The storm did not let up through the night.

  Rain drummed on the dormitory roof in a steady rush that never quite turned into white noise. Every now and then thunder rolled close enough to rattle the wooden shutters in their bronze fittings. Most of the younger students slept through it anyway, wrapped in wool blankets that smelled faintly of lanolin and smoke.

  Velthur did not.

  He lay on his back, hands folded over his chest, staring at the dark beams above his bed. Shadows shifted each time lightning flashed through the cracks in the shutters.

  Black stone.

  Carved circles.

  Magister Justinus looked afraid.

  The raven.

  Every time Velthur closed his eyes, he saw those symbols again. Strange designs, carved deep into the stone that had been hidden beneath the earth. He had only glimpsed them for a few seconds in the lightning, but they clung to his thoughts like a burr in wool.

  Worse than that was the feeling that had come with them. A faint pressure behind his eyes. A sense of depth, as if he had been standing at the edge of a well and something far below had shifted.

  His hand moved, almost without thinking, to the cord around his neck.

  Beneath his tunic, resting against his chest, hung a small artifact he had carried for years now. Smooth, dark, and warm in a way stone should not be. He did not fully understand it, only that it had been tied to too many strange moments in his life to ignore. Dreams. Whispers. The sense of being watched by things that did not use eyes.

  Tonight it felt warmer.

  Across the room, Jorin snored softly, one arm hanging off the side of his bed, fingers twitching with whatever harmless dream held him.

  Velthur gave up on sleep.

  He slid out from under his blanket, pulled on his boots, and wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. The corridor outside was dim and cool. A single oil lamp burned at the far end, its flame fluttering each time wind pushed through unshuttered windows in the hall.

  As he stepped into the space, he almost collided with Tarrow.

  Tarrow yelped and nearly dropped the stack of wax tablets and loose papers he was carrying. One tablet clattered to the floor.

  “I was not sneaking,” he whispered loudly. “This is a normal hour to reorganize my notes.”

  “It is the middle of the night,” Velthur said.

  “I’m an early riser,” Tarrow replied. Then he squinted at Velthur. “You did not sleep either.”

  Velthur shook his head. “You are thinking about the stone.”

  “I am thinking about many stones,” Tarrow said. “But yes. That one especially.”

  They moved down the corridor together, boots soft against the worn stone floor.

  “I copied what I remember,” Tarrow said, patting the top sheet. “The symbols. Or close to them. I might be off on the curves. Hard to tell exact marks in a storm.”

  Velthur looked at the drawings. “You remember them that clearly?”

  Tarrow shrugged. “I remember most things clearly. People just forget I do.”

  Velthur did not argue with that. Tarrow still acted like a fool half the time, talking too fast and smiling at the worst moments, but in lessons, he had started answering questions no one else could. He noticed everything. Even when people thought he wasn’t looking.

  They reached the end of the hall where a narrow stair led up to a small study loft under the roof. Students were not supposed to be there after curfew, but no one ever checked, either.

  Inside, a single lantern glowed on a desk. Someone else was already there.

  Nethira looked up from a pile of scrolls, auburn hair pulled back in a tight braid. Her instructor’s robe was plain, sleeves rolled to her elbows. A bronze bracelet in the shape of twisting leaves circled her wrist.

  “I had a feeling,” she said, not sounding surprised at all. “Sit.”

  Velthur blinked. “You knew we would come up here?”

  “I knew at least one of you would,” she said.

  Tarrow grinned. “We are very predictable.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Yes,” she said. “That is not always a bad thing.”

  They sat across from her. Rain tapped on the slanted roof above them. The lantern flame swayed, painting the low beams in gold and shadow.

  “Show me,” Nethira said, pointing to the drawings that had been recreated.

  Tarrow carefully unrolled his top sheet. Ink sketches filled the page. Circles nested inside each other. Lines crossing at odd angles. Tiny marks near the edges that looked almost like letters, but not from any alphabet Velthur knew.

  Nethira studied the drawing without speaking.

  Velthur watched her face. She did not look confused. She looked troubled.

  “You recognize it,” Velthur said.

  “I have seen similar forms,” she replied slowly. “When I studied in the grove, we came across texts that had not seen the light of day in a long time. Some were simple histories. Some was poetry. And some asked questions we couldn’t answer.”

  Tarrow leaned forward. “What kind of questions?”

  “The kind that ask what lies beneath thought,” she said. “Beneath the mind itself.”

  Velthur felt that strange pressure again, stronger now. His fingers brushed the artifact under his tunic. Warm. Almost pulsing.

  “Dream studies?” he asked.

  “Dreams,” Nethira said. “Something we still need to know so much more about.”

  Thunder rolled overhead, close enough to make the lantern flicker.

  Tarrow tapped one of the drawn circles. “Why would something like this be carved into stone under the college?”

  “That,” Nethira said, “is the right question.”

  Velthur hesitated. “Magister Justinus did not look surprised.”

  Nethira’s eyes flicked to him. “I will have to speak with him. I have only taught here as long as you have studied.”

  “He looked unhappy to see it.”

  For a moment, she said nothing.

  “I came up here to find more information about our discussion. There was a school here before ours,” she said at last. “A lyceum. Smaller. Older. They taught rhetoric, history, alchemy, the worldly arts. Barding. Trinket magic. The sorts of things wealthy families liked their children to learn.”

  “Like a finishing school for future politicians,” Tarrow said.

  “Maybe something like that,” she said. “But records suggest that, toward the end, some disagreement about certain study topics came about. Unseen magics, as it is described.”

  “Unseen magics?” Velthur said quietly.

  She nodded. “I’m still looking to see if there are any old syllabi, but magic of the mind was of particular interest to some magi. The idea that minds might touch across distance.”

  The boys stood pondering quietly, as if deciphering a long lost text.

  Rain hit the roof harder for a moment, like a handful of pebbles thrown from the sky.

  “Pretty deep subjects for a finishing school,” Tarrow muttered.

  Velthur thought of the artifact at his chest. Of dreams that had not felt like his own. Of shadows that sometimes moved the wrong way when no one else noticed.

  “And what would Justinus know of it?” he asked himself.

  Silence settled between them, thick as damp wool.

  A soft knock came at the loft door.

  All three turned.

  The door creaked open, and Azandra stepped inside, rain-speckled cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. Even in the dim light, she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone raised in halls of power. The bronze clasp at her throat bore the crest of House Sofine.

  “I thought I might find you here,” she said.

  Tarrow blinked. “Do all responsible people in this college meet in the same illegal loft at night?”

  Azandra gave him a faint smile, then looked at the drawing on the desk. Her expression tightened.

  “Strange markings,” she said, “I have seen shapes like that before.”

  Velthur’s hand stilled on the desk. “Where?”

  She hesitated. “Since the ruins. A vision I had, I believe.”

  After Nezzarod. None of them said the name, but it hung in the air anyway.

  Outside, something tapped against the small loft window.

  Once. Twice.

  All four of them turned.

  A dark shape clung to the outer ledge, rain slick on its feathers. A raven. Its black eyes reflected the lantern light.

  Tarrow swallowed. “That bird has been everywhere today.”

  Azandra’s voice was quiet. “In Three Corners, people say ravens carry messages from the dead.”

  “Or from sorcerers,” Tarrow added, not as jokingly as usual.

  Velthur stared at the bird. For a heartbeat, he felt the same sensation he had near the carved stones. A sense of being noticed.

  His artifact burned warm against his chest.

  The raven tilted its head, then launched back into the storm.

  No one spoke for a moment.

  Finally Nethira exhaled. “We will not jump to stories about dark sorcerers and omens. Not yet.”

  But she did not sound certain.

  A heavy knock echoed from below. All of them flinched.

  Nethira moved to the steps and looked down. “Yes?”

  Magister Justinus stood at the bottom, oil lamp in hand. His face looked drawn, older than Velthur remembered. Water dripped from the hem of his cloak.

  “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

  His eyes moved from Nethira to Velthur, to Tarrow, then to Azandra. They lingered on the drawing.

  “Curiosity is healthy,” he said carefully. “But timing matters.”

  “We were just discussing the history of the school,” Nethira said.

  “I am sure,” he replied.

  For a long moment, no one spoke over the sound of the rain.

  Justinus climbed a few steps, enough for the lantern light to reach his face. His gaze fell on the page of symbols.

  Something like pain flickered in his eyes.

  “Some stones are better left buried,” he said.

  Velthur met his gaze. “What reason?”

  Justinus hesitated.

  “Because not everything we find is meant for us,” he said softly.

  Lightning flashed through the small window behind him, throwing his shadow huge against the wall.

  For a split second, Velthur thought he saw another shadow behind it.

  Wings.

  Then the light vanished, and there was only the storm.