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“If I’m wrong, nothing happens.”

For a moment he looked as though he might refuse. Then slowly, reluctantly, he placed his hand over hers.

The fragment ignited.

Light burst across the shard in a violent flare, racing outward into the surrounding fragments. Symbols snapped into alignment across the entire table, lines completing themselves with eerie precision.

The pressure surged through her, stronger than before. But it didn’t spiral out of control; instead it steadied. Caelith’s hand had tightened around hers, the power pulsing between them. The fragments weren’t responding to her alone; they responded to both of them together.

“Caelith. That’s—”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. It should have frightened her. Instead what she felt, with his hand trembling over hers and the light pouring through them both, was something perilously close to relief. As though some question she’d been carrying since the night in the ruins had quietly answered itself. Whatever this was between them, it was not in her head. It was not one-sided. It was here, in her hands, bright enough to read by.

“You should know, Maia, that these types of fragments are dangerous in the wrong hands.”

Maia tilted her head. “What about the right ones?”

He looked at her. “In the right hands,” he said softly, “they would change far more than the Fracture.”

Then, quieter, something colder moved into his voice. “No one can see this, Maia. Not the other scribes. Not Orell. Not anyone. Promise me.” He glanced towards the door as if he could already hear footsteps. “What happened here - if it were known - it would not stay a curiosity for long. Do you understand me? It would become a use.”

“A use for what?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“We shouldn’t be doing this, Maia,” he said quietly, though he made no move to step back. “Not here.”

“Not here,” she repeated.

He said nothing. He could have added not anywhere but he didn’t.

The fragment pulsed again between their hands. The back of her legs pressed against the table as he stepped closer, their thighs touching. She leaned back, placing her elbows on the table, aware that anyone could come in and see exactly this, and that she did not care at all.

Caelith placed the fragment down on the table next to her head, light still flaring from it. He placed his hands either side of her body, leaning over her. His index finger hooked around the collar of her tunic, as he pulled her closer to him.

The door opened.

“Well.”

Maia froze. Caelith unhooked his finger and stood up instantly, and the fragment went dark.

Master Orell stood in the doorway. He let his gaze move over the table - the dimming shards, Maia, Caelith - and then to the narrow space between them, where Caelith’s hand had been a moment ago. His expression did not change.

“Working late,” he said. It was not quite a question.

“Reassessing the unstable fragments,” Maia said, standing tall. “As the order instructed. We were testing how they respond to Umbralyn proximity.” It was even true. It came out steadier than she felt.

“So I see.” Orell’s eyes rested on her a moment longer than was comfortable. “You’ll want to be careful with the unstable ones. They take on whatever is nearest to them.”

And he left. The door drew shut behind him with no more sound than it had made opening.

“He didn’t see anything,” Maia said, too quickly. “There was nothing to see. We were doing what they assigned us to do.”

Caelith said nothing. He was staring at the closed door as though it were still open, as though Orell were still standing in it. When she looked at him properly, she saw that something had gone out of his face: the composure she’d watched him hold through pain, through the wraith, through every room they’d shared. It was gone now, replaced by something she could not explain and did not like.

“Caelith.” She kept her voice low. “It’s all right. Even if he suspects something between us, he has nothing. There’s nothing to act on.”

“You don’t understand.” It came out quiet and wrong, and he didn’t look at her as he said it. His hand had curled at his side. “It isn’t about what he saw.”