Alaric slid the tome on strategy and tactics into his bag with a smoothness that would of impressed a court pickpocket. He did it while turning his body, the motion hidden behind the heavy fold of his cloak—the same way he'd learned to hide bruises from his brother Julios or shield a thought from the prying eyes of the palace staff.
He told himself it was caution, not greed, but the thudding of his heart in his ears argued otherwise. A prince with his own doctrine of formations was a prince with options, and in the capital, options were a dangerous thing to have.
Dawn noticed. Of course she did.
Her royal-blue eyes flicked to his bag, then to his face, and she raised a single brow. Alaric gave her a tiny shake of his head—a wordless plea. Don't say a word. Dawn's mouth twitched like she wanted to tease him, but she swallowed it and looked away with a look of exaggerated innocence that was almost more suspicious than the theft itself.
When they rejoined the group, Alaric openly showed the farming and herbology books. Asimi accepted them with careful hands, her metallic eyes weighing their worth. She brushed a stray strand of silver-gold hair from Alaric's forehead, her smile warm enough to make the freezing stone corridor feel almost cozy.
"Food and healing win wars long before swords do," she said softly.
They began the climb to the third floor. With fifteen knights forming a protective wedge of steel and lanterns, the air grew cleaner as they ascended. It was less damp, losing that heavy, "tomb" smell, as if the upper levels had been designed for pride rather than secrets.
A grand foyer of gold-veined marble unfolded beneath the lantern light. Elven architecture arched overhead, the lines so elegant they seemed to defy gravity. Even the dust looked different here—settled gently, as if the room still demanded refinement from everything that touched it.
To the west, training dummies stood in various states of decay, leaning like old soldiers who had refused to lie down. Magic crystals were set into the walls, dulled by age but still faintly luminous, like embers trapped behind glass. This was where the 'noisy and hungry' apprentices Alanor mentioned had practiced until the air smelled of ozone.
To the east was a martial area—an open floor marked with patterns for footwork and sparring. It was a place of balance. Spell and steel, side by side. Alaric's gaze lingered there; he could almost see himself older, stronger, moving through those forms.
In the center of the foyer sat a large circle inlaid with a different kind of stone. At the far end, ornate double-doors bore a plaque in modern elven: Teachers' Quarters.
"It's locked," a Knight Theurge reported, prodding the handle. "Arcane seal. Keyed mechanism."
Dawn's voice was small in the vast space. "Do you think it knows we're here?"
"I think," Alaric said, his gloved hand drifting to the cold ring on his finger, "it's deciding what we are."
Then, the circle awakened.
It didn't glow gradually. It surged into existence, ancient magic blossoming with a pressure that made the knights tighten their grip on their shields. Lines appeared in the marble, layer over layer—nine layers in total, woven together like a complex clockwork mechanism made of light.
The air hummed. Lantern flames leaned inward, pulled by the sudden vacuum of mana.
A figure began to rise from the center of the ritual.
It was Alanor.
But he didn't look like the smooth, youthful archmage Alaric had imagined. This Alanor looked old. Not frail, but weathered—the kind of age that comes from carrying the world on your shoulders. He had laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and stress lines on his forehead. His hair, once golden, was a mix of dark grey and silver. His white robes were elegant, but they looked like garments worn through a thousand crises, maintained by stubborn dignity rather than vanity.
He stood in the circle as if it were a stage he'd walked a million times.
Dawn's fingers curled into Alaric's sleeve. "That's... him," she whispered, awe and fear braided together in her voice.
Asimi didn't step back. Her metallic eyes held steady, even as her hand drifted toward her concealed blade. The knights held their formation, caught between the urge to kneel and the urge to strike.
Alanor's eyes swept the room, lingering on the Teacher's Quarters for a heartbeat before settling on Alaric. When he spoke, his voice carried the resonance of old magic and even older regret.
"You have climbed far," Alanor said, his voice calm and resonant. "Farther than most were meant to." He looked at the knights, then back to the children, dismissing the steel as if it were a minor annoyance. "And you've brought the Empire's heart with you."
Alaric swallowed, feeling the weight of the Archmage's gaze. Above them, the tower was no longer a ruin. It was awake, it was watching, and it was waiting to see if the little prince was a student or a thief.
He knows about the book, James Silver thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. Or maybe he just knows I'm the kind of person who would steal it.