Night fell over the Mage Tower quietly.
Too quietly. The apprentices were ushered to their quarters in neat lines—women to the east wing, men to the west. Lanterns glowed softly, enchanted to dim after curfew. Guards paced lazily, confident in wards older than most kingdoms.
Confidence was always the problem. I played my part perfectly. Head down. Steps hesitant. Fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve. A shy first-circle mage. I waited until the halls thinned—until footsteps echoed farther apart, until the Tower's attention drifted elsewhere.
Then I slipped away. "I—I'm sorry," I murmured to a passing attendant, voice small. "I think I lost my brother."
She waved me off with mild annoyance. "Men's wing is that way. Be quick." Perfect. I walked. Slowly. Wrong turns. Hesitations. I let confusion cling to me like fog. And then—I felt it.
