Elara did not answer the door.
She stood frozen beside the desk, fingers curled around the edge of the journal as its glow pulsed faintly beneath the leather. Dean Ashcroft's presence pressed through the wood like a held breath, patient and certain.
Lucien moved first.
He crossed the room in two quiet strides and extinguished the desk lamp, plunging them into shadow. The glow from the journal dimmed instantly, as if sensing the danger, retreating to a barely visible ember.
"Hide it," he mouthed.
Elara slid the journal into the false bottom of her suitcase just as another knock came—sharper this time.
"Miss Finch," the dean repeated. "This is not a request."
Lucien stepped back, positioning himself near the window, his posture relaxed enough to pass for coincidence if anyone were watching.
Elara inhaled, steadied herself, and opened the door.
Dean Ashcroft stood alone in the corridor, her gray eyes sweeping past Elara's shoulder before returning to her face.
"You missed evening attendance," she said.
"I—lost track of time," Elara replied.
A lie. Not a good one.
The dean's gaze lingered on the desk, the lamp, the suitcase. She smiled faintly.
"Blackwood values discipline," she said. "But more than that, it values awareness. I hope you are learning both."
"I'm trying," Elara said.
Ashcroft's eyes flicked briefly toward the window.
"Mr. Hale," she said coolly. "You may leave."
Lucien inclined his head. "Of course, Dean."
As he passed Elara, his hand brushed her wrist—brief, intentional.
Midnight. East stairwell.
Then he was gone.
Dean Ashcroft waited until his footsteps faded before speaking again.
"You are settling in… quickly," she said. "That can be dangerous."
Elara met her gaze. "I thought Blackwood rewarded ambition."
"It does," the dean agreed. "But ambition must be guided."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Curiosity without context leads to mistakes. And mistakes here echo."
Elara's throat tightened. "Is that a warning?"
"It's an invitation," Ashcroft replied. "Sleep well, Miss Finch."
The dean turned and walked away, her footsteps precise, unhurried.
Elara closed the door with shaking hands.
She didn't sleep.
The hours crept by in measured silence, every sound amplified by anticipation. When the clock finally crept past midnight, Elara slipped from her room, heart pounding.
The east stairwell was colder than the others, the stone walls damp beneath her fingertips. Lucien waited at the base, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
"You came," he said quietly.
"I didn't trust staying," she replied.
A flicker of approval crossed his face.
"Good instinct."
He led her downward—not up—past a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, through a narrow corridor Elara hadn't seen on the campus map.
"Where are we going?" she whispered.
"The Restricted Wing," Lucien said. "Officially, it doesn't exist."
Unofficially, it was worse than she imagined.
The corridor opened into a vast underground hall lined with iron gates and glass cases. Inside them were books, artifacts, journals—some bound in unfamiliar materials, others sealed with wax or chains.
"This is where they keep what can't be erased," Lucien said.
Elara's gaze snagged on one case in particular.
Inside lay a journal nearly identical to hers.
"Others found them," she breathed.
"Yes," Lucien said. "Others asked questions."
"And?"
"And Blackwood answered."
Her chest tightened. "Why show me this?"
Lucien turned to her fully. "Because the journal chose you. And because once the Collegium realizes that, they won't stop watching."
As if summoned by the words, lights flickered along the hall.
Footsteps echoed above.
Lucien's jaw tightened. "We don't have much time."
He guided her to a pedestal at the center of the room. Carved into the stone was the same symbol—the circle, the line—but layered with dozens of others, forming a complex sigil.
"Put your hand here," he said.
Elara hesitated. "What does it do?"
"It confirms," he said simply.
She swallowed and pressed her palm to the stone.
The sigil ignited.
Light surged up her arm, not painful but overwhelming, filling her vision with symbols and names and places she had never seen but somehow knew. The journal in her bag pulsed violently, responding.
Lucien swore softly.
Footsteps thundered closer now. Voices. Commands.
The light died abruptly.
Lucien grabbed her hand. "Run."
They bolted down the corridor as shouts rang out behind them. Doors slammed. Alarms—low and unfamiliar—began to hum through the stone.
They burst into the stairwell just as iron gates slammed shut behind them.
Elara gasped for breath, heart racing.
"What did I just do?" she demanded.
Lucien stared at her, something like awe—and fear—in his eyes.
"You confirmed what the Collegium feared," he said.
"What?"
"That you don't just read the ink," he said quietly.
"You belong to it."
END OF CHAPTER FOUR