My breath caught. This verse mirrored my most unsettling dreams—the crumbling bridge, the shadow of the Spire, that stranger's hand lifting me from the edge of oblivion. Even the rhythm resonated like the Spire's low, persistent hum, as though the parchment itself breathed dark secrets.

Maris leaned close, her presence both reassuring and cutting. "Well done, Tia," she said, her tone laced with bitter warmth. "You've tasted the venom of the Aevarin today." Her ink-stained fingers trembled as she lifted the parchment, almost prying it from my shaking hands. "But do not let it swell your pride—this is only the beginning."

I could only stare at the final line—their names dissolved by the ink of eternity—a prophecy written in blood and shadow. Across the room, I caught Jarek's gaze from beside the vats of arsenic-green fixing solution. The scar along his throat caught the light, and for a moment, his silhouette stretched into something wild and unspoken. He met my eyes and let out a soft, two-toned note—a sound that sent a chill reverberating deep within me.

The rest of the day moved in heavy, measured beats. Maris assigned me the dull task of transcribing lesser texts, their lifeless glyphs a far cry from the fevered intensity of my poem. All the while, Jarek's silent vigil followed me—a presence that clung like a shadow, punctuated by his occasional, haunting whistle echoing through the scriptorium. Mavis seemed to understand him completely. Her occasional laughs catching me off guard.

By dusk, as the sun sank and the Adversary grounds were draped in fractured shadows, Jesse returned. I found myself reading The Adversary Handbook written by none other than my father, Corwin Vale.

"Ready to go, Scribe?" Jesse's voice, rough-edged yet softened by concern, reached me. I could only nod, my throat a tight, unyielding knot. The ride back to the castle was silent, our cart rattling over uneven stone while the distant Ash temple loomed, its runes no longer active but shining and lightly pulsing like a dark heartbeat in the night.

Inside the vast dining hall—its vaulted ceiling carved with ancestral sigils and its stone walls etched with the legends of our forebears—Father sat in his customary silence. The long, polished oak table was set meticulously with silverware that had witnessed generations of feuds and reconciliations.

"How was your day?" Father inquired, his voice measured and deliberate, as precise as the cuts he made into the roast—a dish slow-cooked over centuries-old fire, its aroma mingling with the faint, musky spice of old magic. I forced a smile that felt as delicate and fragile as spun glass.

"It went well. Maris is... exacting. And Jarek is... intriguing," I replied, each word carefully chosen, even as my heart raced with thoughts unspoken.

The space between us stretched in the gentle crackle of the hearth and the distant, mournful toll of the castle bell, its sound a reminder of both duty and legacy. The hall, adorned with tapestries depicting our storied past, held its breath as I finally ventured, voice trembling with the weight of forbidden questions: "Father, why must I endure three months with the Adversaries? I've been scribing all my life. Why must I squander time on what I already know?"

His eyes, dark and implacable as the stone walls around us, met mine with unwavering resolve. "Discipline," he stated, his tone brooking no argument. "The Adversaries will teach you not merely to write, but to survive. Survival, Tia, is a lesson you cannot afford to ignore." I clenched my jaw, the unspoken truth—I do not merely need to survive; I need to live—burning on my tongue before I swallowed it down, the bitter taste of unvoiced rebellion mingling with the incense and ancient sorrow that filled the hall.

"I see." I say through a forced smile, "Mavis was impressed with my abilities to read through Aaveain already. She even gave me a dark scroll to start with on my first day.

"A dark scroll?" He furrowed his brows, "Tia. You know nothing of dark scrolls yet."

I hesitated, feeling the weight of his question as though it were an accusation. "But—" I began, then swallowed hard, unsure whether to share the small spark of pride and defiance that flared in me. "Mavis said it was a mark of potential, of power waiting to be unlocked. That I should learn to decipher its secrets."

His eyes, as dark and relentless as the stone walls, softened for a moment—an emotion I almost mistook for regret. "Potential is a double-edged sword," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that mingled with the crackle of the hearth. "Dark scrolls are not merely texts. They carry legacies, curses, and burdens that even our kind have long struggled to contain."

I leaned forward, my pulse quickening as I searched his gaze for a hint of understanding. "And yet, if you truly believed I was ready to survive the harsh lessons of the Adversaries, mustn't I also learn to live? To embrace every shard of magic—even those that seem to whisper of darkness?" My voice, though soft, carried the tremor of both challenge and longing.

For a long, silent moment, he regarded me with that unwavering resolve. Then, his gaze shifted, revealing in its depths a flicker of vulnerability—a secret locked away beneath years of duty and expectation. "Tia," he began slowly, "the world I have forged is built on sacrifice. I did not choose this path lightly. Every lesson, every hardship, is meant to steel you against a fate far worse than mere death."

He paused, as if the weight of his past pressed upon him, his fingers absently caressing the worn edge of the table. "I remember when I was young, how I yearned not just to survive, but to live. Yet living in this realm of endless conflict meant embracing a reality where power is both a blessing and a curse. I hoped for you to find a way to be free, even as I bound you to our legacy."

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His words, laced with both admonition and a wistful sorrow, sent a tremor through me. "I understand."

A heavy silence settled between us, punctuated only by the soft rustle of candle flames dancing over ancient stone. His eyes, dark and implacable yet betraying a trace of regret, met mine once more.

"You have the most important job of all," he said, voice quiet but firm. "You are to record our past so that we may learn from it. Your duty is to ensure that history never repeats its darkest moments, Tia."

For a moment, the space between us expanded, filled with the echoes of our shared past and the uncertain future that beckoned. His gaze softened further, as if the iron around his heart had finally yielded to the hope he dared not voice. "I am proud of who you are becoming, Tia," he continued, his tone resolute yet laced with a rare, unguarded warmth. "Learn your lessons, but remember: every secret, every shard of power, has its cost. Not every path leads to freedom."

I wanted so desperately to ask him about the dreams that plagued my nights—the visions of the Eceslon Spire, the cryptic warning of the Ash Temple—but the words died on my tongue. Instead, I managed only, "Thank you, Father. I only want to do what is right by the Judges."

He gave a slight nod, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And by the Judges, you are to prevent wars. You will be my scribe—my Tiana—once your training is complete." In that quiet pronouncement, my full name, reserved for our private moments, resonated like a benediction and a command all at once.

The weight of his expectations mingled with the bittersweet comfort of his praise, leaving me both buoyed and burdened. With a final nod of reluctant acceptance, I rose from the table, the lingering warmth of our conversation a fragile shield against the chill of uncertainty.

Later that evening, the temple's corridors gave way to the cool embrace of the courtyard. The night sky was studded with stars, and the soft glow of lanterns cast shifting patterns on the ancient stone beneath my feet. There, beneath a tangle of ivy and against the backdrop of a midnight breeze, Atlas and Celine waited for me.

Atlas's storm-gray eyes flickered with a familiar, roguish glimmer as he leaned casually against a weathered wall, while Celine's smile—gentle and bright—was a welcome antidote to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated at the threshold before stepping into the open, allowing the night to swallow the lingering tension of the dining hall. I began running down to them.

Atlas vaulted onto the stone railing beside me, his boots scattering gravel. "Look who survived her first day as the temple's glorified note-taker," he drawled, tossing an apple between his hands. "Did the High Scribe finally let you touch his precious inkwells, or did he just lecture you about doom and duty all afternoon?"

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly and gave a small shrug. "Ugh, don't even start." I scoffed. "Father made it crystal clear: my job is to record our past so we don't repeat its darkest mistakes."

Celine stepped forward, her eyes warm and sparkling in the soft lantern light. "That's a heavy load, Tia," she said, gently. "But you're not just meant to be a walking history book. There's more to life than duty—there's adventure, too." She paused, then laughed softly, patting the perch next to her, "Today was a wild one for me, too. I spent the afternoon at the Healing Groves of Miren. I even helped patch up an injured traveler. It was scary at first, but then I realized I was right where I belonged."

Atlas grinned, his storm-gray eyes alight with mischief. "You know, I've been across enough of the Storm Isles to know that survival isn't just about following orders. It's about carving your own path—sometimes even dancing with danger under a blood-red sky."

I couldn't help but laugh at his dramatic flair. The courtyard, with its ancient stone and softly glowing lanterns, felt like a haven compared to the weight of the day. "Hearing your stories makes it seem like you two have it all figured out," I said, half-joking.

Celine reached out and squeezed my hand. "Oh, Tia, you'll find your own way. Your path might be different, but it's yours to shape. We are always here for you. "

Atlas nudged my shoulder. "Exactly. We are here whether you like it or not."

"Thank you guys, Its just..." I shrugged, "I just can't disappoint my father."

Atlas leaned in, the wind tangling his unruly black hair. "You won't disappoint him! —I'll teach you how to barter with pirates in the Storm Isles. Or pick locks. Vital scribe skills, obviously."

"Obviously," I deadpanned, but my traitorous smile crept through. "And what happens when Father finds out?"

"You let me handle the yelling." He winked. "Survival tip one: you've gotta steal a horse before the scolding starts. Preferably his horse."

Celine tossed the blossom at him. "Stop corrupting her. Not all of us want to die tangled in kraken tentacles, Atlas."

"You'd miss me too much, Cee." He caught the flower, tucking it behind his ear with exaggerated flair. "Admit it—you'd write ballads about my tragic, tentacle-y end."

I took a deep breath, the cool night air mingling with the lingering heat of our conversation. For a moment, all the heaviness of my father's stern words and the burden of my destiny seemed to lift, replaced by the promise of adventure and friendship.

Under the starry sky and amidst the whisper of ancient stone, we stood together in that courtyard—a small, defiant group daring to dream beyond duty and destiny. And as the laughter faded into the soft murmur of the night, I felt, if only for a little while, that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

With one last smile shared between us, I excused myself and made my way back to my chamber. The corridors echoed with the promise of untold stories, and as I laid my head on my pillow, I drifted off, the echoes of Atlas and Celine's words mingling with the gentle hush of the night.

Their words, woven with memories of grand adventures and uncharted journeys, warmed me. It was comforting to see my friends thriving, their lives a tapestry of daring escapes and radiant triumphs. Yet beneath that comfort, a quiet longing stirred—a wish to borrow even a shred of their certainty, to stitch it like stolen starlight into the fraying edges of my own resolve.

The corridors to my chamber felt colder tonight, the shadows clinging like cobwebs as I walked. Laughter still danced in the air behind me—Atlas's teasing lilt, Celine's melodic retort—but it dissolved too quickly, leaving only the hollow click of my slippers on stone.

In my room, moonlight fractured through the stained glass window, casting jagged silver lines across the floor. Always the Spire. Even here, its needle-like shadow split the sky, a silent sentinel watching, waiting. I curled onto my bed, the sheets stiff and unfamiliar beneath me, and pressed a palm to my chest—as if I could still the tremor there, as if I could quiet the dread pooling like ink in my veins.

Sleep came as it always did now: hungry, relentless. A thief.