Liora's throat tightened, not with fear exactly, but with the weight of telling the truth in a room that seemed built to notice lies.
"I came," she said carefully, "to become powerful."
The lanternlight didn't flare. It just steadied, as if that answer made sense here.
The man's expression stayed gentle. "Power is a hungry word. What are you feeding it?"
Liora's fingers curled against her palm. She could feel the chalk dust still lingering there, like a reminder.
"In my village," she said, "power was either a fairy tale or a threat. People wanted it to be far away. Locked up. Named as something that happened to other places."
She swallowed.
"But something happened. And I wasn't strong enough."
The room felt quieter, as if even the books leaned in.
"I made a promise," Liora continued. "To fix what I couldn't fix then. To keep someone safe. To make it right."
The man's eyes sharpened, not unkindly. "Someone you love."
Liora didn't answer that part. Her silence did, though.
He nodded once, like a judge accepting evidence. "And you believe power will let you keep your promise."
"I don't just believe it," Liora said, voice suddenly firmer. "I need it."
For the first time, the man looked pleased in a way that wasn't just charming. It was precise. Intentional.
"Good," he said softly. "A promise is a better spine for power than pride. Pride snaps when the world pushes back. Promises… endure."
He moved around the worktable and placed his palm on the crescent-bound book. The leather didn't creak. It almost seemed to breathe.
"You may call me Master Orren," he said. "Most do. Some don't, for reasons they regret later."
Liora held his gaze. "Yes, Master Orren."
"Now," Orren said, "we handle this properly."
He didn't open the book. Instead, he slid it toward her, stopping it exactly at the edge of her reach, like he was offering a choice, not a command.
"Chosen names are for doors," he said. "Real names are for bonds. Promises are for consequences."
He tapped the cover once. The crescent stamp warmed, and Liora felt it through the air like a heat you could taste.
"You've offered me a letter and a chosen name. That was wise."
His voice softened, almost conversational again. "But you didn't come here to be wise. You came to be powerful."
Liora's heart thudded.
Orren's eyes flicked to her satchel. "And old-school magic already knows you. The shortcut noticed you, didn't it?"
Liora hesitated, then nodded. "It left a… seam. A light in the bricks."
Orren's mouth quirked. "Lanternfall likes rare things. It pays attention."
He leaned forward slightly. "So here's my question, Lark."
He said the chosen name with respect, like he understood exactly what it was for.
"If I train you the way you're asking to be trained, you may get strong enough to keep your promise."
A pause.
"And you may get strong enough to break it."
The lanterns along the shelves dimmed a fraction, not threatening. Waiting.
Orren rested two fingers on the book's cover. "Do you want power with rules… or power with truth?"
Power with rules would be safer, steadier, slower.
Power with truth would be older, faster, and it would demand things from her that she might not want to give.
Liora stared at the crescent on the book until the curve of it felt like it was staring back.
"Both," she said.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Master Orren's smile widened, slow and genuinely delighted, like she'd finally said something interesting. "Greedy," he murmured, approving rather than scolding. "Ambitious. And honest about it."
He drew the book back an inch, just out of reach again, the motion small but unmistakably his. "All right, Lark. Then you don't get to hide behind either."
He walked to a shelf and returned with two objects.
The first was a thin ribbon of dark cloth, soft as old velvet. It looked like a blindfold, except a line of tiny stitched crescents ran along its edge.
The second was a simple coil of pale cord, the kind you might use to tie a parcel. Except the fibers shimmered faintly, like spider silk caught in lanternlight.
He set them on the table on either side of the closed book.
"Rules," he said, touching the cord, "are what you do when you're frightened, tired, or tempted. They stop you from becoming whatever the city would prefer you to be."
Then he touched the blindfold. "Truth is what remains when you can't rely on your eyes, your habits, or other people's opinions of you."
He looked at her. "You want both, so you'll begin with both."
Liora's mouth went dry. "Begin how?"
Orren's voice stayed gentle. "With a vow and a test."
He slid the cord toward her. "This is a rule-knot. It binds what you say you will not do. It isn't perfect, and it isn't kind, but it is clear."
Then he slid the blindfold toward her. "And this will keep the city from charming you with pretty lies while you tell me something ugly and true."
Liora stared at the blindfold. She hated it immediately. Not because it looked sinister, but because it looked practical.
Orren watched her for a beat. "You can refuse," he said. "And if you do, I'll still teach you. Just not the faster way."
Faster. There it was again, the hook of it, the same bait the shortcut used.
Liora breathed in. The room smelled of ink and rosemary and warm bread, and somewhere deep inside the house, something clicked as if a clock had decided it liked her answer.
She reached for the cord first.
It was cool against her skin. When she looped it over her fingers, it tightened slightly on its own, as if eager to become a shape.
Orren nodded. "Good. Now pick your first rule."
Liora's mind jumped immediately to Mina's warning.
If anything asks you your name, you didn't hear it.
She almost said it out loud, but her tongue caught. That rule was about the city. This rule had to be about her.
Because power didn't ruin you by accident. It ruined you through loopholes you didn't know you'd left.
"I won't trade names," Liora said finally. "Not mine. Not anyone else's. Not for speed, not for comfort, not for answers."
The cord tightened once, a small sting around her index finger, then settled. A faint crescent-shaped mark appeared on the cord where it touched her skin, like a promise made visible.
Orren's gaze softened with something like respect. "A very good first rule."
He tapped the blindfold. "Now truth."
Liora hesitated. "What truth?"
"The truth you've been walking around," Orren said, "pretending is just a memory."
He leaned closer, voice low. "Tell me what happened in your village."
Liora's breath caught.
She could picture it too clearly: the night air thick with smoke, a door that wouldn't open, someone's hand slipping out of hers. The sound of a bell that wasn't a bell. The feeling of being too small to matter.
Her fingers clenched around the cord until it bit.
Orren's voice softened further. "Put on the blindfold. If you want truth, don't look for it with your eyes."
Liora picked up the ribbon.
It was warmer than she expected, as if it had been worn before.
She lifted it, then paused with it hovering just above her face.