Part IV — The Mirror of Men
Summary:
In the deep library of House Veyne, Saviik begins to read what few Imperials dare. He studies the blurred line between mortal and divine, wondering what turns an ordinary will into a legend. The candlelight itself seems to listen.
---
The library lay half-buried beneath the estate, a square of quiet wrapped in dust and old breath. It was the kind of room that collected time rather than passed it. Candles stood in wall sconces shaped like open hands; their flames leaned just enough to show where air moved when no one walked.
Saviik's fingers followed the spine of a book titled The Reman Doctrine: Man and Empire. It gave beneath his touch as if exhaling. He pulled it free, careful not to disturb the dust pattern of the shelf. The page edges rasped softly when he turned them, a dry sound that pleased him more than music.
Xala's voice drifted from the stairwell.
"You're in the dark again."
"I can see enough," he said without looking up.
She appeared at the top step, a smudge of crimson dress in the amber light. "You always can. That's not the same as should."
He smiled faintly, but kept reading. The candle nearest him flared when he breathed out, then steadied. The air smelled of wax and iron ink.
She joined him, curling onto the low bench opposite his desk. "What are you learning this time?"
"That power is a story," he said. "And whoever tells it longest becomes law."
She reached for the open book, frowning at the dense script. "You actually enjoy this."
"It's like learning how men pretend to be gods."
"Do they succeed?"
He glanced at her. "Once." He turned a page, revealing the etched likeness of Tiber Septim carved from some earlier era. The face was stern, eyes empty of the madness most statues carried. "He willed himself into divinity. That's what they say. Man by Will becomes God by Deed."
Xala leaned forward until her braid brushed the parchment. "That sounds like something a god would say after the fact."
"Or a man before it," he murmured.
The words had weight. The candle beside him swayed, then straightened again, a long exhalation in flame. They both noticed. Neither spoke.
He read another line aloud, quiet enough that the syllables barely formed:
> "The fire of belief is both a tool and a trial; the hand that shapes it must not tremble."
As the sentence left his lips, the ink seemed to shimmer. The candle flame bent toward him, a thin ribbon of light drawn by unseen breath. It hovered that way, almost bowing.
Xala whispered, "You're doing it again."
"No." He lifted his hand slightly; the light followed, obedient as before. "It's the air."
"It's you."
He lowered his palm, and the flame returned to normal. The silence afterward felt alive.
"I didn't mean—" he began.
"I know." She reached across the table, pushing the book closed with two fingers. "Some words are meant to stay in the mouth of the one who wrote them. Not everything that listens should be answered."
He studied her face—the trace of freckles across her nose, the way the candlelight gilded the edge of her jaw. "You're afraid of words."
"I'm afraid of what answers them," she said.
He nodded once, slowly. "Then I'll whisper next time."
"That's not the same as silence," she said, but her voice softened. She set a fresh candle on the table, lighting it from the one that had bowed. "There. If they want to listen, let them talk to each other instead."
He smiled, the smallest shift of lips. "You think candles gossip?"
"They carry flame," she said. "That's close enough."
---
They read in companionable quiet. Pages turned; wax dripped. Occasionally he looked up to watch her eyes move across the lines of her lighter book—some collection of songs or myths. When she mouthed a line to herself, the words looked like prayer.
"Do you ever wonder," he said, "if faith is just another kind of magic?"
Her finger paused on the page. "Faith doesn't need proof."
"Neither does power."
She closed her book. "You sound like Ylva."
He looked thoughtful. "She says the same thing?"
"She says every Empire ends when it forgets that lies need polishing."
He laughed under his breath. "Then truth must be very dull."
"Maybe that's why you like it."
---
Time slipped. The rain above the stone ceiling softened to a rhythm like distant drumming. Saviik's candle burned low; the new one Xala had lit took over. He stretched his fingers over its small heat, watching how the light carved lines into his skin.
"Do you ever miss the cold?" she asked suddenly.
"Every day."
"I can't imagine it."
"It isn't about temperature," he said. "It's about weight. The air there feels heavy enough to hold you. Here everything floats."
"Maybe that's why you read so much," she said. "To keep yourself from floating away."
He didn't answer. The silence between them filled the space easily, not awkward, but complete.
When she finally stood, the hem of her dress brushed the floor with a whisper. "Don't stay too late," she said. "Even knowledge gets lonely if you make it wait."
He watched her go, her reflection catching briefly in the glass of a cabinet door. When the steps faded, he reopened the book to the line that had drawn the candle earlier. The ink shimmered again, or maybe his eyes did.
He whispered it once more, this time not as a challenge, but as a question:
> "Man by Will becomes God by Deed."
Nothing stirred. The flame only trembled, then steadied, as if satisfied.
He smiled faintly. "Then maybe the gods were men who learned patience."
Outside, the rain had stopped. The lake beyond the window caught a single thread of moonlight, stretching it thin until it broke against the far shore. The library seemed to breathe, stone settling with the soft sigh of an old animal.
Saviik dipped his quill, wrote the phrase into his journal, and beneath it one word that felt heavy in his chest: Wait.
He closed the book carefully, snuffed the candles one by one, and left the last flame burning. As he walked away, it bent once more toward him, just enough to suggest a bow.