The sound of the gate closing was extremely light, yet to Ryan it thundered like a peal of thunder, shattering the last bit of composure he had been forcing himself to maintain.

  Only after Lorne’s small, overly calm figure vanished into the shadows of the library did Ryan realize that his back was already soaked through with cold sweat. The silver-gray caster’s robe clung tightly to his spine, icy to the bone. His once-steady breathing had turned short and erratic, and the hands that moments ago had precisely controlled glass needles were now trembling uncontrollably.

  He didn’t leave. Instead, like a stone statue that had lost its soul, he stiffly leaned against the rough stone wall outside the library.

  “What on earth am I doing?”

  The thought gnawed at his reason like a venomous snake. Lorne was only eight years old—even if he was a prodigy, even if he was preternaturally composed, before Sera, the “Harvester of Truth,” he was nothing more than a fragile mortal child. A god’s logic was utterly unlike that of mortals: a careless glance, a rash question, or even the mere existence of that Lorne’s mind could be deemed a blasphemy against the sacred order.

  Ryan closed his eyes, and the worst possibilities began to surface in his mind, beyond his control.

  If Sera chose to mete out punishment… there would be no need to kill Lorne. All the god would have to do was take back Lorne’s “capacity for understanding.” Imagine it: that clear-eyed child who could draw perfect straight lines walking out with vacant eyes—seeing words yet unable to read them, hearing speech yet unable to think, forever imprisoned in a wasteland of cognition.

  At the thought, Ryan’s stomach churned. If something like that happened, the Starcrown family’s wrath and retaliation wouldn’t even matter—Elise would go mad, the family would be thrown into turmoil. But he, Ryan, would never forgive himself. It was he who had pushed this child to the edge of the abyss with his own hands, all to satisfy a god’s cold curiosity.

  “Come out, child… come out safe and sound.”

  He prayed silently in the darkness, his fingers digging into the stone cracks from sheer force. Before that heavy wooden door, this powerful mentor felt true helplessness for the first time. Before the authority of Atua, he didn’t even have the right to protect his apprentice.

  No one knew how much time had passed—perhaps several centuries, perhaps only a few minutes.

  That heavy wooden door, the one that separated the boundary between gods and mortals, let out an extremely faint creak. Ryan snapped upright. His fingers throbbed with pain from being yanked abruptly out of the cracks in the stone, but he couldn’t spare a thought for it. His eyes were bloodshot as he stared fixedly at the gap in the door as it slowly widened.

  A small figure stepped out of the library’s cold light.

  Lorne’s steps were still steady, even a little slow. He had his head lowered, as if thinking about something, and his silver-white short hair looked slightly dull under the corridor’s weak natural light.

  Ryan felt as though his heart was about to leap out of his chest. He wanted to call out, but his throat was so dry that no sound would come. He was afraid—afraid of seeing emptiness on that face, afraid of seeing the child he had personally sent inside turned into a beautifully crafted shell.

  Then Lorne stopped in front of Ryan.

  He raised his head. Those eyes were still deep and calm. Though there was a trace of fatigue from conversing with a god, what flickered within them was living will, not the dead stillness of divinity.

  Lorne looked at Ryan and saw his mentor’s pallid face, the cold sweat on his forehead, and those hands that were faintly trembling. He tilted his head slightly, like the little apprentice practicing inscriptions back in the study.

  Lorne reached out and gently tugged at the sleeve of Ryan’s robe, damp with sweat and cold.

  “Teacher Ryan,” Lorne’s voice sounded a little hoarse, but undeniably real. “What Lady Sera mentioned just now about ‘patent profits’… does that mean I won’t have to pay for whale-bone plates anymore?”

  That extremely mundane, even slightly childish question was like a warm breeze, instantly dispersing the lingering chill of divine authority in the corridor.

  Ryan froze. He looked at Lorne’s small face, filled with “thirst for knowledge (in the secular sense),” and let out a short, twisted sound from his throat—something between a laugh and a choked sob of lingering fear. He bent down abruptly and, without regard for decorum, grabbed Lorne by the shoulders. The grip was strong enough to make Lorne frown slightly, but Ryan was only trying to confirm the warmth of the body and the integrity of the soul.

  “…Yes, Lorne.” Ryan finally found his voice again; though it still trembled, it was filled with the relief of being newly reborn. “Not just whale-bone plates… you won’t have to pay for anything in this lifetime.”

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  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the frantic pounding of his heart gradually subside. Lorne was back—not only safe and sound, but still the same child he knew, the one who calculated over the details of everyday life.

  Ryan released his grip, wiped the cold sweat from his face with a self-mocking motion, muttered a curse so low even he couldn’t quite hear it, and then showed his first genuine smile of the afternoon.

  “Come on. Let’s go home—before your mother decides to throw me into the inner sea to feed the fish.”

  By the time Lorne and Ryan returned to the Starcrown family’s main hall, night had fully fallen.

  The low lamps of the inner courtyard lit up one by one, their light spreading slowly over the stone floor. There was no warmth to it—only illumination. These lamps were the family’s custom-made glass fixtures, set with faint silver-blue runes inside. The light they gave off was cold and even, like moonlight ground into thin sheets and scattered across the ground. The air in the hall was much cooler than during the day, faintly carrying the dampness of night dew and sea tides. Now and then, a breeze blew in from the terrace, stirring a soft rustle at the edge of the carpets.

  Iris stood at the edge of the terrace.

  Her back was straight, her hands folded before her, as if waiting for an answer that had been late for far too long. A deep-blue sea-silk cloak rested on her shoulders, the silver star embroidery along its edges glinting faintly under the lights. She didn’t turn around, but the moment she heard footsteps, her fingers loosened almost imperceptibly—a tiny movement, yet like setting down the weight of an entire day.

  Ryan gave her a nod.

  Iris returned it with one just as brief, but didn’t speak right away. Her long silver-white hair stirred gently in the night breeze, a few strands brushing her cheek. Sapphire earrings refracted fragmented cold light under the lamps. She looked at the two children, her gaze falling first on Ian, then shifting to Lorne’s face, lingering a little longer than usual.

  Ian stood at the entrance to the main hall, arms crossed over his chest, his toe tapping the floor over and over. His silver-white short hair was messier than usual, and his blue eyes darted about under the lights like two restless sparks. The moment he saw Lorne, he strode forward.

  Fast—almost a lunge.

  He leaned in too close, so close that the tip of his nose nearly brushed Lorne’s shoulder and neck, as if checking something.

  Ian frowned.

  The smell was wrong.

  What should have been on Lorne was the scent of ink from the study, the salt left behind by sea wind. They were still there, but pressed down very low. In their place was a kind of coldness so clean it was almost blank, like something freshly washed and not yet touched by the world—clean enough to be unsettling.

  “Where did you go?” Ian lifted his head, speaking quickly. “The teacher suddenly took you away. I waited in the study forever. You never came back.”

  His gaze paused on Lorne’s face.

  Too pale.

  Not the pale of illness, but the kind that came after being drained too much, before there was time to recover. Lorne’s eyelashes cast faint shadows under the light, and there was a barely visible fatigue beneath his eyes, as if something had gently siphoned away a layer of color.

  “Were you taken to do some really exhausting training?” Ian pressed, his voice edged with urgency and displeasure. “Why do you look so bad?”

  Lorne looked at him.

  Those blue eyes were full of emotion, completely unhidden—restlessness, curiosity, unease, all mixed together.

  Compared to Sera’s weightless gaze, this kind of look actually made it possible to stand firm.

  Lorne’s throat moved, as if swallowing something.

  “No,” he said.

  His voice was light, but steady.

  “I was just reading.”

  Ian clearly didn’t believe him.

  Lorne raised his hand, pressing his palm to his chest. His fingertips unconsciously brushed the spot where the bone plate lay. There was still a trace of warmth there, like something just taken from beside a hearth. He lowered his head and glanced at his hand, as if confirming it still belonged to him.

  “There were a lot of books,” he added. “I read for a long time.”

  Ian opened his mouth, about to pursue it further.

  Ryan stood off to the side, silent the entire time.

  He looked at Ian’s completely unguarded face, his throat tightening.

  For a fleeting moment, he understood very clearly—if anything had gone wrong, this boy wouldn’t even know who he was supposed to hate. He would hurl all his emotions at Lorne, never knowing that the true weight had never been on Lorne at all, but in the silence of the gods.

  Ryan looked away.

  Iris had already walked to Ian’s side.

  She placed a hand on her eldest son’s shoulder. The pressure wasn’t heavy, but it allowed no resistance. Her fingers tightened slightly, as if reminding him: enough.

  “It was advanced instruction,” she said.

  Her tone was calm, with no desire to explain further.

  “Lorne’s progress is faster. He finished first. Then he can teach you.”

  Ian turned to look at her.

  Then at Ryan.

  Finally, back at Lorne.

  “Really?” he asked, half skeptical. “You didn’t secretly learn all the good stuff without me?”

  Lorne nodded.

  “No secrets,” he said. “We can do it together tomorrow.”

  Ian snorted, clearly still unconvinced.

  “Then you have to teach me,” he said. “You don’t get to run ahead just because you’re smarter.”

  Lorne paused.

  Then nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll teach you tomorrow.”

  Ian’s shoulders relaxed, as if he’d finally found something solid to hold onto. He reached out and ruffled Lorne’s hair, the motion a bit rough, but full of barely concealed relief.

  “Then it’s settled,” he said. “No backing out.”

  Lorne didn’t dodge, just let him do it.

  But his gaze passed over Ian’s shoulder, landing on Iris.

  Iris’s blue-gray eyes looked even deeper under the lights. She didn’t speak, only watched Lorne quietly, as if confirming something. Her hand still rested on Ian’s shoulder, but it trembled slightly—so faint it was almost invisible.

  Iris’s lips moved, as though she wanted to say something, then swallowed it back.

  She simply patted Ian’s shoulder lightly, her voice so gentle it betrayed almost nothing.

  “Go wash your hands. It’s time for dinner.”

  Ian nodded and tugged Lorne toward the dining room.

  “Come on, come on! I’m starving today!”

  Lorne was pulled along with him.

  Together, they entered the dining room.

  Ian stared at him for a long while, then suddenly reached out and hugged Lorne, burying his face in Lorne’s shoulder.

  “You scared me to death,” he said muffledly. “Next time you go anywhere, you have to tell me first, okay?”

  Lorne froze for a moment, then gently patted his brother’s back.

  “Okay.”