The first knock reverberated through the room, shaking the chair we'd wedged against the door. The second knock drifted in like a chilling breath, grazing the nape of my neck. Sareth laid the jagged shard of mirror on the table with a delicate hand, as though a sudden movement might stir the unknown presence lurking beyond. The books scattered around us seemed to shiver--pages stiffening, edges curling, spines arching like startled cats on the prowl.
The third knock came softer than the others, almost courteous, as if a familiar guest were announcing their arrival at a home already deemed theirs. Beneath that knocking, so faint it resembled the sound of a damp palm lifting away from wood, was a scrape we both recognized.
Not footsteps. Not movement. A dragging. As if something were being pulled, tethered to some unseen hand.
Sareth's breath shuddered beside me. "That's him."
I didn't require her confirmation. Luthen's shadow had haunted the corners of my thoughts ever since our encounter in the Index Chamber, ever since his voice had twisted into an echo of its former self. To even think his name felt wrong, as if uttering it granted the creature wearing his skin an unsettling power.
The handle twitched. Just once. But that single movement was enough to reveal his intent--he was now knocking for conversation. No, he was here to fulfill his purpose.
And we had shattered every commandment the Calyra deemed sacred.
The door quaked again, more violently this time, sending the coat rack skidding an inch across the floor. Sareth clasped my wrist, her fingers icy and tense with dread. "He shouldn't know we're here. He shouldn't be able to--"
"He's indexed," I muttered. "He no longer follows maps. He pursues whatever the Calyra desires.
A gentle thud, akin to a forehead pressing against the door. Then a warm exhale slipped through the crack below, damp and unsettling against my bare ankles. I recoiled, my heart racing.
Sareth swallowed hard. "We need to leave. Now."
"Where to? The main hall is our only escape, and he's--"
The door groaned as the handle twisted violently, a discordant clash of metal. The coat rack jolted once more, sliding further across the floor.
Sareth rushed to the window and flung it open. Cold night air swept in, invigorating yet ominous. Our dorm loomed five stories above the northern courtyard; the fall was steep but not beyond reach. A narrow ledge clung to the outer wall--thin and perilous, scarcely wide enough for a foot--yet it led to a maintenance gutter one level below.
Sareth pointed resolutely. "We climb. We reach the gutter. Then to the roof. Then the south spire--"
The door slammed from the outside with such force that the mirror shard leaped from the table, and the chair cracked beneath the pressure.
And then a voice.
Not spoken, but pressed through the wood.
"Vaerin. Open. Doors. Are. For. Opening."
I stumbled back, disbelief gripping me. "That's not him."
"It's never him anymore," Sareth murmured, her voice laced with sorrow. Grief for a man who scarcely knew, grief for the essence of Luthen that had faded, leaving only shadows behind.
With a flick of her leg, she navigated the sill, finding her balance on the outer stone. The wind tousled her hair, transforming her into a specter--determined, dangerous, yet impossibly delicate. She reached out a hand. "Come on. Before he breaks through."
The chair splintered beneath unheard pressure. The metal lock snapped audibly, like a bone yielding to force. I seized her hand.
Then, the door exploded inward.
Not merely opened, but shattered, ripped from its hinges by something too swift and rigid to be normal. Splinters rained across the room, books scattered like frightened birds taking flight, and the lantern's light spasmed in chaotic rhythm.
There stood Luthen--or the twisted semblance of him--framed ominously in the wreckage of the doorway. His head tilted slowly, unnaturally, chin rising as if drawn by invisible strings. His left arm hung limply, distorted as if stretched beyond limits, while his right hand curled with a desperate need, grasping for something unseen. Those once--gentle eyes--now glassy and void, reflecting nothing but flickering lamplight.
He did not glance at Sareth.
His gaze was fixed on me.
With a dragging step, he advanced, his right foot scraping wetly across the floorboards. The air thickened with the acrid scent of old ink and metal, seeping into every corner around him. His lips parted as a voice emerged from deeper within, pulsing forth as if something inside struggled to project the sound through his hollow chest.
"Vaerin," he rasped, "come back."
Sareth's voice sliced through the darkness like a blade. "Go!"
I slipped through the window, my fingers betraying me against the unforgiving stone as the wind clawed at my sleeves. The ledge was a precarious whisper of stone, chipped and uneven beneath my feet. I pressed my body against the cold wall, enveloped by the night's hungry embrace.
Sareth was already in motion, inching her way along the narrow ledge. "Don't look down," she murmured. "And don't look back."
But my gaze betrayed her command. I couldn't avert my eyes.
Luthen stood poised before the shattered window, his gaze locked onto mine, a subtle tilt of his head as if weighing the distance, deliberating whether the ledge could bear his weight--or if he might simply plunge into the abyss, indifferent to the fall.
Then--
With deliberate intent, he stepped onto the sill. Unflinching. Steadfast. Held together solely by some unseen force entwining his bones.
Sareth hissed a curse into the night's air. "Faster."
We began our agonizing crawl along the ledge, inch by aching inch, until our toes found refuge on the iron gutter. Sareth descended first, fingers gripping the edges, her legs swinging blindly until they met the platform below.
"Vaerin!" she called.
Without thinking, I fell. My boots connected with the metal, sending a hollow echo through the dusk.
Inside the dormitory, glass shattered--windows splintering under unseen pressure. The Calyra, indifferent to doors, found its pathways through reflections. Perhaps, it even thrived in the absence of bodies.
Sareth seized my arm. "We must reach the roof. The south spire leads directly into the theologians' wing. If Kallith still breathes, she'll be there."
Above us, something scraped against the stone--a wicked sound, like fingernails trailing down the wall. Not Luthen's. Too many fingers. Too elongated.
Sareth's grip tightened. "Run."
And thus we ran--across the gutter, towards the sancturary of roof access, plunging deeper into the Calyra's looming shadow--every breath echoing with the knowledge that the building had abandoned its defenses.
Now, it was the hunter.
