The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting pale gold across the rooftops of Ovrun. In a cramped, modest apartment tucked into one of the quieter alleys of the capital, Ryneth slept, tangled in the coarse blankets that smelled faintly of candle smoke and parchment.
A whisper stirred in the corners of his mind, faint and indistinct, threading through the fog of half-dreams. He blinked, trying to focus, but the words — if they were words — slipped away before they could take form.
Then came a sudden thud. The sound reverberated through the thin walls of his apartment, startling him into full wakefulness.
"What was that?" he muttered, voice hoarse, still tangled between sleep and alertness. His heart beat faster, thrumming in his ears as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The candlelight flickered weakly against the walls, shadows twisting like restless fingers.
He paused, listening. The whispering had stopped. Only the quiet hum of the city outside remained, and the faint creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath his feet. Something had shifted, though he couldn't yet tell if it had come from the street, the building, or some corner of his own mind.
Ryneth rubbed his eyes and sat on the edge of the bed, mind still foggy. "Probably just a rat… or the wind," he said to himself, though neither explanation felt convincing. Something was off.
He glanced at the small sachel by the table, where the texts he had taken from Master Leslie rested, their presence both a comfort and a warning. Today, he thought, whatever happened last night
Ryneth sighed, pushing away the uneasy thought of the noise. He stood, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders, and shuffled toward the small basin by the window. A faint chill crept through the cracks in the shutters — morning air mixed with city dust.
He splashed water onto his face. The cold bit into his skin.
"Damn, that's cold," he muttered, voice echoing faintly in the still room.
For a moment, the rush of water was the only sound. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught it — movement. A flicker in his reflection.
He froze.
The reflection wasn't still. It shifted, subtle but undeniable — a blink that wasn't his, a head tilt delayed by a breath too long.
He turned sharply, eyes meeting his own reflection in the rippling surface. It was gone. Just him. Just tired eyes and pale skin half-lit by the dawn.
"Maybe it's just my imagination," he whispered, forcing a dry laugh.
But as he leaned closer to rinse his face again, a strange thought bloomed uninvited in his mind — What if it wasn't?
The air around him felt heavier, charged. The texts on his desk — the ones he had "borrowed" — seemed to hum faintly in that silence, though perhaps it was just his pulse pounding in his ears.
Still, the sensation persisted: as though the papers were aware of him, watching quietly from where they rested.
When he turned away to dress, the feeling only grew worse. Shadows shifted where they shouldn't. Shapes moved just outside the edge of sight. He blinked once, twice — nothing there. And yet the unease clung like static.
Every time he closed his eyes, even for a heartbeat, he saw flashes — a narrow room of glass, endless reflections staring back at him, thousands of identical faces frozen in quiet accusation.
He rubbed his temples, breathing slow. "No. Focus. It's just fatigue," he told himself.
But deep down, he already knew the truth: the texts had changed something in him.
Only slightly — a tilt, a whisper, a flicker — but enough. Enough to make the world no longer entirely his own.
Ryneth tried to shake the lingering heaviness from his head, the chill that still clung to his thoughts like morning frost. He dressed quickly, pulling on his worn shirt and coat, buckling his belt in a practiced motion. His satchel lay beside the table — he opened it briefly, his eyes brushing over the box that held the stolen texts.
He hesitated for a heartbeat.
Then he closed it, fastened the strap, and slung it over his shoulder.
"Better not be late," he muttered, as if the simple act of speaking might drown out whatever else whispered at the edge of his mind.
The streets of Ovrun were already alive when he stepped outside. The morning haze had thinned, revealing rows of vendor stalls and the echo of countless footsteps. Cart wheels creaked, hawkers called out prices, and the air smelled of spice, dust, and roasted grain.
Yet something felt off.
Everywhere he looked, there were faces — hundreds, passing glances, fleeting expressions. But somewhere among them, he was certain there were others. Invisible ones. Watching. Their presence pressed on the back of his neck like the faintest warmth of breath.
He tried not to look over his shoulder. He failed.
Nothing. Just the same street — a mother dragging her child along, two merchants arguing over coin, a courier weaving through the crowd.
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly through his nose.
"You're imagining things," he whispered. "Just the mind playing tricks."
But the murmurs didn't stop. They followed — faint, rhythmic, like words that never fully formed. He couldn't tell if they came from behind him or from inside his own head.
When he reached the plaza leading toward the Arcanum's towering spire, he stopped for a moment beneath its shadow. The faint glimmer of sunlight caught the glass in the upper balconies, fracturing into countless tiny reflections.
And for a second — just one second — he thought he saw faces in those reflections too.
The streets were alive again — morning market chatter, the rattle of wheels on cobblestone, vendors calling from behind laden carts.
Ryneth kept his head low, walking fast, the chill of the air doing little to steady his nerves. The whispers from earlier still lingered faintly, like echoes pressed against his mind.
He just needed to make it to the Arcanum. To lose himself in work.
He was halfway across the main courtyard when a voice cut through the crowd.
"Ryneth Calder."
He stopped dead.
Three figures stood at the edge of the steps, their dark coats marked with the silver insignia of the Crown's Directorate.
The woman in front — tall, with a faint scar tracing her left cheek — spoke first. Her tone was calm, but it carried the easy weight of authority.
"Novice transcriber, isn't that right?"
"Y-yes," Ryneth managed, clutching the strap of his satchel tighter. "That's… correct."
She took a few measured steps forward, her boots clicking sharply against the stone. "We didn't get to speak properly the last time. You offered your help in the investigation of Master Leslie's case, didn't you?"
Ryneth swallowed, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I thought maybe I could contribute. She—she was my mentor."
Another figure — older, composed, with silver threading through his hair — joined the woman's side. His eyes were sharp but not unkind. "And have you found anything since then?"
Ryneth hesitated, every thought tripping over the next. He could feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the distant hum in his head.
"Nothing conclusive yet," he said. "Her writings were… fragmented. It's difficult to tell what she was working toward."
The older man studied him closely, then nodded once. "We appreciate any effort made in the Directorate's interest. But tread carefully, Mr. Calder. Curiosity tends to burn brightest right before it consumes."
The third investigator — a younger man with warm, restless eyes — spoke up with a half-smile. "Don't mind him. He's not wrong, but he forgets people don't learn from warnings."
The woman with the scar gave him a look, then turned back to Ryneth. "You should know who you're speaking to, at least. I'm Morwen Hale, Directorate's Inquiry Division. The one glaring beside me is Arven Thane—Senior Investigator, Resonant of the First Veil."
Arven gave a faint, acknowledging nod.
"And this," she gestured toward the younger man, "is Callen Dray, our junior officer. Don't let him talk you into things you'll regret."
Callen grinned. "Pleasure."
"Likewise," Ryneth said, forcing a small, polite smile even as a flicker of motion tugged at the corner of his vision — a face in the glass door behind them, gone as soon as he blinked.
Morwen didn't seem to notice. "If you find anything unusual — anything that even feels wrong — bring it directly to us. East Wing offices, second level. No detours. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." She turned, already walking back toward the Directorate carriage that waited at the far end of the square.
Arven lingered for a moment, his gaze holding on Ryneth's eyes just a second longer than comfort allowed. "You look pale," he said quietly. "Be sure your thoughts are your own, Mr. Calder. The Reach has ways of… borrowing them."
Ryneth tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. "I'll keep that in mind."
As the three departed, their forms dissolving into the morning crowd, Ryneth stood frozen for a long moment. The city noise felt distant, muffled — like it came from behind glass.
He turned to the Arcanum's tall doors, forcing his hands to stop trembling.
"Get a hold of yourself," he whispered under his breath, then stepped inside.