The morning sun rose a little too cheerfully for Elena Virelle's taste. She had barely slept. Dreams had tossed her about like a boat in a storm—shadows whispering under old trees, arcane symbols flashing behind her eyelids, and always, always, that note from mysterious drawer flashing before her.
"Find her before the stars fall again."
Her fingers twitched at the memory.
But mornings didn't wait for brooding. Elena tied back her hair, donned her grey apprentice robes, and pulled on the satchel she'd started bringing with her daily to the guild archives. Inside: three copper crowns, two hard-boiled eggs, a roll of borrowed parchment, and a slightly dented but loyal pen.
The Guild of Light's tower bustled even before mid-morning. Servants and scholars passed like currents in a river of purpose. Elena squeezed past a senior mage arguing loudly with an alchemist over elemental burn rates, then ducked through the side hall leading to the grand doors of the Library Archives.
"Halt."
The librarian's assistant, a gaunt woman in her late fifties with eyes sharp as knife edges, looked up from her logbook.
"Elena Virelle. Apprentice. Third week. Research clearance: Level I."
Elena gave her a sheepish smile. "Correct. And... I brought you plum cake."
The woman's eyes twitched.
"Two slices. From Leodin's bakery. Still warm."
A pause.
"Section 4B is open. Three hours. No food inside."
Elena beamed and slipped inside, victorious.
---
The archives smelled like dust, ink, and magic so old it practically hummed. Rows upon rows of books reached up like the ribs of a cathedral. Every sound echoed. She made her way to a desk, opened her parchment, and started copying from "A Treatise on Pre-Fall Cartography" with meticulous care.
The book detailed old constellations and navigation magic used in the Northern Territories—areas that no longer existed after the last Stellar Cascade. But a footnote caught her eye:
"Records of the 'Star-Sighted Ones' remain sparse after the Great Collapse. Said to possess fragments of celestial memory, they vanished one by one, hunted or hidden. The final known seer, a woman cloaked in flame, disappeared the night before the stars dimmed."
Elena's pen halted mid-stroke.
Cloaked in flame.
She swallowed.
"Find her before the stars fall again."
The words wouldn't stop repeating. She reread the paragraph twice before flipping through more volumes—economics books, too. She needed to understand the world if she hoped to survive it.
She noted that a low-level guild mage could earn about 2 to 3 silver crowns a week, while an established enchanter easily brought in 10 to 15 silver, especially if they produced custom sigils. Her current allowance was a mere 1 silver and 5 copper crowns per week, including food stipends.
Rent in the outer district averaged 3 silver per month, meals at guild halls cost 5 to 7 copper per day, and one trip to the public bathhouse (essential for staying sane) was 1 silver if she wanted privacy.
At this rate, she'd be broke or feral by the new moon.
She jotted down a few ideas:
Ask Tamsyn if the alchemy department needs potion testers (even if she still smelled like toad warts from last week).
Offer tutoring to other apprentices on basic arithmetic. Most couldn't divide by seven if their life depended on it.
Sell that enchanted comb she found under the dorm floorboards. Possibly cursed, probably profitable.
Suddenly, the lamps above her flickered.
The parchment glowed faintly.
Then darkened again.
She blinked. Rubbed her eyes.
"You're not imagining it," a voice whispered beside her.
Elena nearly knocked her ink bottle over.
It was her.
Liora.
Except she looked different today. Her usual ribbon-bound curls were braided tight behind her head, and her fingers were smudged with charcoal ink. She carried two thick tomes and a narrow piece of translucent slate glowing with runes.
"You're reading about the Star-Sighted?" Liora asked, sliding into the seat beside her.
Elena straightened. "Yes. I... just stumbled across it."
Liora gave her a knowing look. "No one stumbles across that section. It's buried behind thirty years of irrelevant cartography. You were looking."
Elena hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Did you see this before?" she asked, sliding the parchment across.
Liora frowned as she read the quote. Her fingers lingered on the words like she recognized them.
"I've seen something similar," she said finally. "In a dream. Or a memory. It's hard to tell anymore."
Elena's heart quickened.
Liora leaned closer. "Come to the Astronomy Deck tonight. After ninth bell. Bring that note. And anything else you've found."
"Why?"
"Because," Liora whispered, "the stars are starting to move again."
---
By the time Elena left the archives, the sun had dipped low. She walked past the central fountain, its waters dyed gold by sunset, and made her way back to the dormitories.
Her mind spun.
Celestial memory. Star-Sighted. Womancloaked in flame. Liora knowing more than she says. The note.
Something was building. A thread was slowly tightening around her life, pulling her into the very center of whatever this world was hiding.
She entered her room and lit a candle. The shadows flickered across the walls.
Elena took out the note again.
It was changing.
Now, beneath the original scrawled warning, faint lines were appearing. Like ink bleeding up from hidden layers. A map?
She pressed it flat. Squinted.
Yes. It was definitely a map. Hand-drawn. It resembled the older city layout before the lower ring collapsed. There was a symbol marked with a small silver star—the same symbol engraved on the window of the astrology tower.
Elena traced it with her finger.
She didn't know what the stars falling meant. But for the first time since she arrived in this strange, magic-woven world, she felt the first pull of something bigger.
Maybe even fate.
She whispered to herself:
"Alright then. Let the stars fall. I'm ready."
---
The Art of Asking Questions Without Getting Slapped
Elena Virelle had never realized how many different ways there were to ask a question until she started working at the Aetherion Archives. Apparently, tone, word choice, posture, and even eyebrow positioning could mean the difference between receiving a warm explanation or a scathing glare from a cranky mage librarian.
She was currently seated in a small study cubicle, half-buried under a stack of dusty ledgers that smelled of mildew and incense. Beside her sat a relatively newer tome, Principles of Magical Energy Conduits, Vol. III, its spine pristine and its pages crisp. She found the contrast amusing—one book felt like it might disintegrate under her breath, while the other looked like it had just been delivered from the scriptorium.
"Questioning is a form of magic," whispered Mistress Halka the day before, her long fingers pinching Elena's chin with all the gentleness of a hawk snatching a mouse. "The wrong one can burn bridges. The right one can open gates."
Elena had nodded furiously at the time, mostly out of fear.
Now, as she hovered her quill over her notes, she pondered how to approach Master Renald in the next room. He had access to the closed stacks—the locked archives where rare tomes were kept—and Elena desperately needed access to a history text that outlined the origin of crown taxation in the Kingdom of Liraen.
Why? Because she'd just discovered a cryptic reference in a book on merchant guilds: "No tariff shall exceed that which was established in the Year of the White Crows, save by command of the Crown or invocation of Clause Seventeen."
Clause Seventeen. It sounded made up. It also wasn't defined anywhere in the margin.
So here she was, trying to figure out how to ask without sounding either arrogant, ignorant, or—worst of all—unimportant.
She practiced aloud: "Master Renald, might I trouble you regarding a historical query?"
No. Too stiff.
"Sir, would you happen to know about Clause Seventeen from the Year of the White Crows?"
Too direct.
She sighed and eventually settled on, "Excuse me, Master Renald, I came across a reference and hoped you could point me toward the correct volume."
Polite. Humble. Hopefully effective.
---
To her surprise, Renald actually nodded and gave her a key.
"Archive Room B-2. Third shelf on the left. Look for anything bound in black goat leather."
She blinked. "Thank you, sir."
"You're the Virelle girl, yes? The one helping Halka?"
She nodded.
"Hmm. You ask better than most. Learn to keep doing that."
Score one for Mistress Halka's terrifying chin pinch.
---
Inside Archive Room B-2, the air was thick with enchantments. Each step felt like moving through honey. Elena imagined if she spoke too loudly, the tomes might shush her themselves.
She found the black-bound volume quickly: On Fiscal Edicts and Royal Exceptions, Year 328–360. It was heavy, the leather warm to the touch like it had a heartbeat of its own.
Back at her desk, she flipped through carefully.
And there it was:
Clause Seventeen: In times of celestial anomaly or otherworld incursion, the Crown may exercise emergency tariff expansion for purposes of national arcane defense, bypassing traditional noble or guild objections.
Elena stared.
Celestial anomaly? Otherworld incursion?
She felt her scalp prickle. The note she received back (Chapter 10) mentioned a star that had no place in the firmament. Could that have been a celestial anomaly? Was someone invoking Clause Seventeen now?
It might explain why the market prices for powdered mana crystals had doubled in the past week. She'd overheard vendors grumbling at the square just yesterday.
Elena took out her journal and scribbled everything down. She then cross-referenced the economic history ledgers she'd copied last week, tracing previous spikes in tariffs and prices during wartime.
And she saw a pattern. Each time a "celestial anomaly" occurred—always worded vaguely in royal declarations—a version of Clause Seventeen was invoked. Prices would rise, magical defenses would be heightened, and public fear would ripple through the kingdom.
But the strangest part?
No anomaly was ever publicly explained.
Just as she was about to dive into another section, a soft rustle made her glance up. A shadow flickered past the frosted glass of the archive room.
She stiffened. That wasn't one of the librarians. Their footsteps were louder, heavier.
She quietly slipped the black-bound book into her satchel.
Better to read it later. Somewhere safe.
---
By the time she returned to her quarters that evening, her satchel felt heavier than usual. Not physically, but with the weight of implication. Her candle barely illuminated the first page of the book, but she didn't dare cast a light spell. Just in case.
As she read deeper into the legal justifications for Crown-controlled arcane measures, her thoughts drifted toward the note again. Was someone warning her? Or involving her?
And then she found a folded slip of parchment wedged between the pages. Fresh. Not original.
It simply read:
"You're asking the right questions. Be careful where they lead."
Her blood ran cold. It was the same handwriting.
The note from before.
---
[End of Chapter 25]