Chapter 13. The Attic

Roran Greymane

The door opened without resistance.

No flare of magic. No whisper of a ward. Just old wood and a faint creak of hinges that had not been oiled in years. He paused on the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, and inhaled.

Dust. Old paper. Dried herbs. And something else — light, almost floral. Perfume, perhaps. Or soap. The kind a woman uses when she wants to smell clean, not alluring.

He stepped inside.

The attic was not what he had expected.

He had expected cobwebs. Broken furniture. Boxes of forgotten junk. The kind of place where secrets rot in the dark because no one ever bothers to look. What he found instead was order.

Clean floorboards, swept recently. No dust on the rafters. No cobwebs in the corners. A narrow window at the far end let in a shaft of pale light, and in it he could see the faint shimmer of motes — but not the thick, lazy drift of neglect. These were fresh. Disturbed by his own entrance.

Someone kept this place clean.

He moved deeper, boots silent on the boards. The space was small but well-used. Two low chairs with worn but clean upholstery stood facing each other near the center, a small round table between them. On the table — two cups. One empty, turned upside down. The other with a ring of dried tea at the bottom and a faint smudge of color on the rim.

Lip paint. Not Miya’s. He knew her scent by now — the ozone, the heat, the faint trace of something floral in her hair. This was different. Sweeter. Lighter. The half-elf, then.

So they shared this space. Two mages, two women, one attic. A study. A retreat.

He filed it away and turned to the bookshelf.

It stood against the far wall — light wood, simple construction, the kind a student might buy secondhand and assemble herself. Three shelves. Neatly arranged. He ran his eyes over the spines, reading titles.

History of Magic, volumes one through four. Worn, well-read.

Foundations of World Theory. Two fat tomes, bookmarks sticking out at different angles.

Lives of the Saints. Thin, soft cover, corners bent, clearly handled often.

Lives of the Great Mages. Three volumes, standing straight, almost untouched.

So one of them was devout. Or at least curious. He would have bet on the half-elf — something about the way she kept her head down, the way she avoided attention. The quiet ones always had something to confess.

His gaze drifted lower. And stopped.

There, on the bottom shelf, wedged between Lives of the Saints and a dusty Diary of Transmutation, sat a book that did not belong.

The Adventures of Prince Reigan.

Greymane blinked. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk.

He knew this book. Everyone in the northern kingdoms knew this book — or knew of it. Two hundred years ago, some court chronicler in the Dragon Empire had written a tell-all about the amorous exploits of a past crown prince. The book had been banned within a month. Which, naturally, made it a bestseller. Noblewomen read it in secret. Merchant’s daughters passed dog-eared copies between friends. Even the Church had issued a formal denunciation, which only increased demand.

And here it was. In an Academy attic. Squeezed between a book of saints’ lives and a transmutation manual.

Greymane snorted.

So even demonologists have their little weaknesses.

He reached out — almost, almost pulled it from the shelf. Then stopped. His fingers hovered over the spine, close enough to feel the worn leather. It would be so easy. A quick flip. A page or two. Just to see what kind of filth the Academy’s brightest student kept on her shelf.

But no.

He was not here for that. And touching it — touching anything — left traces. He had already touched the door. Already touched the handle. That was enough.

He pulled his hand back.