The world stopped trembling just as the gap closed behind them, but it didn't truly stop. The air had a rhythm. The walls had a rhythm. And Marikka felt it reflected inside her, as if her heart—or what was left of it—had stopped beating and started vibrating in response.
Cedric was already on the ground, hands on his knees. "Can I just say I hate gaps? Do I still exist? Are my legs there? Please check."
Aurelian didn't answer.
He didn't take his eyes off her, either.
"Marikka," he said, moving closer. "Are you feeling unwell?"
She shook her head, but it wasn't true.
Inside, something was pulsing with a regular, alien rhythm: thump—thump—thump, like a rune trying to stabilize itself.
"Different," she replied. "It's as if... something remained from the Keeper."
Cedric immediately tensed. "Remained? Remained where? Please don't say in the body. I don't want to throw up in a sacred corridor."
Marikka tried to breathe, but every breath was an echo. The internal vibration responded as if alive, as if it were listening.
Aurelian moved closer again. "Describe it."
The walls trembled softly, as if they had heard that word. A line of runes on the right slightly changed hue, from pale blue to a cold yellow.
Marikka placed her hand on the wall, drawn by an involuntary impulse. The stone breathed beneath her fingers.
"It's like a rune," she said. "An imprinted rune. He didn't touch me, but... he read. And a part of the reading remained."
Aurelian swallowed. He never did that. "The Keeper does not make mistakes in readings."
"Great," Cedric mumbled. "We're screwed."
The floor shifted slightly, like a sheet of paper changing position. Not a violent displacement: more an adjustment. The Athenaeum was choosing where it wanted them to go.
Marikka felt it.
Not through her hand.
Through the internal vibration.
"That way," she said, pointing to the brighter corridor.
"How do you know?" Aurelian asked.
"I don't know. I feel it."
Cedric burst out: "You feel too many things today, Marikka. Statistics show: when you feel something, we risk dying."
Marikka didn't reply. They walked. With every step, the corridor light subtly changed: a golden filter, then a blue, then a milky white. As if the Athenaeum were adjusting a lens to bring her into focus.
The book on her belt began to vibrate.
A short, detached vibration.
A response.
Marikka grasped it.
Another frequency passed through her. Not hers. Not the book's.
Someone who was searching for her.
"Someone is vibrating," she whispered.
Cedric almost stumbled. "Please tell me you mean a living person. Not another draft. Not another runic creature. Not—"
"I don't know."
And that was the scary part.
Aurelian slowed his pace, one hand outstretched in front of him as if to protect them both. "Describe it."
Marikka closed her eyes for an instant. The internal vibration intensified, synchronizing with something distant.
"It's like... it resonates with me. With my name."
Cedric shrieked. "Which one?! The normal one or the forbidden one we must never, ever, ever pronounce?"
The floor trembled.
A call.
A warning.
"The forbidden one."
Cedric sat down. "I'm going to die. Go on without me."
A sudden rumble made them jump. The wall they had come from began to fold in on itself, like a ripped page closing up. A sequence of runes erased before their eyes.
"The Athenaeum is rewriting the sector," Aurelian said. "And not for us."
Marikka's heart-vibration accelerated.
Thump—thump—thump—thump.
Not a beat.
A call.
"It's looking for something," she said.
"No," Aurelian replied. "It's looking for you."
A new corridor opened before them, soft as a fresh scar. But it wasn't a normal corridor.
The runes were not carved.
They floated.
As if they were watching.
Cedric whispered: "Please tell me it's not what I think."
A deep vibration passed through the floor.
And then, the voice.
Not a physical voice.
A resonance.
A perfect note.
I have found you.
Marikka felt her legs give way. Aurelian caught her, but he was trembling. Cedric was no longer speaking.
A light descended from above. Not real. Not necessary. A light that illuminated nothing, but indicated a presence.
And the vibration spoke a word.
Not a title.
Not a name.
A verdict.
Fragment.
The corridor exploded into light.