Elarion spent the next two days dissecting the letter.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
He'd set up his desk like a makeshift laboratory a glass of water for refraction tests, a candle for heat response analysis, a small mirror angled to catch light at different wavelengths. The letter lay pinned under a paperweight he'd modified to apply exactly 47 grams of pressure enough to hold it flat without damaging the fibers.
Most people would have simply shown up at the College and asked questions.
Elarion had stopped being most people around the same time he'd learned that asking questions was how you got noticed, and getting noticed was how you died.
He tilted the mirror, watching how the quantum-phased shimmer refracted. Normal ink absorbed certain wavelengths and reflected others. This ink seemed to do both simultaneously, splitting light into patterns that shouldn't exist outside of carefully controlled laboratory conditions.
Superposition, his mind catalogued. The pigment particles exist in multiple energy states until observed directly. Collapses into classical behavior only when measured.
Which meant whoever made this ink had access to equipment sophisticated enough to manipulate matter at the quantum level and keep it stable outside of specialized containment.
That narrowed the list of suspects considerably.
Three people in Eldoria, he'd estimated. Maybe four if there was someone new he hadn't accounted for. All of them affiliated with the Arcane College's theoretical physics department. All of them supposed to be working on purely academic research, not... whatever this was.
Elarion leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't slept properly in forty-eight hours. His body was running on the kind of focused exhaustion he remembered from military operations sharp but brittle, effective until it suddenly wasn't.
The letter bothered him. Not just its existence, but its tone.
Your silence is required.
That phrase had been circling his thoughts like a vulture. It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a command. It was an acknowledgment.
They knew about his silence manipulation.
Which meant they'd either seen him use it impossible, he'd been so careful or they'd deduced it from secondary evidence. Records that shouldn't exist. Observations that shouldn't have been made. Patterns noticed in places he'd tried very hard to leave no patterns at all.
His hands tightened on the arms of his chair.
He stood abruptly and walked to the window. The city stretched out below, afternoon sun turning the rooftops into a patchwork of gold and shadow. The Arcane College's towers were visible in the distance, their white stone almost luminescent against the sky.
Tomorrow was the 5th.
Tomorrow he would walk into whatever trap or opportunity or test this was.
But not unprepared.
Elarion turned back to his desk and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. Then he began writing not a letter, but a list. Names. Positions. Capabilities. Everyone at the College who might have the knowledge to create quantum-phased ink. Everyone who might have the authority to issue untraceable summons. Everyone who might know what he was.
The list was shorter than he'd hoped.
Professor Aldric Thorne - Department Head of Theoretical Applications. Published extensively on particle manipulation. Rumored to have military contracts. Age: 54. Known associations: Council of Mages, Ministry of Defense.
Doctor Seris Vael - Quantum Resonance Specialist. Her thesis on consciousness-linked entanglement had been classified three years ago. Age: 38. Known associations: Unknown. That alone made her interesting.
Archmagister Kellan Mordris - The College's administrative head. Former battlefield commander during the war. Would have access to old military records. Age: 67. Known associations: Too many to count.
Three names.
Three possible architects of whatever game he was walking into.
Elarion studied the list, committing every detail to memory before feeding the paper into his candle flame. The ink blackened and curled, and he made sure every fiber turned to ash before crushing it between his fingers.
No evidence. No traces. The habits of sixteen years died hard.
He spent the rest of the afternoon preparing. Not packing he'd travel light, just what he could carry in a single bag without looking like he was carrying anything at all. But preparing himself mentally, running through scenarios, calculating responses.
Scenario one: They want to recruit me.Response: Decline. Maintain cover. Disappear if necessary.
Scenario two: They want to study me.Response: Resist. Extract information first. Prepare exit strategy.
Scenario three: They know what I did during the war.Response:
He stopped. Stared at the blank space where the response should be.
There was no response to that scenario. If they knew really knew then there was no cover to maintain, no information to extract, no exit that wouldn't end in either a cell or a grave.
Elarion forced the thought down. Compartmentalized it the way he'd been trained. Fear was useful only when it sharpened reflexes. This kind of fear just paralyzed.
By evening, he was as ready as he'd ever be.
He lay in bed again, fully clothed again, staring at the ceiling again. But tonight felt different. Tomorrow, the careful equilibrium he'd maintained for a decade would shift. Either he'd walk out of the College with answers, or he wouldn't walk out at all.
Sleep came eventually, thin and restless, full of half-remembered dreams about ash and silence and voices calling his name from very far away.
The morning of the 5th arrived with rain.
Not the dramatic storm-front kind that fiction loved, but the gray, persistent drizzle that made everything look smudged and forgettable. Perfect weather for being unnoticed.
Elarion dressed in layers dark gray shirt, darker vest, coat that had been expensive once but now just looked worn. He left his apartment exactly as it always was, locked and empty and waiting. If this went wrong, he wouldn't be coming back. If it went right, he still might not.
The walk to the College took forty minutes through winding streets that grew progressively cleaner, wider, more deliberate. The architecture shifted from the organic chaos of the merchant districts to the planned elegance of the academic quarter. Trees planted at precise intervals. Cobblestones that actually matched. People who walked with purpose instead of hustle.
The Arcane College rose before him like a accusation made of marble.
It was beautiful in the way that powerful things often were intimidating and aspirational in equal measure. Seven towers connected by covered bridges, surrounding a central courtyard visible through an iron gate that probably cost more than most houses. Students moved between buildings in clusters, their robes marking them by year and specialty. Blue for theoretical studies. Red for applied combat. Green for biological manipulation. Gold for
Elarion stopped cataloguing. It didn't matter.
He approached the main gate, where two guards stood in ceremonial armor that probably hadn't seen real combat in decades. One of them glanced at him, looked away, then glanced back with a frown the double-take of someone whose brain registered presence without quite understanding why.
"Can I help you?" The guard's tone suggested he didn't think Elarion belonged here.
Elarion pulled the letter from his coat and held it out without speaking.
The guard took it, read the first line, and his entire demeanor shifted. The casual dismissiveness vanished, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like nervousness.
"Ah. Yes. Of course." He handed the letter back quickly, as if it had burned him. "The Registrar's Office is through the main courtyard, north tower, third floor. They're... expecting you."
The second guard was already opening the gate.
Elarion walked through without acknowledging either of them, but he felt their eyes following him across the courtyard. Heard one of them whisper something he couldn't quite catch. Felt the weight of attention like static on his skin.
So much for staying invisible.
The courtyard was larger than it looked from outside—a calculated perspective trick that made the College feel vast and labyrinthine. Students crossed in all directions, some alone, most in groups. No one looked at him directly, but he felt the peripheral glances, the way conversations paused slightly as he passed.
They didn't know who he was.
But they knew he was something.
The north tower's entrance was flanked by statues of former Archmagisters, their stone faces worn smooth by weather and time. Inside, the temperature dropped ten degrees. The air smelled like old paper and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the metallic tang that lingered after certain kinds of magic.
Third floor. Registrar's Office.
The door was already open.
A woman sat behind a desk that looked carved from a single piece of dark wood, her attention focused on a ledger that probably predated modern bookbinding. She was maybe thirty, with the kind of severe beauty that came from sharp cheekbones and sharper intelligence. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked painful.
She looked up as he entered, and for just a fraction of a second, her eyes widened.
Then the moment passed, professionalism sliding back into place like a mask.
"Elarion Voss." Not a question. A confirmation.
"Yes."
She closed the ledger with a soft thump. "You're early."
"The letter said the 5th. It's the 5th."
"The letter said 'no later than.' Most students interpret that as 'arrive whenever convenient within a reasonable timeframe.'" Her eyes studied him with the uncomfortable precision of someone trained to see through deception. "You're not most students."
"I'm not a student at all."
"Not yet." She stood and walked to a filing cabinet, pulling out a folder that was suspiciously thin. "Your enrollment has been... expedited. Accommodations in the east dormitory, fourth floor, room 47. Classes begin tomorrow. Your schedule." She handed him a single sheet of paper.
Elarion took it, scanned it quickly. Advanced Theoretical Applications. Quantum Resonance Studies. Combat Practicals. Historical Analysis of the Silent War.
That last one made his jaw tighten.
"Who authorized my enrollment?"
"The Administration."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I'm authorized to give." She sat back down, opened the ledger again. "Your welcome packet is in your room. Orientation materials, campus map, rules and regulations. I suggest you read them."
"I suggest you tell me who sent the letter."
She looked up at him then, really looked, and something flickered in her expression. Not fear. Not quite sympathy. Something closer to pity.
"Mr. Voss, if I knew, I would tell you. But that information is above my clearance level. Which should tell you something about the nature of your... invitation."
The word hung in the air between them like a blade.
Invitation.
Not enrollment. Not recruitment.
Invitation.
As if he'd had a choice.
Elarion studied her for a long moment, running probability calculations. She believed what she was saying—her body language was too consistent for deception. Which meant whoever had orchestrated this had compartmentalized information so thoroughly that even the person processing his enrollment didn't know the full picture.
That level of operational security was either impressive or terrifying.
Possibly both.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Where's the east dormitory?"
She pointed toward the window. "Across the courtyard, building with the red door. You can't miss it."
He turned to leave.
"Mr. Voss?"
He stopped, didn't turn around.
"Whatever you did to get their attention..." She paused, choosing words carefully. "I hope it was worth it."
Elarion walked out without responding.
But as he crossed the courtyard again, rain misting against his face, her words circled through his thoughts like vultures.
Whatever you did to get their attention.
As if she knew.
As if everyone knew.
As if his sixteen years of careful invisibility had been nothing but an illusion, and the real watchers had been patient enough to let him think he was hidden.
The east dormitory loomed ahead, its red door bright against gray stone.
Elarion reached for the handle, paused, and looked back at the north tower.
Third floor window. A silhouette watching him.
Too far to make out features. But he felt the weight of that gaze like pressure against his skull.
He opened the door and stepped inside, into whatever came next.
Behind him, the rain fell harder.
And in the north tower, the figure at the window turned away, satisfied.
The game had begun.