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Maia raised her hand, her voice careful. “Sir, if the script is not entirely human, if it is fused with glass, then perhaps—”

“You mean to say the Umbralyn needs to come back to assist?” His head snapped towards her, eyes narrowing. “As though their shadows hold the truth? As though we should kneel to the very creatures that bled us for centuries?”

Maia cleared her throat. “I only meant—”

Orell cut her short with a sharp gesture. “They are bound by the Vow to supposedly guard the Fracture. That is all. Already the Elders insult us by demanding one of them step beyond their post. Now he prowls our halls in chains, and we are meant to thank him for it.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered scribes. Some nodded, others looked away, uncomfortable.

Maia’s stomach twisted. “Chains?”

As if invited by the thought, the doors opened with a groan that sliced through the low murmur of the hall. A breath of cold air followed, carrying the scrape of something heavy against stone.

Chains.

Caelith entered.

Light from the torches caught the silver bound tightly around his wrists, throwing shifting shards of brightness across the chamber floor. The scholars nearest the door drew back instinctively, and those further away stopped everything to look. Even Master Orell, who rarely flinched at anything, could not look him in the eyes.

Maia did not move. She only felt her heartbeat turn into a sharp, traitorous rhythm echoing in her ribs.

Caelith, on the other hand, ignored them all. He strode to the table, the chains clinking faintly as he lowered himself beside the fragments.

“Guardian,” Orell said eventually, with an audible sigh. “I suppose you have been sent. You will give your reading, then return to your post.”

Caelith did not glance up. “I will do what the Elders require.”

Orell’s jaw tightened. He turned away, muttering under his breath. The rest of the scribes eventually bent back over their work, though the air remained heavy.

Maia stared at the silver links biting into Caelith’s pale skin, fury rising in her. The crowd had drawn blood yesterday, yet he was the one in shackles, as though he were the threat.

Her quill lay forgotten as she stepped towards him. He inclined his head once as she moved closer. “You.”

“Maia,” she gave him. “Maia Colwyn.”

“Maiestas,” he said almost to himself, as though he was translating her. “You are still reading what should have been buried?”

She managed a small nod. “You said we would continue.” Then, because she had never in her life been able to leave a word alone: “What does that mean? Maiestas.”

He stared at her for longer than the question needed and decided not to answer. “Do you understand what you’re uncovering?”

She hesitated. “Enough to be uneasy,” she offered.

A faint curve returned to his mouth, but it wasn’t a smile, exactly. “Uneasy. That’s a word for it.”

He watched her then, the weight of his eyes like pressure behind her own. She forced herself to not look away.

The chains caught the light again as he moved. Each shift of his hands sent a flicker of silver across the table, a reflection that trembled against her papers. Maia’s fingers twitched. She told herself it was only the cold.

“Does it trouble you?” he asked.

Her eyes flicked up. “What?”

“The sight of what keeps your city safe.”

The words should have sounded righteous, but they didn’t. They sounded like iron worn thin.

“The chains? I suppose I don’t understand,” she whispered, low enough that only he could hear. “You shouldn’t be in them.”