The sigil did not fade overnight.
Lioren woke before dawn with his hand clenched so tightly that his nails had cut crescent moons into his skin. For a moment, he did not remember why.
Then the dull heat pulsed through his palm.
Not pain—no longer that sharp, carving agony—but something steadier. Present. Like a second heartbeat nested beneath his own.
He opened his hand slowly.
In the thin grey light seeping through the narrow dormitory window, the mark looked almost harmless. Ink-dark lines traced the center of his palm, delicate and deliberate, curving into intersecting arcs that formed a pattern too precise to be accidental. It followed the natural creases of his skin as though it had grown there.
He pressed his thumb against it.
The lines shimmered faintly.
His breath caught.
It responded.
The reaction was subtle—no flare, no violent surge like the night before—but the warmth deepened, spreading up through his wrist in a slow ripple. Not threatening. Not yet.
Aware.
He swung his legs over the edge of the narrow cot and sat still, listening to the early silence of the scholars' quarters. Someone coughed down the hall. Floorboards creaked. A door shut softly.
Ordinary sounds.
Nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
He flexed his fingers. The sigil shifted almost imperceptibly, the lines tightening into sharper definition before settling again.
It had not been a dream.
He crossed to the washbasin and dipped his hand into the cool water.
The moment his skin touched the surface, the sigil flared beneath the water like molten metal plunged into ice. Steam rose in a faint hiss. Lioren jerked back instinctively, heart hammering.
The water had not heated.
The heat came from him.
He wrapped his palm in a linen cloth and tied it firmly, concealing the mark beneath the fabric. The pressure dulled the sensation but did not extinguish it.
He would return to the Hall early.
Before the others.
Before Halvric.
If the fragment had changed again, he needed to see it.
The corridors of the Ivory Vault were colder than usual when he descended the stone steps toward the restricted levels. The lantern he carried cast long shadows that trembled along the walls. Each footstep sounded louder in the half-light.
The Hall of Restricted Manuscripts did not greet him with anything different.
Dust. Silence. The faint scent of old parchment.
But the air felt heavier.
He set the lantern on his desk and unwrapped his palm briefly.
The sigil glowed once, as if in acknowledgment of the room.
He swallowed.
Not the room.
The fragment.
He approached the shelf where he had concealed it behind the visible volumes. The gap remained where he had left it.
No one had noticed.
He eased the thin binding free and laid it carefully on the desk.
For several seconds, he did nothing.
Then he opened it.
The script was no longer what he remembered.
The flowing lines from the previous night had rearranged into denser formations, symbols crowding closer together, overlapping in patterns that defied conventional grammar. Where before there had been a single centered phrase, now there were multiple lines radiating outward like spokes of a wheel.
His pulse quickened.
He had not imagined it.
The fragment was not static.
It was responding.
He leaned closer, resisting the urge to touch the page again.
The air above the parchment shimmered faintly, as if heated by unseen embers.
Carefully, he reached for a blank sheet of copying parchment and a fresh quill.
If he could reproduce even a portion of the script, he might be able to analyze it without direct contact.
He began with the outermost curve, mimicking the shape precisely.
The moment the quill tip completed the first line, the sigil in his palm pulsed sharply.
Ink bled outward across his copy, distorting the shape he had drawn. The line warped, curling into a different formation than the one he intended.
He stared.
He tried again.
Same result.
The copy refused to remain what he wrote.
The fragment on the desk remained unchanged.
Only his attempt altered.
"It doesn't want to be copied," he murmured.
Or it didn't want to be removed.
The thought tightened something in his chest.
He set the quill aside and flexed his wrapped hand.
The linen had darkened slightly where warmth seeped through.
He needed to think.
Fifth Script materials were restricted for a reason. The Empire had long classified them as destabilizing—dangerous relics of a time before current governance structures. Scholars were allowed to study fragments only under supervision and only for translation into approved historical frameworks.
This fragment had no classification seal.
No Custodian insignia.
Someone had hidden it from oversight.
The sigil pulsed again, softer this time.
A warning.
He froze.
Footsteps echoed faintly from the corridor above.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Not the uncertain shuffle of a junior scribe.
Lioren closed the fragment at once and slid it beneath a stack of approved manuscripts.
He had barely straightened when Halvric Aemon stepped into the Hall.
The High Archivist moved like the place belonged to him—which, in many ways, it did. His grey-streaked hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, and his robes were immaculate despite the early hour.
"You are here early," Halvric observed.
Lioren inclined his head. "There was unfinished cataloging from yesterday."
Halvric's gaze drifted over the desk, lingering just long enough to make Lioren's throat tighten.
"You did not report any irregularities."
It was not phrased as a question.
"No, Archivist."
The sigil flared at the lie.
Heat shot through his palm, sharp enough to make him stiffen.
Halvric's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You appear unwell."
"Just fatigue."
Halvric stepped closer.
The pressure in the room shifted—subtle, almost intangible. Lioren had felt it before in formal reviews: the sense of being weighed without scales.
"Fifth Script materials are sensitive," Halvric said quietly. "You understand that."
"Yes."
"They are not to be handled without proper clearance."
Lioren kept his expression neutral. "Of course."
Another pulse of heat.
Halvric's gaze flicked to Lioren's wrapped hand.
"Injury?"
"A cut," Lioren replied. "From rebinding a damaged volume."
Halvric said nothing for several seconds.
Then, almost casually, "You did not encounter anything… unusual yesterday?"
The air seemed to thin.
Lioren forced himself to meet the older man's eyes.
"No."
The sigil burned brighter this time.
He bit back a reaction.
Halvric watched him carefully.
"You have always been meticulous, Lioren," he said at last. "Do not allow curiosity to become recklessness."
"I won't."
Halvric's gaze lingered one moment longer before he turned away.
"There will be an Imperial review of select archival holdings today," he added, as if mentioning the weather. "Intelligence division."
The words struck harder than the sigil's flare.
"Today?" Lioren asked before he could stop himself.
"Yes." Halvric studied him again. "Is that a problem?"
"No."
The mark pulsed, but weaker now—as though reacting not to the lie itself, but to the fear behind it.
Halvric adjusted his sleeves.
"Ensure all restricted materials are properly logged," he said. "There must be no discrepancies."
He left without another word.
The Hall seemed colder after his departure.
Imperial Intelligence did not conduct random reviews.
They came when there were concerns.
Or when someone had alerted them.
Lioren's gaze drifted to the hidden fragment beneath the stack of manuscripts.
If they searched thoroughly—
He inhaled slowly.
He needed to move it.
But where?
Destroying it would solve nothing. The sigil on his hand would remain. And something told him the fragment would not be so easily erased.
He slid it back into his grasp and hesitated.
The moment his fingers brushed the leather, the sigil warmed—not painfully, but distinctly.
Encouraging.
Not toward concealment.
Toward something else.
His heart pounded.
"This isn't rational," he whispered.
He tucked the fragment inside the inner fold of his robe, securing it against his chest.
If Intelligence intended to audit records, they would focus on ledgers and catalog entries. Physical searches were rare unless suspicion was confirmed.
Unless—
A sudden knock echoed from the stairwell entrance.
Not hesitant.
Authoritative.
Voices followed.
Lower. Controlled.
Bootsteps.
Not scholar-soft.
Lioren's pulse spiked.
He extinguished the lantern instinctively, plunging the Hall into shadow broken only by faint ambient light from above.
He pressed himself against the shelf between rows, breath shallow.
The sigil burned.
Not in pain.
In recognition.
The footsteps descended into the restricted level.
Stone met leather in slow, measured rhythm.
"High Archivist," a voice called calmly from the corridor.
Halvric's response came from above, steady as ever. "The materials are in order."
The sigil pulsed again, harder.
Lioren clenched his jaw.
It was reacting to them.
To what they represented.
Or to something approaching.
A chill slid down his spine.
The fragment beneath his robe seemed to vibrate faintly against his ribs.
He closed his eyes briefly.
The phrase from the page surfaced in his mind without effort.
Bound by blood. Bound by memory.
He did not know what he was bound to.
But the Empire clearly did not intend to let it remain hidden.
The footsteps reached the final step.
A shadow stretched across the floor at the entrance to the Hall.
And the sigil in Lioren's palm flared bright enough to glow through the linen.
He pressed his hand against his chest, as if he could smother the light.
The shadow shifted.
Someone stepped fully into the restricted Hall.
"Scholar Quill," the unfamiliar voice said evenly.
Lioren's heart stopped.
"I believe we need to speak."
The sigil pulsed once more.
Not in warning.
In answer.