The sun had barely kissed the horizon when the Vyrrelis manor stirred to life, its towering spires glinting against the sky like proud needles of gold and glass. The scent of lavender and parchment drifted from its many open windows, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled the ivy clinging to its stone walls. Within those walls, Siro paced the long corridor outside the Vyrrelis family library, his boots muffled against the crimson carpet.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Not this early. Not uninvited. But then again, trouble and Siro were lifelong companions.
The door creaked behind him.
Renan emerged, his silvery hair slightly tousled and his emerald tunic only half-buttoned. He raised a brow at Siro, who looked like a soaked cat caught in a storm of his own making.
"You're early. Or is that guilt making you twitch?"
"I'm not twitching," Siro lied, very much twitching. "You said we'd go through the archives today. I didn't think you meant after your third nap and seventh honey pastry."
Renan rolled his eyes and waved him in.
The library of House Vyrrelis was less a room and more a sanctum of whispered thoughts. Rows upon rows of tall, dark shelves leaned together like conspirators, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Dust hung in the air, dancing in golden shafts of morning light. The scent of old magic and older secrets curled around every corner.
They moved with care. Not because they feared being caught, but because the weight of the room demanded reverence.
They passed over books etched in draconic script, tomes bound in sea-beast leather, and folios so brittle they breathed when touched. At the farthest end of the library stood a door made of ironwood, half hidden behind a tapestry bearing the Vyrrelis crest—a winged flame over a circle of nine stars.
"No one's allowed past this point," Renan said, voice low.
"And yet here we are," Siro said with a grin. "It would be a shame to stop now."
Renan sighed, then placed his palm against the lock. It didn't open by key, but by memory—the same whispered lullaby Lady Vyrrelis had once hummed to him as a boy. The melody was soft, barely audible. But the lock clicked open like it, too, remembered.
Inside was a room less ornate than the library outside—smaller, colder, forgotten. Scrolls lined the shelves in odd patterns, stacked not alphabetically or by age, but by something more arcane. In the center of the room was a circular table, carved with glyphs that shimmered faintly in the dim.
Siro ran his fingers over a nearby scroll, one sealed with red wax and marked by a sigil resembling wind wrapped in flame.
"This one looks promising," he muttered.
Renan opened it slowly. The script was looping, delicate, and frustratingly poetic:
"The winds do not sleep, though the world forgets their song. The Keeper dances still, far from the eye but never the storm. Beneath the Spire where no shadow falls, memory waits."
They exchanged a look.
"You don't think... this 'Keeper' is real, do you?" Siro asked, voice half a whisper.
Renan shrugged. "My family collects myths like merchants collect rare spices. Doesn't mean they're all true. But that wind yesterday? That tune? It matches what my mother once said about the Seal—the one that calmed the Legend."
Siro sat down, the words clattering around his thoughts like dice in a shaken cup.
In the margins of the scroll, faint as breath, a name was scribbled:
Aeon Spire.
And below it:
"Where the Keeper last danced."
The boys stared at the words, both caught in a silence thick with the weight of something ancient.
Outside, the wind stirred again, whispering through the trees like a memory returning to roost.
The faint creak of a floorboard froze the air between them.
Siro's eyes widened, and Renan swore under his breath.
"Someone's coming," Renan whispered, his voice a low tremor.
The two boys shot glances toward the door. Shadows stretched across the marble floor just beyond the archway—steady, methodical steps that didn't belong to a wandering servant. Siro darted to the side, brushing past a high shelf of weathered tomes. His hand fumbled against the smooth wood as he found a narrow space behind a draped tapestry stitched with the Vyrrelis crest.
Renan didn't move at first. His jaw clenched as he recognized the gait—measured, self-important, and punctuated by the faint jingle of signet rings. "It's my brother," he mouthed.
"Hide, idiot!" Siro hissed, tugging the tapestry aside just enough for Renan to slip behind.
They pressed close behind the hanging cloth. The silence between them was so taut it hummed. Siro could feel Renan's heartbeat through his sleeve.
The door creaked open. Leather boots clicked against marble tile.
"Hm," came a voice—cool and unhurried. "I could've sworn the archive was locked after supper."
It was Caelum Vyrrelis. Older than Renan by several years, he bore the Vyrrelis grace with less warmth and more ice. While Renan rebelled in smiles and back-alley mischief, Caelum stood as a perfect portrait of noble tradition.
He moved with purpose. A shelf groaned as he traced a finger along its edge. There was the rustle of pages—one of the tomes being examined, flipped through.
Then—silence.
Siro dared not breathe.
A heartbeat later, Caelum spoke again, this time softer. "The wind sings strangely tonight…"
Siro's brows knitted. He felt Renan shift ever so slightly beside him.
"I suppose some things are best left to old ghosts," Caelum muttered, returning the book to its place with care.
Footsteps again—fading this time.
Then the door shut with a gentle finality.
The boys exhaled in unison.
Renan peeked out first, scanning the room. "Clear."
They slipped from behind the tapestry, tension still crackling in their limbs.
"You think he knew?" Siro asked, brushing dust from his tunic.
Renan shrugged, voice low. "He always knows something. But he won't say it. That's Caelum. He plays the long game."
Siro's gaze lingered on the place where Caelum had stood. "That line he said—'the wind sings strangely tonight'—that's not a coincidence, is it?"
"No," Renan admitted. "It's an old Vyrrelis saying. They used to say it when there were... shifts in the arcane. Changes you couldn't see, but you could feel in your bones."
The words weighed heavy between them.
They returned the scroll, careful to place it exactly as they'd found it, and backed out of the archive.
Sneaking out of the estate was easier said than done. The halls were dim, lit only by moonlight bleeding through stained-glass windows. The shadows felt deeper now, like the house itself was watching.
They dodged a patrolling steward by ducking into a servant corridor, and nearly knocked over a vase taller than Siro. Renan bit back a laugh, catching it just in time.
When they finally slipped out through a side gate into the garden, they were breathless and exhilarated.
Siro turned to Renan as they moved under the branches of the old oak tree once more. "You do realize we just broke into your own family's secret archive, right?"
Renan smirked. "Well, if they're going to hoard all the good stories, someone's gotta pry 'em out."
They looked back at the looming estate. The Vyrrelis manor, bathed in moonlight, stood solemn and still. Yet the wind stirred again, brushing the grass with something almost like music.
And as the boys vanished into the darkened path, the breeze whispered after them—as if the world itself had taken a deep breath, waiting.