Vaguely ashamed by the rapidity with which he had dived under his blankets, Zephyrin slowed his breathing, seeking to mimic the regular inhalations and respiratory pauses of deep slumber. It wasn’t easy as his thoughts turned to Foudris, whom he had none too gently shoved down to the floor. It was a poor hiding place; so poor that he could only hope the prefect would dismiss it out of hand.

The dark figure stood over Zephyrin’s bed, no doubt observing the steady rise and fall of his chest. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, the disappearance of the light suspended over Zephyrin’s face momentarily gave him hope that the prefect was satisfied with his inspection—but no, he had merely swung his lamp to the side to examine Viristin, who mercifully remained asleep. Then the floorboards complained noisily as the prefect knelt down, and Zephyrin lost all hope.

Really, Foudris had no one to blame but himself, since he was—of all things—powerfully channeling his mana. Zephyrin felt it radiating outward from below, and braced himself for the nighttime quiet to be shattered by an adult’s cry of wrathful triumph, mingled with the panicked protestations of a child forcefully dragged out his hiding spot—

The prefect rose from his kneeling position, seemingly with difficulty. Standing over the beds once more, he raised his lamp over Zephyrin’s face, then Viristin’s. His heavy breathing was audible. Zephyrin dared to part his eyelids infinitesimally for a fleeting peek and had cause to regret his decision, as the unnerving sight of Master Gwuppe’s blistered flesh illuminated from below made him stiffen. But the master took no notice of him… just as, apparently, he had taken no notice of Foudris. Before long he turned, and in his waddling gait recrossed the room, gave the pair he thought to be asleep a last glance, then passed through the door and shut it with a ‘click’ behind him.

Zephyrin waited for a good minute, then lit a small light source—an ordinary candle this time, lest the next adult to investigate proved capable of detecting mana—and silently slid out of bed. The explanation behind their narrow escape endured a moment longer as Zephyrin heard rather than saw Foudris crawl out from underneath his bed, until the boy appeared out of thin air in front of him. Zephyrin’s eyes widened in the near total darkness. The cessation of Foudris’s flow of mana coincided with his rematerialization, leaving no doubt as to how he had escaped the prefect’s notice.

An invisibility spell? How have I never heard of such a thing? Zephyrin briefly grew excited at the thought of its application on the battlefield, before plain logic asserted itself. To a mana-sensitive blueblood, the magic exuded would light up its user like a beacon; channeling mana to conceal oneself was simply self-contradictory, and having a troop of men use the spell for a flanking maneuver was tantamount to providing enemy artillery a free and unequaled spotter. Foudris had evaded Master Gwuppe’s dull baseblood senses, but a noble-born priest would have found him even more easily.

“D’Érazh, you need to get back to your dorm,” he murmured. “It’s possible that Master Gwuppe will check the building’s other wing.”

Foudris nodded, then returned to his first concern. “Will you—”

“Yes, I’ll spend the holidays at your house,” Zephyrin confirmed again. “Tell your guardian to make the necessary arrangements.” With Narcissin no longer in the capital, the prospect of wiling away his days in a deserted lyceum held no appeal for him. Still, there was something he didn’t understand about Foudris’s request, so Zephyrin whispered a final question before he made to leave. “Why me, though? We could have talked about all this after the resumption of school…”

The flame of the candle that Zephyrin held in his hand danced in Foudris’s eyes. “Because I’m afraid of hating Selena.” His youthful face strangely solemn, the boy regarded Zephyrin unblinkingly, then backed away and slipped through the door, leaving Zephyrin to ponder his parting words.

By noontime of the third day after his return to the academy, Zephyrin was able to confirm that the furtive glances cast in his direction had not been his imagination. As it turned out, Théander was far from the only student to regard Zephyrin with a wary eye since his return from the palace. Formerly admirative, his classmates now wore guarded expressions, and with the exception of Father Athand and Master Médallus, even the praise he garnered from his instructors was noticeably cooler.

Zephyrin belatedly realized that, far from a simplistic division of high and low nobility as he had initially supposed, the student bodies of the Royal Academy and Lyceum Rudolf VII ran along ideological lines instead. The queen’s adopted son from the southern continent, Tanji—he had distinctly heard the governess mention that he was attending the Royal Academy. Obviously, she would have sent him to the institution most loyal to the monarchy, with absolutist students and faculty—and that being the case, it stood to reason that his school was favored by the Houses clamoring for reform, with foreign born nobles like his father granted admittance as an afterthought.

Zephyrin looked down once more at the hastily scribbled letter in his hand. Apart from Roger and Foudris, no student had willingly spoken with him, much less held his gaze for more than an instant… which made the occurrence of the morning all the more surprising. A few hours earlier, a classmate he thought he recognized had passed him an envelope with the words, “My name’s Asnerius dy Zeyn. D’Érazh is my dormmate. He left this for you.” As soon as the bell for recreation sounded, Zephyrin had wasted no time in finding a secluded spot in the courtyard, sitting on one of the stone benches universally disdained when the wind bit hard and with scant regard for one’s winterwear.

Dy Valensis,

I can’t tell you who it was that mentioned the same words written in your journal because I didn’t see their faces and only overheard them at a distance. What I can say for a certainty is that there were two of them, and the conversation took place shortly before the academic year began. I’ve included below a list of the persons who visited my guardian’s salon around that time; I hope it’ll be of help to you.

Mlle. Huron is withdrawing me a few days before the holidays to take me to a specialist for my recurring stomach pains. I look forward to speaking with you upon my return to the capital.

Faithfully yours in the Goddess’s embrace,

—Foudris D’Érazh

Letter in hand, Zephyrin rubbed his chin in thought. It was rather trusting of the boy to have provided the list of names now; in theory, he had already obtained the information he needed and could decline his invitation. Having given his word, however, there was no way he could back out now; moreover, knowing that the individuals who inexplicably possessed knowledge of future events had gathered in Foudris’s home was valuable knowledge. Slim lead though it was, investigating it was now his top priority.

Zephyrin looked downward and eyed the list once more. Aside from the more predictable names of famous and infamous writers, abbés, and nobles who might be expected to frequent a former salonnière’s residence, it also included several curious titles. “The Blind Man”, “The Pyromancer”, “The Thaumaturge”… these meant nothing to Zephyrin, even with the details added on the paper’s margin. For example, to “The Blind Man”, Foudris had appended the words, “Seaxlander, speculator,” while next to “Pyromancer” was a drawing of a miniature crown, no larger than the minuscule diamond joined to “Thaumaturge”. Either he knew nothing more himself, or he thought the tidbits served as adequate identification. Zephyrin resolved to ask him for more precise information when next they spoke.

For now, there was one name in the first batch that did mean something to him; in fact, during his first skim it had leapt off the page.

Cardinal-bishop Tenéval

Zephyrin tapped a finger on the name meditatively. Surely this wasn’t mere coincidence. Nèreus Tenéval… was a relative of the most powerful ecclesiastic of the Gaulyrian hierarchy. Was he somehow connected to this? Thinking back, it had been Nèreus who approached him and his father, before the encounter with Prince Corentin in the scriptorium…

Zephyrin refolded the letter and stowed it in his cloak. He felt a sensation not dissimilar to when he would go on the countryside rambles that—very often, to his mother’s dismay—became grand exploratory outings as he went far afield, deep into Baras’s shaded bowers. There, mindful of wild boars and with birdsong in his ears, the silken threads of a low-hanging spider were sure to get caught in his hair at least once. Back then it had been easy to brush away the offending filaments; yet now they were out of reach, and he was not sure that it was merely a few strands that he had to contend with, or a whole web instead. What the tangled schemes laying just out of sight consisted of he was still unsure, but that they existed, and were woven by some unseen force lurking in the darkness, he was becoming increasingly certain.