Lyra had expected Caelith in the Archive.

  There was too much she needed to ask him; too many questions that had gathered overnight, sharp and restless. But when she pushed open the heavy doors, the room was empty.

  The shadows leaned differently. The lanterns flickered more sharply. Even the fragments felt wrong beneath her skin, their quiet rhythm missing the steady counterpoint she had come to expect when he was near.

  Caelith’s absence twisted in her chest like a cold weight. Her mind drifted back to the meeting with the Umbralyns, the secrets in the courtyards, the ruined corridors. The knowledge that he was part of something she didn’t fully understand, and the electricity she felt whenever she was near him, was a storm she had come to anticipate each morning before their work began. It was a delicate dance on the edge of loathing and longing.

  Now, the stillness felt deliberate, almost accusatory. She realised, with a bitter pull, that she had expected answers and instead, found none.

  Instead, Orell sat at the end of their worktable. He didn’t rise as she entered, only looked up from the table with a measured, unreadable expression.

  “Lyra,” he said, looking up at last. “We need to speak.”

  She stiffened, a familiar tangle of dread curling in her chest. “About the fragments?” she asked, careful, casual. Too careful.

  Orell shook his head. “Not entirely. You are to be reassigned.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Reassigned?” Her mind snapped forward, spinning with questions. The pulse of the fragments under her fingers seemed to quicken, anxious, like they too felt the shift. She clenched her fists briefly, forcing herself to breathe evenly even as the edges of panic teased at her control. “To where?”

  “That will be arranged. A new partner will be with you. Another Umbralyn.” He said the word without emphasis, but it carried a subtle menace, as though testing her reaction.

  Lyra blinked. A new Umbralyn. Her mind flipped instantly to Caelith.

  “And… Cae—?” she asked softly, letting the name almost slip like a feather between them. “The other Umbralyn, I mean.”

  Orell’s silver-edged robes rustled as he leaned slightly forward. “You should not concern yourself with him. His duties are his own.”

  She tried not to read too much into the sharp finality in his tone. “Of course,” she said, but the word felt brittle in her mouth.

  Her reassignment was swift. Orell handed her a list of coordinates which contained new patterns and fragments since the quake, and she followed the escort out, her boots echoing off stone. Her heartbeat felt out of sync. Where was he?

  The new Umbralyn waited at the meeting point: tall, motionless, dark cloak blending with the shadows. Unlike Caelith, there was no warmth, no hesitation in his posture. He looked her over in a slow, calculating sweep, his gaze sharp and assessing.

  “You are the scribe,” he said, voice low, smooth, almost teasing. “I expected someone… less small.”

  Lyra bristled, her hands on her hips. “My size does not affect my ability to read.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  He raised an eyebrow, expression unchanging. “We’ll see.”

  The walk to the new sector was slow, deliberate, every step measured, as if the city itself had taken a breath and held it. The Umbralyn beside her was a constant shadow, dark and silent, his presence pressing at the edge of her awareness without touching it. She noticed the way his cloak fell perfectly in the dim light, the faint scrape of his boots against the stone, the subtle pause in his stride when passing a warded corner.

  Lyra’s eyes flicked to the streets around them. Normally, the lower tiers were restless even in the early hours: merchants opening stalls, apprentices scurrying with scraps of parchment, fragments pulsing like quiet heartbeat warnings along the alley walls. But today, the streets were unnervingly empty. The air smelled faintly of scorched stone and fresh chalk, outlines of new fragments freshly painted.

  A sudden hum from a stone corner made her pulse spike. The fragment under her fingers vibrated sharply. She cast a quick glance at the new Umbralyn. He didn’t react, except his eyes flicked briefly toward her, assessing. She swallowed, heart thundering. Does he know I’m noticing? The thought made her spine tighten.

  “Where is Caelith?” she asked at last, careful to sound neutral, almost casual.

  The Umbralyn’s lips quirked. “Do you care?”

  Her stomach tightened. “I… I’m aware of duties. Of obligations,” she said, forcing herself to keep her voice even. “That is all.”

  He didn’t respond, only watched her. “Then you will keep your observations to yourself.”

  Lyra nodded, hiding the quickened pulse in her chest, the way her fingers itched to reach out, to check, to see him for herself. She kept her jaw tight, her voice sharp, deflecting his scrutiny like steel.

  “Unlike your stature, I expected your voice to have been smaller, quieter.”

  “I have no interest in being smaller,” she said quickly. “Nor quiet.”

  He allowed a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I see.”

  By the time they reached her new post, she was acutely aware of how empty it felt without Caelith. The corridors seemed wider, the shadows deeper, and the fragments hummed differently, as if missing their anchor.

  She spent the day adjusting to her new assignment, learning the subtle rhythms of the wards here, the way the shadows bent toward the glass, but her thoughts drifted repeatedly to him.

  When she found Selinne in the upper archives, her heart skipped.

  “Have you seen him?” she asked without preamble.

  Selinne’s eyes widened. “I… yes. With the soldiers. Training. Preparing. What happened to you today, where were you?”

  “Preparing? With the soldiers? But… is he—?” Her words faltered, caught on the fear she couldn’t admit.

  “Safe,” Selinne said gently, though her voice lacked conviction. “I saw him… but you know him. He doesn’t reveal what’s wrong. He seemed the same as always.”

  Lyra swallowed, the twist in her gut sharp and insistent. “What do you mean?” Her mind raced ahead, imagining dangers she couldn’t voice.

  Selinne hesitated, choosing her words. “I don’t know. He’s… just Caelith. Always careful, always holding himself together.”

  Lyra’s jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed that something was off. That someone knew of his injuries, that it was deliberate, that she might not be able to protect him. She forced her expression to neutrality, but it was a fragile mask.

  Her frustration flared, sharp and spiky. “I need to see him,” she said, though even as she spoke, she knew she couldn’t, no clearance, no path, and perhaps he wouldn’t want her seeing him like this.

  Selinne’s hand found her arm, but her grip was firmer than before. “He knows. He’ll be careful,” she said softly, but her voice carried a sharp edge. “Just… whatever happens, Lyra, don’t underestimate what’s going on down there. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if you did.”

  Lyra shook her head, heat rising to her cheeks. “Careful doesn’t fix it,” she whispered. “He shouldn’t be there like that. Someone’s… testing him. Or worse. And they don’t care if he breaks.”

  Selinne’s expression softened. “Then all you can do is wait. Watch. Protect what you can.”

  Lyra let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. But it did little to ease the tension coiling in her chest. She glanced toward the lower corridors, toward the sound of boots echoing against stone, and imagined him somewhere in the dark, bracing for something she couldn’t stop.

  Her fists curled at her sides, nails pressing into palms. Every instinct screamed that he was out there, carrying burdens she couldn’t reach, that someone - someone cruel - was testing him. She would find a way. Somehow.

  But for now, all she could do was wait.

  And the Fracture pulsed beneath the city, restless and patient, as if it too waited to see who would falter first.