The bell above the door chimed — not sharply, but with a low, harmonious note, as though tuned deliberately.
Warmth enveloped them immediately.
The bookshop did not smell of dust.
It smelled of cedarwood, polished oak, and ink — rich, mineral, and faintly metallic. Light filtered in through tall, arched windows, catching the gold edges of books so that entire shelves seemed to glow.
Aurèlle stepped fully inside.
The floorboards were dark-stained and immaculate. Shelves climbed high toward the ceiling, accessible by slender brass-railed ladders that slid soundlessly along tracks. Each section bore carved placards rather than painted signs.
History & Founding Charters.
Cartography & Continental Studies.
Arcane Theory.
Natural Philosophy.
And further in—
Scholastic & Academy Curriculum.
Her pulse quickened.
The volumes there were arranged with deliberate precision — not stacked carelessly, but displayed forward-facing. Each was bound in deep navy, forest green, or oxblood leather. Their spines bore embossed crests in gold leaf.
They did not look like schoolbooks.
They looked like inheritance.
Dahlia moved beside her, quieter than usual.
"This is where they keep them," she murmured.
Aurèlle reached toward the nearest volume.
Foundations of Resonant Theory – First Year Compendium
The cover was cool beneath her fingers. When she opened it, the pages revealed themselves in fine parchment — thick yet supple, edged in delicate gold that shimmered faintly under the light. The ink was impossibly precise, letters formed with disciplined elegance.
This was not bark-pressed paper from the outskirts.
This was crafted knowledge.
Refined.
Preserved.
Respected.
A voice spoke gently from behind the counter.
"For first years?"
They turned.
The bookseller was an older man, though not frail — silver-haired, straight-backed, spectacles perched low along the bridge of his nose. His waistcoat was charcoal wool, immaculate. Ink stains marked his fingers in permanent testimony to his trade.
Dahlia inclined her head. "For Aurelith."
A subtle shift.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
"Of course," he said.
He approached without hurry, hands clasped behind him. His gaze flicked briefly to the servants waiting discreetly near the door, then returned to the sisters.
"First enrollment?" he asked.
"Yes," Aurèlle answered.
He studied her for a moment longer than politeness strictly required.
"Your surname?"
There it was.
Aurèlle felt the question settle into the air.
She spoke it clearly.
The bookseller's brows lifted just slightly.
"Ah."
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But knowing.
"Of the High Council lineage," he said, almost conversationally.
Dahlia's posture straightened a fraction.
Aurèlle felt heat rise in her chest — not embarrassment. Something sharper.
"Yes," Dahlia said calmly.
The bookseller nodded once. "It has been some years."
He did not elaborate.
He did not need to.
Instead, he turned toward the curriculum shelves and began selecting volumes with practised certainty.
"Resonant Theory, First Year.
Foundational Sigilwork.
Ethics of Channeling.
Continental Governance & Magical Law."
Each book he placed upon a polished oak table near the counter.
"They update the editions every three years," he continued. "Aurelith does not tolerate stagnation."
There was no mockery in his tone.
Only respect.
Aurèlle ran her fingers lightly along the edge of Ethics of Channeling.
"These are the standard texts?" she asked.
"For those who intend to remain," he replied mildly.
The implication hung between them.
Aurelith was not merely attended.
It was endured.
Completed.
Earned.
He moved behind the counter and retrieved something from a velvet-lined drawer.
An Inkweave Quill.
It was longer than an ordinary writing feather, its shaft deep obsidian, its nib tipped in fine gold. Veins of faint silver ran along its length, pulsing subtly — as though ink moved through it even at rest.
He set it carefully beside an open ledger.
"We inscribe all Academy volumes before they leave the shop," he said. "Ownership ensures return."
Aurèlle stepped closer.
The bookseller dipped the quill into a small crystal well of ink — dark, luminous, thicker than ordinary dye.
"What name shall I write?"
Dahlia spoke hers first.
He wrote it in flawless script upon the inside cover of each volume, the ink settling into the parchment with quiet finality. The letters gleamed for a moment before softening into permanence.
When he looked up at Aurèlle, his gaze held something assessing.
"And yours?"
She gave it.
He paused — not because he did not know it.
But because he did.
The quill touched parchment.
Her name unfurled in elegant strokes.
As the final letter settled, the gold edging along the pages seemed to catch the light more brightly for half a breath.
Recognition.
Not magical spectacle.
Alignment.
The bookseller closed the volume gently.
"Your father was a disciplined scholar," he said, almost absently. "Demanding, by reputation."
Aurèlle swallowed.
"I hope," he continued, meeting her eyes directly now, "that the Academy allows you to define your own."
The words were offered without intrusion.
Without pity.
Just possibility.
Dahlia reached for her stack of books.
The servants stepped forward discreetly to take them.
Aurèlle lingered a moment longer, fingertips resting on the cover bearing her newly inscribed name.
For years, her surname had felt like something heavy. Political. Measured. Conditional.
Here, written in gold-edged parchment within the capital's finest bookshop, it felt like something else.
Not burden.
Legacy.
She straightened.
"We'll take the full first-year set," Dahlia said.
The bookseller inclined his head. "A wise decision."
As the servants gathered the volumes carefully into leather carrying wraps, Aurèlle allowed herself one last look around the shop.
Knowledge here was not hurried.
Not stacked carelessly.
It was curated.
Honoured.
Preserved.
Just as Aurelith intended its students to be.
When they stepped back onto the sunlit street, the weight carried behind them was not simply parchment and leather.
It was expectation.
And for the first time—
It did not feel like something placed upon her.
It felt like something she was ready to lift.