Fate - First Reply Thirst for Knowledge

[Zora]

​

Zora arrived at Elbion at dawn, when the fog still clung to the harbor like a damp shroud and the cries of gulls echoed between the masts. The city rose before her in layered stone and timber, its walls stained by salt and age, its towers bristling with banners she did not recognize or care to learn. From the first step onto the docks, she felt only disdain. The air was thick with rot and brine, with fish guts discarded carelessly into the gutters, with smoke from a hundred small fires fed by damp wood. There were too many people—too many voices overlapping, too many footsteps, too much movement. Silence, once learned, was impossible to forget, and Elbion had none.

She had counted her coin carefully during the voyage. Enough to pay passage, enough to eat poorly for a handful of days, and perhaps enough to rent a corner of a room if she tolerated company. After that, survival would demand effort: mercenary work, hired spellcraft, or something less honest. But first, she had come for answers. Whispers had reached even the fringes of the world—rumors of forbidden texts changing hands, of grimoires seized at sea or hidden by collectors who did not understand what they possessed. A major trade port, a crossroads of merchants and smugglers alike, and a city that housed a magical college: Elbion was the obvious convergence. If any fragment of the knowledge stolen from Brockern still existed, it would have passed through here, or been claimed by someone arrogant enough to keep it.

She moved through the market with narrowed eyes. Stalls overflowed with fish laid out on melting ice, slabs of red meat attracting clouds of flies, baskets of fruit bruised and overripe. Vendors shouted prices as if volume alone could create value. The crowd pressed close, careless, intrusive. Not a single bookstall caught her attention. No parchment, no ink, no shelves bowed under the weight of thought. Only food—endless, mindless consumption. She felt a familiar contempt rise within her.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink,” the prophet’s words surfaced unbidden. “Is not life more than food?” She almost smiled. Simpletons would always remain simpletons, obsessed with the needs of the flesh while the machinery of the world turned unseen above them.

If the city offered nothing, there remained the college. The thought soured her mood. Scholars were dangerous in a way common folk were not. To the illiterate, her black tunic marked her only as strange, perhaps unsettling. To the learned, it was a statement—an origin, a lineage. In the wrong eyes, it would make her an object of curiosity, a specimen, or a threat to be eradicated. And even if she passed unnoticed, access to a true library would not come freely. Knowledge was hoarded behind titles, dues, and oaths. Membership. Permission.

Zora paused at the edge of the square, listening to the city breathe—its noise, its filth, its relentless life. Elbion offended her senses, but it was necessary. Somewhere within its walls lay a thread leading back to what had been stolen from her. She would pull at it patiently, methodically. And if the city refused to yield its secrets willingly, she would remind it—quietly, at first—that knowledge had never truly belonged to those who merely guarded the doors.

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

A young man stood in an alley nearby as though the filth had been arranged around him by mistake. His coat was tailored dark wool, the cut precise, the cuffs embroidered with understated thread; his boots gleamed despite the damp stone, and his pale gloves never quite touched the brick. He was out of place in a way that could not be concealed.

Opposite him, a hooded figure lingered in the shadows, hand extended with a small glass vial that pulsed faintly with inner light. It looked like some rather questionable herbs that were definitely banned in civil society.

“Fifteen gold is extortion,” Lucien murmured, voice low but clipped, as though he were reciting an error in a ledger. “The mystique of the herbs does not justify the markup.”

The hooded dealer whispered back, invoking risk, import, danger.

Lucien’s mouth tightened, eyes flicking to the vial with something between curiosity and disdain. “I am fully aware of the romance surrounding altered consciousness. I am simply unimpressed by your attempt to charge me for the poetry.”

He hesitated, then produced a small purse, weighing it in his hand with visible reluctance.

“Ten,” he said. “And I will pretend you did not attempt to insult my intelligence. Otherwise, I will acquire it through channels that do not smell of docks and filth.”

Zora

 

[Zora]

Zora had spent the entire morning combing the port districts without result. Wharf after wharf, stall after stall—nothing. If one of the tomes had passed through Elbion, it was buried deep, hidden beneath layers of noise, grease, and small-minded commerce. Searching here felt like hunting a needle in a haystack while the haystack screamed back at her. By midday, the din alone had begun to grate against her nerves. She would need help, however distasteful that realization was.

She stopped at a cramped stand selling live pigeons, partridges, and scrawny chickens, all packed into wooden cages slick with feathers and droppings. It would suffice. She selected a small bird, its heart fluttering uselessly against her fingers, and placed five silver coins on the counter. The seller squinted at her clothes, at her hood, then at the bird. “Planning a stew?” he asked, half-curious, half-wary.

“It is not for eating,” Zora replied flatly.

She moved away before further questions could form. Near a low, communal fire—little more than embers and refuse—she knelt, drew a knife from her satchel, and worked quickly. The blade parted the bird cleanly, practiced and without hesitation. Blood spilled freely into the fire, hissing as it struck the coals. She leaned close and whispered, her voice barely breath. “Hear me—Ar: Thiao.”

The flames shuddered. From them rose a thin trail of reddish smoke, unnatural in its steadiness, twisting and pulling in a single direction like a finger beckoning her forward. Zora followed. The smoke led her through narrow alleys until it dissipated near two figures locked in quiet negotiation. She remained in shadow, listening, watching, dissecting them as carefully as she had the bird.

The hooded dealer was exactly what he appeared to be—useful. Unlawful men always were. Desperation made them pliable, and greed made them predictable. Tools, nothing more. The other, however, caught her attention.

Pampered. Wealth clung to him like perfume, no matter how carefully he tried to mask it. He looked as out of place as she did, though for the opposite reason. Not because he belonged elsewhere, but because he believed he did. He carried himself like someone who thought he should not be here, failing to grasp the obvious truth: rich men were the natural clients of desperate, lowborn sellers. Her gaze lingered too long. She knew it. Long enough to risk suspicion from both sides.

Then she saw the vial.

They had almost concealed it well—almost. A brief shift, a careless angle, and the glass caught the light. Something within shimmered faintly before being hidden again. Zora’s annoyance faded, replaced by interest. Quickly, she drew a couple gold coins from her purse. A waste, perhaps. Or an investment. The distinction rarely mattered in the end. She smeared them with the blood still wet on her fingers, staining the metal until it dulled to a sacrificial red. Bringing them close to her lips, she whispered, carefully enunciated:

“Hear me. Thou hast distinguished between the Just and the Unjust.” The words sank into the coins

She stepped out of the shadows.

Her boots scraped softly against stone as she approached, enough to announce her presence without startling them. The dealer stiffened at once, instinctively shifting his hands towards a hidden weapon, while the well-dressed young man turned with visible irritation, as though this intrusion offended him more than the alley itself. Zora lowered her hood just enough for her face to be seen and cleared her trhoat

“Have you not heard the prophet’s words?” she asked calmly, voice carrying an authority that did not ask permission. “Honest scales and just prices belong to the Lord; all trade is His concern.”

The dealer bristled, ready to object, but she raised a blood-streaked hand slightly, stopping him before he spoke.

“You are not offering a fair deal, because you see that he obviously can pay more” she continued, addressing him directly. Not accusing, simply stating a fact. “Fifteen gold for a vial for which you can barely find another client... if he says no, it's useless to you ”

Her gaze shifted to the young man, lingering for half a heartbeat longer. She noted the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held his purse.

“I am interested in what you are doing here,” she said at last. “Enough to involve myself.” From her palm, she let two gold coins drop into view. They rang softly as they struck one another, the sound clear even in the alley’s damp hush.

“I will raise the offer to twelve,” she said. “My contribution covers the difference.”

Both men hesitated.

“But,” Zora added, her tone sharpening just slightly, “I will receive a portion of what is being sold. A small one. Nothing that would trouble either of you—assuming you agree.”

Her eyes flicked again to the vial, still half-hidden, its faint inner glow betraying more than either man wished. A knowing look crossed her face, brief but unmistakable.

“This way,” she finished, “everyone leaves satisfied. "

She stood still then, bloodied coins resting openly in her hand, waiting to see which of them would speak first.

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

His head whipped around the moment the stranger approached. Lucien’s eyes narrowed, suspicion sharpening his features as he took in the blood smeared across her fingers and the coins in her palm. It was unsettling and ritualistic. The mark of practices whispered about in lecture halls and banned in polite syllabi. Exactly the sort of thing he had always been told not to pursue and precisely why it fascinated him.

The dealer started to turn to bolt, but Lucien’s hand snapped out, gripping the man’s shoulder and halting him mid-step. His gaze returned to the woman, cool and collected, pride reasserting itself.

“Mind your business,” he said curtly. “Walk away. This does not concern you.”

 

[Zora]

Zora smiled. Not wide, not warm—just enough to show she was amused.

“You are a smart one,” she said softly, eyes flicking to his grip on the dealer’s shoulder, to the tension in his jaw. “But even clever men mistake caution for wisdom. Fear often wears the same mask.”

She tilted her head, studying him as though he were another problem to be solved. “You’ve already decided, I think. Perhaps you don’t need help. Or perhaps you are too careful to see it.”

She stepped back, signaling no threat, and with a flick of her wrist tossed the two blood-stained coins toward him. They clinked once in the air.

“If you are clever, you will use them to pay. If you are smart, you will keep them. And if you are wise…” Her gaze lingered. “After your experiments are done and realize you are still not satisfied, whisper my name. I will know where to find you.”

She turned, already fading back toward the alley’s shadow.

“Zora,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll be in Elbion for a while. I have use for those who know the city, and more use for those who can make forbidden things move.”

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

Lucien stared at her without expression, face settling into a neutral mask that betrayed nothing.

He released the dealer, who wasted no time vanishing into the alley’s deeper shadows, and took the vial with measured care. His gaze dropped briefly to the blood-smeared coins in his palm. For a moment, something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

“Good day,” he said flatly to the woman.

He stepped past her, coat swaying as he walked, posture perfect, dignity intact. He did not look back.

-----​

Hours later, the College slept.

Lucien slipped from the dormitory with practiced ease, boots soundless on the damp flagstones. He told himself this was academic curiosity. He told himself it was absurd to entertain a back-alley mystic with theatrical blood and scripture.

He told himself many things.

In a narrow alley beyond the College grounds, he paused beneath a guttering lantern and drew the coins from his pocket. The dried blood had darkened to a dull rust, the words she had spoken still uncomfortably vivid in his mind. He turned them over between his fingers, jaw tight, irritation and fascination knotted together.

This was foolishness. This was superstition. This was exactly the sort of thing serious scholars dismissed.

He leaned closer anyway. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “Zora.”

 

[Zora]

One minute passed, two, then three. The lantern flame bent.

“Speak of the devil,” Zora said softly, stepping from the shadow behind him, “and he shall appear.”

She glanced at the coins in his hand, then at the College spires looming just beyond the alley, faintly lit against the night.

“So soon,” she added, a trace of amusement touching her voice. “I did not expect you to call me the same day.”

Her eyes moved back to Lucien, sharp and appraising. “I was right about you. Not a bored rich boy chasing a expensive high. And judging by how close we are to the College…” She tilted her head slightly. “You are not entirely unschooled.”

The cold eased, though the air remained tense, watchful.

“Good,” Zora said. “Then we will proceed properly.”

She folded her hands within her sleeves. “You may ask your questions first. I will answer them honestly.”

A pause—intentional.

“But understand this,” she continued. “For every answer I give you, you will give me one in return. Knowledge for knowledge. No charity. That is how Brockern taught us to speak.” she finished.

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

Lucien did not react when she emerged. He watched her the way one studied an experiment, eyes tracking posture, breath, micro-movements, weighing each word for intent rather than meaning. When she finished, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

He scoffed softly.

“I will do no such thing.”

He turned slightly, letting the lantern light catch the College spires beyond, a silent reminder of where she stood. His gaze returned to her, cool and unblinking.

“You are on College property. That means these are the terms.” He lifted the coins once, letting them chime faintly. “You answer my questions. In full. And in return, I do not have you detained, examined, and exiled for practicing unsanctioned blood rites within the city walls.”

A pause. Calm. Certain.

“Consider it a generous exchange. Now,” He said smoothly as he rolled the coin between his fingers, “What is Brockern?”

 

[Zora]

Zora let out a snorting sound that might have been a laugh. She settled onto a low stone in the alley, unbothered by his posture or the implied authority in his voice.

“You can stop with the bravado,” she said “It will not frighten me. And you have already achieved what you wanted: you have my attention.”

She moved her hands inside her sleeves, then procured a book out of them, then shrugged faintly. “Perhaps I should simply leave you with a copy of the scriptures and be done with this. It would serve you well. At the very least, it might teach you humility.”

Her voice softened, but the words cut clean.

“Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,” she quoted. “So says the prophet.”

She offered the book with a sly smile. “Consider that a gift. Whether you learn from it is your concern. When you are ready to talk, we can talk.”

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

Lucien gave no reply to her admonition. He did not acknowledge the scripture, the proverb, or the implied warning. His gaze lingered only on the book itself, assessing its binding, the age of the pages, the faint scent of it.

Without ceremony, he took it from her hand.

He offered no thanks. No retort. He simply turned and walked away, coat settling back into place as though the encounter had been nothing more than an inconvenient lecture.

---​

Later, alone in his dormitory room, the College silent around him, he set the book upon his desk and stared at it for several long moments.

This was absurd. This was superstition. This was the sort of text serious scholars dissected from a distance, not handled.

He opened it anyway.

 

[Zora]

Not even your curiosity can keep you reading further, you feel your head light, and sleep is starting to claim you

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

Lucien had expected nonsense.

Grandiose nonsense, certainly, the usual threats and promises that littered forbidden texts. But as his eyes moved from line to line, his irritation dulled into something quieter. Colder.

This was not a book of simple wonders. It did not beg spirits, nor bargain with them in the way lesser rituals did. It assumed obedience. Authority. The words were written not as speculation, but as instruction…as law. Names were not offered as prayer, but as leverage.

He frowned, tapping the margin once with a finger.

Lucien read on, lips parting slightly as the implications settled. Secrets drawn from behind locked doors. Forces bent by precise speech. Spirits compelled not by will, but by hierarchy. Dangerous, yes, but elegant. Efficient. It promised ascension through exactness, not devotion.

His eyes dragged.

He paused, blinking hard, and realized with a flash of annoyance that the page had gone soft around the edges. The candle’s flame swayed, haloed, doubling. He straightened in his chair, jaw tightening. This was not fatigue. This was…

The thought failed to finish.

His hand slackened on the book. The final line he saw swam upward, heavy with warning, before the words slipped entirely beyond his grasp. Lucien slumped forward, breath evening against his will, the tome still open on the desk as unconsciousness took him mid-thought.

 

[Zora]

Daylight had returned by the time Zora woke.

Thin, pale light filtered through the warped shutters of a cheap inn room, illuminating cracked plaster and a narrow bed that smelled faintly of damp straw. The place was barely fit for rest, but it was quiet, and that was enough. She sat upright, pulled her cloak tighter around herself, and arranged her meager breakfast on the small table by the window: a heel of bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and a chipped cup of water.

Before eating, she bowed her head.

When she finished, she rose, gathered her things, and left without looking back.

The magical shop stood several streets away, wedged between a chandler and a tailor. Its windows were crowded with charms, glass phials, and poorly warded trinkets meant to impress tourists or desperate townsfolk. Zora stepped inside, the bell chiming softly above the door.

Behind the counter stood a young clerk, barely more than an apprentice by the look of him. He looked up, already preparing the polite dismissal reserved for those who wandered in without coin. Zora did not wait for him to speak.

“I have books to sell” she said calmly.

That alone was enough to make him hesitate. Books were not like charms or candles. Books implied lineage, permission, risk.

She reached into her sleeve and withdrew the first volume, placing it gently on the counter. Then the second.

The clerk leaned forward, curiosity overriding caution. His eyes flicked to the titles, and his expression changed instantly.

“You must be joking,” he said, his voice dropping. “La Véritable Magie Noire? That text has been forbidden for centuries. It can’t be real. It must be a fake.”

Zora tilted her head slightly. “It contains the instructions for the Hand of Glory,” she replied evenly.

The color drained from his face.

“That—” He swallowed. “That only exists in condemned marginalia. Stories.”

“Stories do not include precise measurements,” she said. “Nor the correct lunar timings.”

He stared at her, then shook his head and reached for the second book, almost desperately seeking reassurance. His breath caught again.

“Doctor Rudd’s The Art of the Goetia?” He let out a nervous laugh. “That’s impossible. There was no surviving copy. None.”

“You may examine the seals,” Zora said. “They match the known ones exactly.”

His hands hovered above the cover, trembling. Finally, he pulled them back as if burned.

“You have to be kidding me,” he said. “These aren’t centuries old. A few years, at most. Are you telling me someone recently copied two forbidden books from authentic sources? How would anyone even get the originals?”

Zora’s gaze never left him.

“One does not need to possess the originals,” she said softly, “if one was forced to memorize them. Line by line.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.

After a moment, Zora continued, almost casually, “Such copies can fetch an excellent price on the black market. I wondered if you might know something about that.”

The clerk recoiled slightly. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said quickly. “You should take these elsewhere.”

She regarded him for a long second, then asked, “Are you certain you wish to pass on this opportunity?”

His jaw tightened. He hesitated—only briefly—before moving. The discussion that followed was quiet, hurried, and conducted in glances rather than words. When it ended, gold changed hands.

Zora exited the shop with more gold than she had possessed when she entered. The coins rested against her side, wrapped and silent. She walked a short distance before allowing herself to think again.

Would the clerk tell his master? Or would greed and fear convince him to keep the books hidden, to study them in secret?

She hoped he would do the first.

If not, he would likely not survive. But then, who was she to deny a young one his first disastrous encounter with true black magic?

Her thoughts drifted to the other young man—the arrogant one. She had not asked his name. She did not need to. He would call her again. He would ask if what he had read was true, even though he scarcely understood it. Curiosity always returned to its source.

She passed beneath the gallows as the street narrowed. Bodies swayed gently, pirates and thieves left as warnings. Zora slowed, her gaze moving from face to face until it settled on one corpse’s left hand, fingers stiff but intact.

“He won’t need it anymore,” she murmured.

And if she was going to return to the college again—in the dark of the night —she would need it far more than he ever could.

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

Lucien woke with the unpleasant sense that he had not truly slept.

The book lay where he had left it, closed but not quiet. Its weight lingered in his thoughts, pressing behind his eyes as he dressed, as he moved through the morning rituals expected of him. Breakfast passed untouched. Lectures blurred into noise. He took notes out of habit, the words neat and empty, his attention drifting back to unfamiliar diagrams and marginal scrawl he could not quite forget.

Days followed in much the same way. He found himself listening more than speaking, catching fragments of rumor between corridors and common rooms. Whispers, always half-formed: illicit texts surfacing in the market, a clerk who had vanished after boasting of something rare. Lucien did not ask questions. He did not need to. Each fragment tightened the knot in his chest.

At night, his gaze returned to the book in his room. He told himself it was dangerous nonsense. Superstition dressed up as scholarship. He told himself that summoning its former owner would be an admission of weakness.

Still, his fingers lingered on the coins.

Pride held…for a time.

Then one evening, when the College lamps dimmed and the gates stood unguarded, Lucien found himself alone beyond the borders, boots carrying him without conscious decision. The streets narrowed, the air thickened, and the city’s poorer quarters rose around him.

He did not yet whisper her name.

But he was close.

 

[Zora]

The night was clouded and cold, but for her, it was warm. Since leaving Brockern’s heights, Zora had not known true cold. Not the kind that cut through wool and bone alike, that froze breath in the lungs and made prayer feel like work. Compared to the mountain, every lowland night was forgiving.

The severed hand lay on the table.

It had been carefully prepared: cleansed, dried, and treated until the flesh had turned a uniform gray, neither fully dead nor truly alive. The fingers were slightly curled, with pne small candle affixed to each fingertip, the wax pale and pure, drawn thin so it would burn evenly. They were unlit, waiting.

Zora sat before it, sleeves rolled back, her movements slow and exact. With a fine brush, she painted the final sigils onto the skin. The ink was dark and faintly iridescent, mixed hours earlier with ash, oil, and something she did not name even in thought. Each mark was precise; curves and angles that followed the hand’s anatomy as if it had been designed for them. She paused only once, lifting her eyes to the window. The sky was empty.

No moon. No silver edge behind the clouds. The new moon—hidden, absent, perfect. A night when sight faltered.

Then she spoke.

“I conjure you and compel you, O spirit of invisibility,” she intoned, her voice steady and low, “that you consecrate this hand without hesitation or delay, without danger to my body or my soul.”

The candles trembled slightly, though there was no draft.

“Through him who has command over us,” she continued, the words old and carefully remembered, “fulfill this work, so that I may be unseen.”

As the final syllables left her mouth, she pressed her will forward. The air thickened. The sigils flared briefly, lines of dull light crawling across the gray skin like embers under ash. Resistance answered her, slippery and resentful, and she leaned into it, binding, compelling, refusing compromise.

For a heartbeat, the hand twitched. Just once. Then it settled again, still and obedient, the candles steady, the sigils fading back into ink.

Zora exhaled slowly and withdrew her hand from the table, puting it inside her sleeve. The work was done. Consecrated. Bound. Ready. She allowed herself a rare smile.

“Yes,” she murmured to the empty room. “This is surely a good night for magic endeavors.”

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

Lucien did not ask questions loudly.

Coins changed hands in murmurs and glances, enough to loosen tongues without inviting scrutiny. Reliable ones, the sort who knew when to forget faces and remember descriptions. They pointed to the movements of a woman matching Zora’s description.

Eventually, the trail led him to a sagging building at the edge of a forgotten street, its windows dark, its door shut.

Lucien paused at the threshold. He did not announce himself. He never did, when it mattered. He slowly slinked inside.

Inside, the air was thick with oil, ash, and something colder. He slipped in soundlessly, the habits of discretion coming easier than he liked. His eyes adjusted quickly, taking in the table, the sigils, the candles…

…and the severed hand.

His breath caught despite himself. The thing lay exactly as the book had described. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Precisely. A slow ripple of unease passed through him, visceral and unwelcome, the realization settling deep: this was not theory. This was not dangerous speculation confined to margins and footnotes. It was working.

Part of him screamed to leave. To turn back, to report nothing, to pretend he had never read a word.

Another part, the quieter, hungrier one, leaned forward.

He watched, silent, absorbing every detail: the timing, the stillness, the control. Awe crept in alongside dread, coiling tight in his chest. When he finally spoke, it was measured, steady, betraying nothing of the war inside him.

“You are not surprised I’m here,” his baritone voice intoned.

 

[Zora]

Zora did not turn at once. Her attention lingered on the table, on the careful geometry of candles and chalk, on the hand resting where it must. Only then did she glance over her shoulder, eyes catching the low light like polished glass.

“If I told you I foresaw this,” she said calmly, “you wouldn’t believe me. And it would be a lie.” A faint, humorless smile touched her mouth. “Premonition is a lazy word. This was simpler than that.”

She studied him the way one recognizes a familiar sin in a stranger. “I know the look of someone who wants greatness at any cost the moment I see it. You wear it plainly.” Her gaze sharpened, not unkind, merely precise. “It’s a shame you’re too old for a proper education. Brockern would have destroyed that pride of yours.”

Her fingers brushed a sigil, not activating it, merely reminding it who commanded the room. “So tell me,” she went on softly, finally facing him fully, “are you ready to speak now? Or do you still need signs and wonders before you admit this is real?”

 

[Lucien Valtiere]

Lucien did not answer her at first.

He stood where he was, expression unreadable, eyes steady as her words slid past him without purchase. He had heard every variation of the barbs before - entitlement, ambition, pride, and ego. It was dull. Predictable. Beneath response.

His gaze flicked briefly to the hand, then back to her face. Interest, at last, cool and deliberate.

“I’m ready to talk,” he said evenly.

He gave a measured pause. “But let’s dispense with the theatrics.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve been circling the College for days. Appearing in alleys. Performing rituals close enough to be noticed.”

He tilted his head a fraction. “Are you hovering here in hopes of recruiting students like me to whatever plans you’re assembling?”

 

[Zora]

Zora regarded him in silence for a moment…“Theatricality and deception are powerful tools against the uninitiated,” she said. “But we are both initiated now.”

She shifted her weight slightly, eyes never leaving his. “No. I am not looking for a student.”

“An ally, perhaps,” she continued, precise and deliberate. “Someone who understands exchange. Quid pro quo. You know the principle well enough. I have something you want, and you can help me in return.”

She let the implication hang.

“Brockern was never a college,” she said. “It was a monastery, a mountain fortress, and an order devoted to what we called science—magic not as spectacle or convenience, but as structure. Law. Causality. We did not ask the world to bend; we learned the rules by which it already obeys.”

Her gaze drifted briefly, as if seeing black stone halls and frozen corridors far away. “That made us intolerable. Kings feared us, churches condemned us, and institutions like this one”—a slight gesture toward the unseen College—“could not allow knowledge they did not control.”

“So Brockern was destroyed,” she went on evenly. “Its halls burned, its texts scattered or stolen, its people hunted. I do not know if any survived besides myself.”

Her eyes returned to him, sharp and unwavering. “That is why I am here. Elbion is the obvious choice. A port. A trade hub. A magical college layered in wards and discretion. If anything of Brockern still exists, it passed through this city—or is hidden within it.”

She paused, studying his expression.

“Now,” Zora said quietly, “do you understand why I need someone who knows how forbidden goods move through Elbion?”