The night clung to the Wizard’s Tower like a shroud.

  Rain had ceased hours earlier, yet the stones still glistened, slick beneath torchlight, the scent of damp marble and ozone lingering in the air. Far below, the imperial capital murmured in uneasy sleep—a restless city that sensed the tightening of unseen coils. Bells did not ring. Taverns had grown quiet earlier than usual. Even the river seemed to move more slowly tonight.

  High above it all, on one of the many open balconies that spiraled around the upper reaches of the Imperial Wizards’ Tower, Draumbean stood alone with Nylla the Green.

  The wind tugged at his robes, catching the frayed hem and snapping it softly like a warning. His beard, once a riot of copper, had dulled in recent months, streaked with ash-grey and shadow. In his hands he held a raven—large, glossy-feathered, its black eyes alert and intelligent. The bird did not struggle. It never did.

  Nylla leaned against the balustrade nearby, her fingers curled around the stone, her gaze drifting across the city lights below. She looked tired in a way magic could not hide. There were lines at the corners of her eyes now, etched there by decades of watching power repeat the same mistakes.

  Draumbean worked in silence, tying the small scroll with practiced precision to the raven’s foot. His fingers were steady, but his jaw was tight, as though each knot carried more weight than the last.

  “You’re quiet,” Nylla said at length. “That usually means you’re afraid.”

  Draumbean did not look up. “Careful,” he replied. “I might accuse you of knowing me too well.”

  Nylla exhaled softly, a humorless sound. “The council was a mess.”

  “Yes.”

  “A dangerous one.”

  “Yes.”

  She turned at last to face him. “Xavert is cornered. Baraten is furious. The Church smells blood. And the Emperor—”

  “—is trying to hold together a realm that has begun to crack along its oldest fault lines,” Draumbean finished. He tightened the final knot and checked it twice. “I know.”

  Nylla watched the raven tilt its head, studying Draumbean with unnerving focus. “Then say it,” she pressed. “Say what’s actually keeping you awake.”

  Draumbean paused.

  The wind howled briefly through the tower’s upper reaches, rattling ironwork and banners. Somewhere below, a door slammed.

  “The green skins are a problem,” he said at last. “A dire one. Bhraime is right to move against them.”

  Nylla waited.

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  “But they are not the true threat,” Draumbean continued. “They are a symptom. A tool.”

  Her fingers tightened on the stone. “Malekith.”

  “Yes.”

  The name settled between them like frost.

  Nylla had faced many horrors in her long life—rogue archmages, demon princes, wars born of pride and ignorance—but there was something about Malekith that resisted classification. He was not simply a tyrant returned. He was a memory that refused to stay buried.

  “What can be done?” she asked quietly.

  Draumbean finally looked up.

  “We must find the remaining scrolls,” he said. “All of them. The Silent Monks did not scatter their knowledge for curiosity’s sake. They left us a weapon—one the gods themselves feared.”

  Nylla’s eyes narrowed. “The Heaven’s Crown.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence stretched.

  “And you believe it can be reassembled?” she asked.

  “I believe,” Draumbean said carefully, “that without it, we will lose. Not slowly. Not gloriously. We will be erased.”

  Nylla turned away again, staring out at the city. “The Crown shattered the heavens once already.”

  “It did,” Draumbean agreed. “And that is why Malekith wants it. And why the gods hid it. And why the monks died to record its truth.”

  She shook her head. “Reassembling it risks repeating everything.”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “It does.”

  Nylla was quiet for a long time.

  Then: “You said scrolls. Plural.”

  Draumbean’s eyes flicked to her. He had hoped she would ask.

  “I have found another,” he said.

  Her head snapped around. “Where?”

  “Witchrum.”

  Nylla swore under her breath. “That city is a nest of old faiths, buried cults, and secrets that refuse to die.”

  “Which is precisely why it survived,” Draumbean replied. “And why the monks passed through it.”

  “When?”

  “Decades ago. Perhaps longer.”

  She turned fully now, concern replacing skepticism. “Shouldn’t we send soldiers? A proper escort? Witch Hunters, perhaps?”

  Draumbean smiled faintly. “And announce to every interested power that we are closing in on something valuable?”

  Nylla frowned. “You underestimate the danger.”

  “No,” he said. “I respect it. Which is why secrecy is our best defense.”

  She studied him closely. “You already have someone in mind.”

  “I do.”

  “And I suspect,” she said slowly, “that I won’t like who it is.”

  Draumbean chuckled softly. “Rarely do.”

  He stepped closer to the edge of the balcony and lifted the raven, holding it gently but firmly. The bird’s wings twitched once in anticipation.

  “There are some tasks,” he said, “that require someone comfortable in shadows. Someone who knows how to move unseen, lie convincingly, and disappear if necessary.”

  Nylla crossed her arms. “And someone expendable.”

  Draumbean did not deny it.

  The raven gave a low croak.

  Draumbean raised it skyward. “Fly,” he whispered.

  The bird launched into the night, wings beating hard as it climbed above the tower, banking once before cutting eastward over the city. Within moments, it was a black shape against darker sky.

  Nylla watched it go. “I hope you’re right.”

  “So do I,” Draumbean said.

  They turned back toward the tower doors.

  They did not see the figures beyond the city walls.

  A tight cluster of shadows crouched among broken stone and dead brush, far enough from the road to avoid patrols, close enough to read the sky. Cloaks pulled low. Breath slow and controlled.

  The raven passed overhead.

  An arrow hissed through the darkness.

  The bird cried out—a sharp, piercing sound that cut the night—and spiraled downward, feathers scattering like ink on the wind.

  Lord Chronos lowered the bow.

  His expression was calm. Focused.

  Xavert approached, boots crunching softly as he retrieved the fallen raven. With practiced ease, he untied the scroll from its shattered foot, smoothing the parchment as though it were a prize long expected.

  Chronos watched him carefully.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Xavert’s eyes scanned the message once. Then he smiled.

  “It seems,” he said quietly, “we are heading to Witchrum.”

  The night swallowed their laughter.

  And far above them, the Wizard’s Tower stood silent, unaware that its secrets had already begun to bleed into enemy hands.