again. This time, the light cast a reflection in the small shard of glass he had used to prop up one of the papers — a tiny mirror that caught the lamplight. For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw a second image of himself in it, pale and staring back with wide, unblinking eyes. He jerked back, heart hammering.
"No… it's nothing," he muttered, reaching for the glass to adjust it. But the sensation lingered, a faint ripple in the room, almost like the space itself was aware of him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
Ryneth exhaled slowly, grounding himself. He needed clarity. He couldn't let fear rule him — if Leslie's decline had been the result of a mistake in her perception, he had to understand it before curiosity claimed him as well.
He spread the pages in front of him, taking a methodical approach this time. "Step one," he muttered, "observe. Step two, compare. Step three… cautiously test."
He reached for a small inkwell and carefully dipped his pen into it. Tracing a line across a blank page, he imagined the resistance of the table, the curve of the strokes, the tiniest reaction of the paper. The flicker in the candlelight seemed to pulse in response.
Ryneth paused. "It's subtle… barely noticeable. But it's there." His mind raced. If even this small exercise caused a response, then the journals, the diagrams, and the notes she had worked with were far more… potent. Dangerous, even.
He leaned back, thinking. "If she was harmed by her own work, I can't just study these papers in the open. I'll need to be careful — controlled. One step at a time."
A soft noise from the corridor startled him — a door closing far away, echoing in the night. He froze, listening. Nothing followed. Still, the hairs on his arms bristled.
Ryneth gathered the texts he had taken, stacking them neatly, and placed them in his sachel. "I'll need more space, more time… and a place where I won't be disturbed." He cast a glance at the candle, its flame dancing as though mirroring his thoughts. "Perhaps the night is the only friend I can trust for this."
He felt a chill, not entirely from the cold night, and shivered. But it was a shiver of anticipation as much as of caution. The act of climbing — the next level of perception — loomed ahead, and Ryneth knew he had already taken the first tentative step.
With a deep breath, he pushed the texts gently aside, letting the candlelight fall across the neat stacks. His mind was still racing, but his body ached from the day's effort. For now, he would rest.
He blew out the candle, and darkness filled the room. Lying on his narrow bed, he stared at the ceiling, replaying the journal's words in his mind. Sleep came slowly, but eventually, his thoughts gave way to the quiet void, leaving only the faint echo of curiosity lingering in the dark.