I sit across from the High Magician. A man who could decide the fates of mages and kings, all on a whim. The room is more like a shrine to his own ego, if you ask me. The fire is small now, and it makes the stone walls glow a little. Behind him are lots of old books on shelves. The books smell weird, kind of like the sea and something bad. The curtains are closed so no light comes in. Privacy. Of course. This isn't a conversation that can be overheard.
I crossed that threshold knowing exactly what I'd do. But feeling the cold bulk of the codex copy in my sleeve was like clutching a blade too sharp to be safely sheathed.
I had to wait in the antechamber first. While waiting in the antechamber, I spotted a familiar face by the far window. Jake.
His back was stiff, and he stood pretending to read the notice board, though his mind seemed miles away. His stare was vacant. It was clear he wasn't really seeing it. The familiar blank stare told me he was too lost in thought to truly notice his surroundings. His hair, silver as everyone claimed, hung loose and untied. Probably he'd thrown on the first clothes he could find. The usual crease between his brows was unusually pronounced, and the way his hands kept flexing at his sides—I could tell he was trying to stay calm, but his body wasn't listening.
When he heard my footsteps, he looked up fast. His eyes locked on mine, searching something. He was trying to figure out what the hell I was doing here. Why now. Why I'd come at all. And maybe, deep down, he was also trying to make sense of that nagging feeling that had been sitting behind his eyes since he woke up this morning. Like some part of him already knew this wasn't going to be just another day.
He held my stare for a beat, and then looked away. Tense. He expected I'd do something reckless. Again.
It wasn't just worry that I saw in his eyes. He knew I had a history of trouble, and he wasn't sure if this time would be any different.
I can't stop wondering what he remembers. Probably nothing—if the noctanox did its job. That stuff is meant to soften the night, blur it out, leave nothing behind but a bit of fog in your head and the feeling that time slipped away. He likely woke up on the cold floor of the archive, head pounding, mouth dry, no idea how he got there or what had happened. Just empty spaces where the memories should be.
The High Magician's eyes—those pale, storm-grey eyes that Jake got from him—lock onto me. They don't blink, not much anyway. I can't tell if it's because he's used to staring down liars, or if he's just so damn good at seeing right through you that blinking feels like a waste of time. But what I know for sure is this—no matter how sharp those eyes are, he can't see what's coming for him. That part, I'm bringing.
A servant quietly steps in and sets down a tray between us. On it sits a pretty pot of bitter tea, its dark surface catching what little light there is, and two cups—still cold, no steam rising from them yet. The servant bows low, eyes barely meeting mine, then slips backward without a single sound. The door closes behind them with a soft but definite click.
I don't touch the cup. Instead, I keep looking straight at him, letting him know—plain as day—that I'm not here to share a quiet moment or drink tea.
The light catches on the ring with the strange sigil on his finger. He looks at me the way a scholar looks at a strange symbol. Curious, but careful. He's trying to figure out what I mean without saying a word.
His silence invites me to explain myself.
I don't.
Let him try to guess what I want, what I've done, what I've brought to his doorstep.
After all, what are those eyes for if not to read between the lines, to see what's really coming?
The High Magician pours the tea with the same rigid grace I've always hated. Not a drop wasted. Not a hand unsteady. The steam curls up between us, but it doesn't warm the cold in the room. "You came early," the words slide out smooth, like the glass decanter shining behind him. "That usually means there's something you want."
Early means something's on my mind. There's always a reason for this kind of visit, and he knows it
"I do want something. Your attention." Not a demand, not a plea—just a clear truth laid bare. No hiding behind fancy excuses.
He leans back a bit, folding his hands with fingers pressed together like he's praying—or setting a trap. The flickering light throws shadows across his face, making his gray eyes almost look like they don't have color at all. The sleeves of his dark robes slip back a little, showing the faint burn mark on his wrist—the mage's vow. A sign of loyalty to crown and code. But we both know men like him bend those rules whenever it suits them. "You have it." That's all he says. No warmth in it, no kindness. Just a plain fact.
I don't let him have the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate. I slide my hand into my coat and pull out the folded page. The paper feels thin and worn between my fingers. I place it on the table, right there in the space between us, and let my fingers rest on the edge for just a second longer than I need to—like I'm saying goodbye to it. Then I let go.
His eyes drop to it right away. They narrow, just a bit, before his face goes blank again. I know he's forcing himself to stay calm. "What is that?" he asks.
But we both know he already has a pretty good idea.
I rest my hands on the arms of my chair, crossing one boot over the other. On the outside, I look calm. But inside, my heart's beating hard enough I can feel it in my throat. "A page. A very valuable page."
"I could call the guards," he says, and even though his voice sounds smooth as ever, I can feel the hesitation.
I shake my head a little, watching him the way he watched me earlier, like I'm trying to figure out what makes him tick. "You could," I say. "But then you'd have to explain what that page is doing in my hands."
And we both know that's the last thing he wants.
The pause that follows is worse than any threat he could've spoken. At last, his hand moves. He picks up the paper, unfolds it, and lets his eyes drop to the writing. They skim over the glyphs, the dark ink, the pattern that only the Codex carries. And in that moment, I see it hit him—the truth, clear as day. What I brought shouldn't be here. Should never have left the vault. But here it is. And I'm the one who put it on his table.
"How did you get this, exactly?" His voice breaks as a mixture of disbelief and rage creeps through the composure he has been trying to maintain. "This isn't possible. Nobody outside of the High Circle is able to—"
Before he can finish, I interrupt him by raising a finger. "Don't ask me how. I'm not here to give an explanation." The only sound in the room for a minute is the glimmer of the fading fire in the distance.
Then, like poison, he spits out the words. He growls, "How dare you blackmail me with secrets taken from the core of my authority." Veins protrude beneath his skin like ropes as his fingers tighten their hold on the edge of his desk, turning his knuckles white. The anger, betrayal, and fear that are behind his eyes are visible to me. Like a beast that has been imprisoned for too long, it is deadly and raw and ready to escape.
I reply, almost too sweetly, "This is why you'll listen to me," as if I am talking to a man perched on a precipice. "Because if that page ends up on the criminal market, you already know exactly what will happen next. You know of how soon the Crown will come to know about it. High Magician, for just how long do you think you'll hold your head? A single day? An hour?"
His eyes battle fear and rage as his face loses color. I watch a breakdown begin, hurried and unsightly, while he visualizes the string closing around his neck. He knows in his heart that there is no way out of this situation. Either he dies, or he dies. Whichever route he chooses, they both go to the same destination. And I believe that fact is more horrifying to him right now than anything I could say.
I'm fully aware that he is a magician—and a very good one. The Great Magician. Before I could blink, he could snap his fingers and burn that page in front of him, turning it to ash. But why even bother? He sees that, too. I wasn't impulsive in coming here. I arrived prepared. You could see that much even if you were a complete idiot with no sense of plans or games.
Burning that page wouldn't fix a thing. It wouldn't erase what I've done. All it would do is burn my temper hotter. Because yes—I've copied the Codex onto other pages. Pages hidden far from his reach. Pages that can't be burned if they are not in front of him.
"You wouldn't dare," he says finally, but the words come out strained, empty, as if he's trying to convince himself.
I can't help it. My laugh bursts out sharp. It scares him.
Oh I love it now.
This man. This father and his little boy. They both poke at the margins, believing they know where I stand and that I will not cross the line. Both of them, with that same look, that same tone—you wouldn't dare. However, that's the problem. They have no idea what I would actually dare.
I rest comfortably in the chair, feeling as though I'm enjoying a glass of wine at the family table after dinner. I cross the ankles of my boots with a smile. I smile like the way he used to smile at me while making me suffer in this cursed place. "This, is exactly why I would dare. And not just now. I've been daring far longer, you know it."
The words he hisses, "You ungrateful little viper," seem to burn his throat when they come out. As if to call forth a plan from the grain, his fingers pound on the wood once, twice. "Do you believe that this will work out nicely for you? For your home?"
I let the smile spread until it feels like a blade pressed to the inside of my cheek. I lean forward so he can see the devil in my eyes that says I've already won. "What are you going to do?" My voice is sweet, like I'm humoring him. "Tell everyone that I did it? That the Duke's daughter outwitted the High Magician of the Academy and slipped past wards no one else has ever broken? Because if you do, then you're admitting you lost. And that—" I tap the page lightly, "—this little secret isn't so safe anymore." I see things getting started and the fight to figure out a way out of this that doesn't look like failure.
My eyes glitter with something fierce, unyielding. "No one will believe you. You and your son are the only ones with access. You're the only ones who could've done this—or so they'll think. There's nothing you can do against me, or my family. While every proof," I pause, letting it burn more, "is already against you."
His hands slam down on the desk, hard enough that the ink bottle tips and rolls, splattering black across a stack of sealed scrolls. His face is flushed now — that rare crack in the polished mask of the High Magician. The veins at his temples stand out like cords pulled too tight. "What the hell do you want?" His voice vibrates with fury barely held in check. He's one breath away from summoning the whole damn Circle to burn me where I sit. He already knows what I want, maybe even more clearly than I do.
"Break the marriage," I say. "Publicly. With a smile. The same one you wore before you shut that basement door behind me."
His eyes don't flash with shock or surprise. That moment passed the second I laid the page on the table. Now, all that's left in his gaze is that memory. He remembers it. So do I.
How does it feel now, Magician?
To sit there in your high-backed chair, and realize that for all your titles and oaths, all your honey-poisoned words and clever protections, you've been cornered by someone you never thought capable?
Does it ache somewhere deep, knowing you've built your life on control—controlling others, controlling outcomes—and now you're the one caught without a way out?
To be desperate, truly desperate, searching for an option, any thread to pull, any lie to spin that might free you from this, only to find there's nothing? No clever spell, no favor owed, no quiet hand to sweep it all away. Just the raw, ugly, dangerous truth—sitting between us on that table, and the knowledge that it got here because you underestimated me. Because you thought I wouldn't dare.
But now you know. And it burns, doesn't it? Not just the fear, but the helplessness.
The same helplessness I felt every time you made me the one to be pitied. Every time you said something that landed like an insult right into the sorest parts of who I was. The little comments, the subtle digs, the way you put your finger right on my character and pressed, over and over, until it bruised.
You told everyone I was mentally unstable—insane, even. Said I could be fixed, cured, if only I stayed under your watch. If I followed your damn guidance.
You called it care. But I remember the hunger. The days without food because I "refused to cooperate." The hours locked in silence, the way you chipped away at me until I started questioning whether I was truly the problem. The way you played angel with your soft voice and hard rules.
You made sure I was alone, afraid, confused. You didn't need chains—you used doubt. You used fear. You made me question everything until the only thing I could hear was your voice in my head.
But did it break me? No.
It's you who's going to break. Because I had nothing to lose. But you… you have everything.