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I raise my eyebrows. "You sound certain."

"I am."

"Why?"

"She gave us the key." A simple answer. A good one. We continue upward. Near the final door, the sounds of Varethia slowly return. Wind beyond stone. A distant bell. Footsteps somewhere above us. Life continuing without any knowledge of what rests beneath it.

Rhyven unlocks the service entrance. Cold night air moves into the passage. Before stepping outside, he stops. "Don't discuss the journal where anyone can hear."

"I wasn't planning to—" I start.

"Not with Nyra." The instruction catches.

"She knows I'm hiding something." I answer.

"She doesn't know what."

"I trust her." My voice is low.

"I know." His voice remains calm. "This isn't about trust."

"Then what is it about?" I look up at him. His gaze was already on me.

"Exposure." The same word Professor Neris used differently. Attention makes me vulnerable. Knowledge may do the same to Nyra. I do not like it. That does not make him wrong.

"Fine."

Rhyven opens the door. Moonlight cuts across his face. "Tomorrow, we give Neris the notes."

"And then?"

He looks back toward the darkness below. "Then we find out who had access before us."

We step into the night. The door closes. From the outside, it becomes ordinary wood again. Unmarked. Unimportant. Easy to overlook. Rhyven begins walking toward the residence paths. I remain still for one final second, staring at the place where the entrance disappears into the tower wall. The Hollowborn may be returning. Or something may want us to believe they are. But one truth no longer feels uncertain. The silence did not erase its own history. Someone helped it.

Chapter Nineteen

By Friday afternoon, every muscle in my body has found a new way to complain. I discover this while walking down the western corridor toward the training fields. Apparently, even my shoulders are offended. I shift the leather strap of my satchel. Immediate regret.

"You're walking funny."

I glance sideways. Nyra is carrying twice as many books as I am and somehow still looks graceful. "I'm not."

"You absolutely are." She sounds amused.

"I'm conserving energy."

She smiles. "I believe that's called limping."

"I refuse to confirm or deny that." Her laughter follows us into the courtyard. For a few precious minutes everything feels almost normal again. Students hurry between buildings, arguing over essays, comparing scores from morning drills and complaining about Professor Aldren's latest assignment. Someone nearly drops an armful of scrolls. A second-year catches them before they hit the ground. Two dragons glide high above the Academy, their shadows crossing the courtyard like drifting clouds. Life goes on. It's almost convincing.

"How's Root Wing?" I ask.

Nyra sighs dramatically. "Soren made us spend two hours identifying medicinal plants."

"That's it?"

"Not exactly." She lowers her voice. "Then we had to identify poisonous ones."