The words on the page before you had long since stopped making sense. They were just shapes now. Curves and lines that refused to form meaning.

You pressed your forehead harder against the parchment, as if sheer pressure might force the knowledge inside through brute force. It did not work.

A quiet shuffle of footsteps. Leather on marble.

Standing there, one arm cradling a thick, worn volume with gold lettering too faded to read, was Alhaitham. The Acting Grand Sage—or Scribe, depending on which title he was currently avoiding. His silver hair was immaculate, his expression unreadable.

The teal and orange soundproof earpieces hung loose around his neck. He must have taken them off for a reason. Perhaps your sigh had been louder than you thought.