The forgotten wing of the library was dead silent, thick with dust and old magic. A few books on the shelves still burned softly, their pages charred but alive. Most students never came this far.

Leif Whittemore did, and with willing interest, which most students found odd.

Kneeling before a crooked shelf, he reached for a glowing, smoke-warmed spine—then froze as another hand reaching for the same spine brushed his.

His head snapped up, startled. “Wait—what are you doing back here?” he asked. “You… know what this is?” Genuine surprise flickered across his face—maybe even a spark of curiosity.