The pieces do not fall into place all at once. They align. Quietly. Inevitably.
Caelorian resin.
Nymeris imports.
Mass distribution.
She inhales once, slow and controlled, before asking the question that matters.
“And the volume coming in?” she presses. “Is it all being studied?”
Elandor hesitates.
Only for a heartbeat.
But it is enough.
“…most,” he says carefully. “Though not all shipments pass through the academic channels. Certain materials are… requisitioned.”
“For what purpose?”
Elandor opens his mouth to answer—and stops.
Rubi hates when smart people realize things slowly.
The silence stretches.
Rubi watches the realization move across his face in real time, subtle but unmistakable. The way his posture shifts. The way his gaze drops, then lifts again, sharper now. More aware.
“She’s not studying it,” Rubi says quietly.
Elandor does not respond.
He does not need to.
Rubi’s voice lowers, the words landing with quiet, devastating clarity.
“She’s using it to alter the threvenar so it permanently occupies memory.”
The library does not change. The light remains soft. The shelves loom over them, heavy with knowledge that suddenly feels insufficient.
But something fundamental has shifted.
Elandor did not know.
Which means the archives aren’t missing the truth by accident. Someone has been deciding what truths survive.Information is controlled too.
Thank the gods. She rather liked the bumbling idiot.
So Rubi sheathes her sickle blade, muscles uncoiling just slightly.
Elandor exhales slowly, the sound thin and uncertain in a way Rubi has never heard from him before.
“That would imply?—”
“Yes,” Rubi cuts in, her tone steady despite the cold certainty settling in her chest. “It would.”
Her gaze drifts briefly to the book still clutched in her hand, to the name etched into its page.
