The air of the city was different once we passed the academy gates. The walls of Aetherfall held order, discipline, and expectations—but beyond them, the world danced with a rhythm I hadn't yet understood.
We crossed into the western district of Cindral's capital, where sloped stone streets shimmered with pale morning light and lined market stalls curved like layered ribbons against the road. Wooden signs in foreign scripts swayed with the breeze, while a chorus of scents—sweet spices, charred meats, and fruit vinegar—wafted from clay pots and sizzling iron griddles.
I slowed to a halt as something caught my eye.
A vendor had laid out a tray of crisp, folded breads—thin and golden, stuffed with melted cheese and what looked like roasted peppers. Next to it, a bubbling pan held bite-sized rolls of some deep-orange meat simmered in blackened sauce.
"What are those?" I asked, already stepping closer.
The vendor, a middle-aged woman with crimson-dyed sleeves and bronze earrings, beamed. "This? Ember-wrapped langra. Spiced fowl in fermented root glaze. Very good with rice powder skin. You've never tried one, miss?"
"I haven't. Can I—?"
"Go ahead," Elowynn said behind me with a faint sigh, already reaching for her coin pouch. "I'll cover it."
"You're spoiling me," I smirked.
"You're lucky I'm not charging you interest," she muttered.
Ezekiel stood beside us, watching the crowd rather than the food, but I noticed his eyes flick toward the tray once—just once—with the subtle kind of hunger that wasn't for food.
"Here," I said, tearing one of the langra wraps in half. "You should try it too."
"I'm fine," he replied, though his tone lacked conviction.
"You're a terrible liar," I said, handing him the piece anyway.
He took it with a slight, defeated chuckle. "You're not like the other nobles."
"I'm not a noble," I said simply, biting into my share.The wrap burst with heat and smoke and sweetness. I blinked, surprised."...This is really good."
"Told you!" the vendor chirped proudly.
We moved from stall to stall after that. Sweet dates dipped in cooled syrup, breaded skewers dusted with moon salt, tiny red fruit boiled into soft jelly and folded into rice cakes. Elowynn followed us like an exasperated chaperone, arms half-full with satchels of wrapped samples.
"I didn't think you were the type to get distracted by food," she said as I licked syrup from my thumb.
"I didn't either," I replied. "But I guess that's the point of being here. Trying new things."
"Is this your first time in a capital city?" Ezekiel asked.
"It is."
I caught his gaze briefly as we passed a fountain flanked by merchant children. There was something watchful in his eyes again—not guarded, but observant. Taking everything in. Like someone who didn't expect to stay.
"What about you?" I asked him. "Do you like it here?"
"It's cleaner than most places I've been," he said with a casual shrug. "A bit too clean, maybe."
"You talk like you've lived through worse."
He didn't answer that one. Just gave a lopsided smile and walked ahead.
And again—he wasn't lying.
We arrived at the Archives of Aetherfall, nestled in the eastern wing of the old stone library that stretched wider than most of the palace wings I'd seen so far. It had none of the grandeur the Academy was known for—no golden domes or enchanted glass towers. Just timeworn archways, thick ivy crawling up its walls, and a quiet that sank deep into the bones.
Even the sunlight filtering through its high lattice windows felt like it had to ask permission to enter.
Inside, the scent of ink and brittle parchment welcomed us. The central hall stretched into rows upon rows of shelves—some tall enough to require ladders, others sealed behind ancient glass. Students moved between tables in silence, heads buried in scrolls and bound grimoires. Above them, floating candles shifted midair like slow-burning stars, illuminating specific passages or shelves as needed.
"This section's restricted to historical arcanum," Elowynn whispered, motioning to a roped-off corridor. "We'll need to ask permission again."
"Then let's start with what's available," I said.
We approached the front desk where an elderly record keeper with blue-tinted glasses looked up from a rune-etched register.
"You're here again," he said, recognizing us. "Still digging through the era of the First King of the Mourning?"
"Yes," I nodded. "Specifically the syntax structure of rune sets used during his early reign."
"Hmm. Most of the surface-level books won't have what you're looking for. But there's a collection transcribed by the Scribes of Ovrin—middle shelves, row seven. A bit dense but it touches on older runic theory."
"Thank you."
We moved through the aisles, Elowynn humming softly as her fingers danced across the spines of thick tomes.
"This one," she said after a moment, pulling free a heavy crimson volume. Its spine bore the title in faded Celestian script: 'Echoes of First Tongue: Translations and Fragments.'
I took the book and flipped through the pages. It was mostly faded diagrams and speculative translation attempts—side-by-side glyphs and phonetic interpretations.
Ezekiel leaned closer, squinting at one of the diagrams. "These shapes… they remind me of the things I saw carved into the foundation stones of the academy."
"Foundation stones?" Elowynn asked.
"Yeah. The ones near the older wings, at the base. Some of them are almost eroded but... these look similar."
"That's odd," I said, glancing down at the glyph. "This one is part of a chain glyph—used for binding."
"You're telling me this school is built on bound magic?" Ezekiel raised a brow.
"Wouldn't be impossible," Elowynn replied. "Runes carved into the foundation of cities or fortresses were common during the early eras. It was how they kept spirit wards or reinforced walls against abyssal taint."
We gathered more books—three slim field guides, a fragmented ledger from the Silent Age, and a translated scroll supposedly from the era of Reclamation.
The more we read, the more we noticed patterns—specific sentence structures, repeated phonetics, directional incantations that required specific sequencing of intent and mana flow.
"This syntax… it's not just magical," I murmured. "It's… architectural."
"Like a language designed to be lived inside," Elowynn said.
"I still don't get a single word," Ezekiel muttered, flipping through a glossary.
"You're here to observe," I smirked. "That counts."
We found a corner near a window where the afternoon light poured through the amber glass. Books spread before us, we continued our silent work—our hands brushing occasionally as we reached for the same page, exchanging glances without needing to say anything.
And in the back of my mind, Solviel whispered quietly:
"These are echoes of truths lost to war… you are closer now than you know."
As the sunlight faded behind the amber glass, we found ourselves buried in fragments of syntax, columns of old interpretations, and faded sketches of runic inscriptions believed to have been penned by the First King himself.
Elowynn pulled a brittle scroll from a velvet sheath, eyes narrowing. "Luna… look at this one."
I leaned in. The ink was faint, but legible enough. It wasn't a complete sentence, but it looked like part of a command. A chain glyph followed by what looked like directional intent, and something else—an execution mark resembling a three-pronged spiral.
"This is familiar," I said slowly. "That execution mark—Perephone used a similar sigil when amplifying my lance before a trial. But this one's… older. Rooted."
"Amplification glyphs," Elowynn nodded. "But this one doesn't amplify magic... it amplifies resonance."
My eyes widened. "Spiritual resonance?"
"Exactly. It's not for mana. It's for spirit echoes—communication, perhaps even binding."
Solviel stirred faintly in my chest, and I felt her attention focusing.
"That sigil belongs to the 'Voth Cycle,'" she murmured inside my mind. "A forgotten structure. It allowed ancient awakeners to deepen synchronization with spirits without invoking direct manifestation."
"This is useful," I whispered aloud. "If we can understand this, I might be able to better control Solviel's abilities without needing her full intervention…"
Elowynn leaned back, brushing her silver-blond hair over her shoulder, lips pursed in thought. "We should transcribe this and cross-reference it with the Silver Manuscript back in our wing."
"Right—" I started to agree, but paused.
Behind us, Ezekiel was sitting cross-legged, upside down, flipping through a random herbology compendium as if it were a comic book.
"What… are you doing?" I asked, trying not to smile.
He looked up, holding a pressed page of flora upside down. "Did you know there's a leaf here that makes your ears buzz if you eat it raw? It's called kith-root. Probably tastes awful, but hey—imagine the applications in a prank."
"We're deciphering a language that could change the way spirit magic is taught… and you're reading about buzzing leaves?" Elowynn sighed.
"Hey, it's all learning. I'm absorbing knowledge in my own special way." He grinned.
"Your brain must be a mess," I muttered under my breath, but I wasn't irritated. Just… oddly amused.
"I think it's a kind of gift," he said with mock seriousness. "The ability to be wildly unhelpful yet perfectly charming."
Elowynn gave him a flat look. "You're neither."
"Let me have my dreams, Elowynn."
I couldn't help the laugh that escaped. And for a brief moment, the pressure of ancient languages, the weight of prophecy, and the haunting legacy of spirits seemed lighter.