The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

His eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. "Was it necessary to pull me in like that?" Vencian asked.

Roselys didn't flinch. She opened her satchel and drew out a bundle of folded parchments. "You requested these back in Quesil Migdol. Notes on the blood rituals. I've finished compiling them."

Vencian took the bundle from her hand, weighing it slightly. "Efficient work. I expected it would take longer."

"It took as long as it needed to," she said.

The folded sheets rested in his grip. He wondered how she had copied so many notes in so short a time. Most assistants never dared handle these subjects so closely.

He studied her. Roselys's hair was pinned neatly, her dress of deep blue cut in the plain style the academy allowed. The satchel at her side looked far too practical for someone with her exact sense of order. She never misplaced a thing, not even during their journey through Migdol.

He shifted the papers. "This isn't the only reason you dragged me in here, is it?"

"You're right," she said at once. "That's not all."

Her certainty put him on guard.

"I have information," she continued. "On the Erythrai clan. My informants and one major source confirm descendants still exist. A small village near Ralan—Coriel. I won't claim it's certain, but it's the strongest lead I've uncovered."

She paused before adding, "What you do with that is yours to decide."

Vencian blinked once. A village? That was her secret? It felt thin compared to what he expected. "That's it? You pull me into a dark room for a rumor about some remote village?"

Her chin lifted slightly. "If you want certainty, you'll need to do the research yourself. I've reached my limit. There's no time left for me to follow every lead."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We agreed on conditions. If you expect my help, then you don't get to abandon your side. You're coming with me." He had seen too many so-called partners cut their ties once the hard work began. He wasn't letting that happen here.

Roselys folded her arms. "That wasn't part of the agreement."

"It is now."

Silence stretched. She looked at him with the same unreadable stare she always carried in lectures, the one that made it hard to know if she was judging him or calculating her next task.

Finally, she exhaled. "Fine. But not immediately. My duties here pile higher than yours."

Vencian watched her. She never admitted to being overworked unless she was pushed. For once, he decided to let the point go. "When?"

"The Festival of Solace," she said. "Two weeks. The academy grants leave—three days, at least. The journey to Coriel is nearly a day's travel. That will give us enough."

He considered the dates, then slipped the bundle of notes into his coat. "Agreed."

Roselys straightened her satchel, her movements clipped. "Then it's settled."

She left first, her shoes striking the floor in quick succession.

Vencian stayed back until the latch clicked shut. He pressed his fingers against the parchment through his coat. This was turning into more work than he had counted on, though in truth, he had expected nothing less from her.

He left the room behind without looking back. His steps carried him across the quieter end of the academy halls, where students rarely wandered at this hour.

The folded parchments stayed hidden under his coat. They would have to wait. Something else pulled at his attention now.

The slip. The one slipped into his hand a day ago with instructions scrawled in a practiced hand. The same slip tied to the stranger who had stood against Casalus's gang when they had cornered him and Urias.

— — —

Draped in the illusion, Vencian's features shifted, his posture changed. By the time he stepped into the open air, Lucian was all that remained.

The place was easy enough to find. A tucked-away corner of the city, quiet but not deserted, where shadows from the buildings cut across the street.

A man was waiting.

Lucian recognized him at once. He had seen him before, always at Amadeus's side, the one who handled the man's chair with practiced care.

He slowed as he reached the place. The man waited with his back to the wall, arms crossed, like he had stood there for a while already.

"You came," the man said without any hint of surprise.

Lucian stayed a few paces back. "You were expecting I wouldn't?"

The man's mouth pulled slightly. "I've learned to expect nothing. It makes it easier when people disappoint."

Lucian disliked the phrasing. He was used to people testing him, weighing his worth before saying anything useful. "You handed me that slip. Why?"

"Because I saw you needed it," the man replied. "Casalus's pack would have torn through you and your friend. You think it was chance I was nearby?"

Lucian remembered Urias's pale face that day. Urias hadn't spoken much about it since, but he had avoided Casalus's group with unusual care. Lucian had thought about that moment more than once—how quickly control had slipped out of his hands.

"You don't do that for strangers," Lucian pressed. "So what is it you want?"

The man scanned the empty street, though there was little to see. "What I want doesn't matter. What you want—that's the reason you came."

Lucian's brow tightened. He had hoped for something clear, not more riddles. "Then say it plainly."

The man pushed away from the wall. His movements were precise, nothing wasted. Lucian noticed it. He had seen the same care when this man guided Amadeus's chair.

"You came sniffing around Amadeus for a reason," the man said. "A technique."

Lucian felt his chest grow taut. "You know about that?"

"I know more than you think. The Gravhen's code. That's what you wanted from him, wasn't it?"

Lucian's pulse quickened. He kept his face still.

The man nodded once. "Then you're in luck. Amadeus won't teach it to you. But I will. Name's Abnet."