Page 56 of Foresyth Conservatory
My stomach clenched. It wasn’t ink. It wasblood.
A flame of understanding ignited in me.Blood magick.That had to be the explanation. Inked blood to conceal a hidden message. A smile spread across my lips; I relished the finding.
I had to get this journal back to the Tramping Ground as soon as possible.
The Acolyte & The Alchemist: Part V
The archives, a subterranean labyrinth of knowledge incarnate, stretched endlessly before them. Shelves loomed six stories high, carved into the very foundation of the Conservatory, their ancient wood varnished to an obsidian gleam. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and candle wax, laced with something sharper—ink and the metallic tang of old magic lingering in the stones.
Quill and Hamra stepped forward, their footfalls muffled by age-worn rugs that stretched between the rows. Excitement rose in Quill’s chest, heady and intoxicating, though he fought to steady himself.
They had been granted a single hour in the archives, no more.
A scribe had been stationed at their side, an older man in ink-stained robes, his expression neutral yet watchful.
“Remember, we have a list,” Quill murmured, glancing at the small parchment folded in his palm.
“I know,” Hamra whispered back, though her eyes were already darting between the artifacts displayed in glass cases along the walls. Her breath hitched. “Is that the original black mirror that the Knights Templar used to summon Beelzebub?”
Quill barely stopped himself from looking. He couldn’t afford to be distracted—but it was hard not to be. Every inch of this place hummed. The air itself felt charged, asif the very walls had been inscribed with spells long since forgotten.
“We’re here for research,” he reminded her, though his voice lacked conviction. He, too, felt lightheaded from the sheer potential of what lay before them.
Hamra nodded, though her fingers twitched at her sides, resisting the urge to stray from their purpose. They split apart, weaving through the towering stacks, their movements swallowed by the hush of the archives.
By the time they reconvened at the librarian’s desk, their cart was laden with books. It buckled under the weight of their discoveries, its brass wheels creaking against the marble floor.
The librarian, a gaunt woman with silver-streaked hair, peered down at them from behind the desk, her expression unreadable. “Did you find everything you were looking for?”
“Yes,” Hamra said, a slow grin spreading across her lips. “And more.” She traced her fingers over the spines of the tomes, reverent. “I can’t wait to be an Advisor and have unlimited access to these archives.”
The librarian’s quill hovered over the catalog ledger for a fraction too long before she spoke. “Becoming an Advisor is a great honor,” she said at last, dipping her pen into the inkwell and continuing her work.
Quill placed the final book, a leather-bound volume, its cover a gleaming obsidian mass, onto the growing pile.
“This one didn’t have a code,” he noted, adjusting the stack. Beneath his fingertips, the book thrummed, an almost imperceptible vibration against his skin.
The librarian stilled. “Strange,” she murmured, reaching out but hesitating just before touching it. “That book has been missing for years.”
Quill glanced at Hamra, a flicker of triumph in his gaze. “It wasn’t on the list either, but I got it just for you. It’s by your favorite author.”
Hamra’s fingers brushed over the cover, her eyes lighting.
Quill turned back to the librarian. “You can code it by the author. Last name Khorvyn, first name Aleric.”
“Blood of my blood.”
–Julian Earhardt’s journal,dated March 15th, 1919
Chapter 19: Blood Magick
It rained in sheets for three days, turning the world into a blur of white. The downpour kept me confined to my room, save for the moments I ventured out to eat or attend Circle. I moved through the House like a ghost, slipping between doorways, avoiding conversation. Avoiding the Trees. I wasn’t ready to face them—not after the other night.
The rain finally broke on the first of February, leaving behind a sky so crisp and empty it felt unnatural. It was a deceptive kind of stillness, but I’d take advantage of it anyway.
I crept down the stairwell, the journal pressed tightly against my ribs beneath the strap of my shoulder bag. The House was still, hushed in that fragile silence that never lasted long. By noon, the others would be descending for lunch. I needed to be gone before then—gone and unnoticed.
At the bottom of the stairs, I hesitated, looking back up to Sequoia’s door. A hollow tug pulled at my chest.Should I check on her?The thought curdled the moment it formed.
