Vesper’s breath caught at the sight through the grimy window—books. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, crammed into a space no larger than her old flat. Their spines created a patchwork of colours and textures, from ancient leather-bounds to modern cloth covers.

  The bell above the door chimed as they entered, its tone oddly muffled. The air shifted around them, thick with preservation spells that made Vesper’s skin tingle. She inhaled deeply, drinking in the familiar scent of paper and ink, mixed with something else—something older and more potent.

  Books towered in precise columns from floor to ceiling, creating narrow corridors barely wide enough for one person. Despite the cramped space, each sat exactly where it belonged, as if the chaos had been carefully orchestrated.

  “Mind the third shelf on your left,” Rafe whispered. “Those books bite.”

  Vesper jerked her hand back from where she’d been about to trace a spine. The book in question shuddered slightly, its leather cover rippling like disturbed water.

  “You’re not serious,” she hissed. “Stop it.”

  Rafe chuckled. “You’re starting to see right through me.”

  A floorboard creaked, and Vesper glanced up to find a young man watching them from behind a worn oak desk. Her first thought was how young he looked to own such a shop—perhaps twenty-five, with dishevelled black hair and sharp features that spoke of nights spent poring over ancient texts rather than sleeping.

  His grey eyes met hers with an intensity that made her step back. There was something in his careful stance, the way he held himself, that struck a chord. She recognised that particular brand of self-imposed solitude—the look of someone who’d learned to keep the world at arm’s length.

  “Rafe Thorne,” the man said. “It’s been a while.”

  “Ash.” Rafe nodded towards the proprietor. “This is Vesper. We’ve brought something that might interest you.”

  “A pleasure.” Ash’s voice was quiet but carried easily in the book-lined space. He straightened, pushing aside what looked like a half-translated manuscript. “What sort of interesting?”

  “We need an appraisal.” Rafe glanced at Vesper. “Something rather unique.”

  At the word ‘appraisal’, Ash’s entire demeanour shifted. The careful isolation cracked, replaced by a spark of genuine excitement that Vesper knew all too well—the look of someone who lived and breathed books. His eyes brightened, fingers twitching as if already imagining turning pages.

  “Unique how?” Ash leaned forward, all pretence of disinterest abandoned.

  Vesper couldn’t help but smile. How many times had she worn that same expression when faced with the promise of a fascinating text? It was like watching her own bibliophile tendencies reflected back at her. In that moment, she decided she liked Ash very much.

  Vesper reached into her bag, hesitating for a moment before pulling out the blue grimoire. The instant it touched the desk’s surface, the shop’s atmosphere shifted. The preservation spells hummed louder, and several nearby books shuffled away on their shelves as if seeking distance.

  Ash’s mask cracked. His eyes widened, colour draining from his face as he stared at the grimoire. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he pulled open a drawer and withdrew a set of delicate brass instruments that looked like a cross between a surgeon’s tools and clockwork mechanisms.

  “May I?” His voice had lost its earlier warmth.

  Vesper nodded, watching as he used the instruments to carefully open the cover and turn the pages without making direct contact. He moved the brass tools with grace, testing the book’s edges and corners. Each time they touched the grimoire’s surface, tiny sparks of opalescent light danced across the metal.

  “This isn’t right.” Ash frowned, adjusting one of his instruments. “I’ve handled thousands of magical texts, but this…is different. The resonance is wrong. Like it’s speaking a language I almost understand, but the grammar’s all twisted.”

  “What do you mean?” Vesper’s hand drifted to her wrist, remembering. “When I first touched it, these marks appeared on my skin. Black and silver, like tattoos.”

  “Marks?” His voice was too controlled, too even. “What sort of marks exactly?”

  Vesper rolled up her sleeve, tracing the path where the markings had appeared. “They were like flowing script, but I couldn’t read them. They started here”—she touched her wrist—”and spiralled up my arm before fading.”

  Ash set down his instruments with deliberate care. His gaze flicked to Rafe, something unspoken passing between them that made Vesper’s skin prickle.

  “Did the marks burn?” Ash’s voice was low, almost clinical. “Or feel cold? Any sensation at all?”

  “They stung, like I’d stuck my hands into a nettle bush.”

  Ash looked back at the grimoire, plucking at the pages with his brass tweezers. “Sometimes when a grimoire bonds with a mage, it can transfer some of its power. The occurrence is rarer in witches, but it does happen.”

  Vesper noticed Rafe’s posture shift, becoming more guarded as he leaned against the desk. “Has anyone else been asking about grimoires lately? Particularly rare ones?”

  The pause before Ash’s response stretched a heartbeat too long. His fingers stilled on the brass instruments, and though his expression remained neutral, tension crept into his shoulders.

  “There’s been…interest.” Ash selected his words with obvious care. “Nothing specific to this particular grimoire, but certain parties have made inquiries.”

  “What kind of parties?” Vesper asked, her new daggers suddenly very present against her skin.

  “The kind that don’t leave calling cards.” Ash’s grey eyes met hers. “But I might be able to help you understand what you have here. These markings”—he gestured to a page covered in swirling script—”are rather interesting. If you give me a little more time, I can see what else I can glean.”

  The offer hung between them. Vesper glanced at Rafe, who gave a slight nod.

  “I’d appreciate that,” she said. “May I look at your books?”

  Ash nodded towards the store. “Be my guest.”

  While Ash worked, Vesper wandered the narrow aisles, drawn to a section marked Theoretical Applications of Magical Energies. Her fingers traced the spines, but she didn’t recognise any of the authors. None had published back in the human world, at least any she knew of.

  Every few minutes, her gaze drifted back to where Ash bent over her grimoire. He worked with intense focus, switching between different instruments and making notes in a leather-bound journal. The preservation spells continued their quiet hum, but something else threaded through the air now—an expectant energy that made the hair on her arms stand up.

  She pulled down a book on ancient magical languages, but the words blurred as her attention kept returning to Ash’s examination. His frown deepened as he turned another page, and she wondered what secrets the grimoire might be revealing under his expert eye.

  Rafe watched Vesper drift between the towering shelves, her fingers trailing along ancient spines as if drawn by an unseen force. Once she disappeared around a corner, he leant closer to Ash across the counter.

  “What’s the word in the Bizarre lately?” he murmured. “Anything new?”

  Ash’s gaze darted to where Vesper had vanished before meeting Rafe’s gaze. “Something’s shifted. Word is the mages are working together.”

  “That’s impossible.” Rafe’s fingers tightened on the counter’s edge. The major magical factions of Nightreach had been at each other’s throats for centuries.

  “Saw it myself.” Ash pulled a leather-bound ledger from beneath the counter. “Amendment mages sipping tea with Hollow Circle agents. Even spotted a few Order members among them. I think they’re looking for something.”

  At one time, mention of the Empirical Order would have been a cause for alarm, but their power had waned centuries ago. Now they were just another disorganised band of mages struggling to come out on top, like all the others. But if they’d begun talking to one another without bloodshed… That was a rumour Rafe should pay attention to.

  “You said there were people asking questions about rare grimoires,” he said. “Mages?”

  Ash nodded, focusing on the grimoire.

  “What are they looking for?”

  “No one knows exactly.” Ash flipped through his notes. “But they’re methodical about it. Checking old temples, abandoned libraries, anywhere old magic might have left its mark.” He tapped a particular entry. “Three separate groups passed through the ruins under St. Dunstan’s last week. No one goes into that dusty old crypt, not if they want to stir up a few wraiths.”

  Rafe’s chest tightened. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Started about a month or so ago.”

  When Selene died. Rafe glanced at the shelves where Vesper was still reading, oblivious. The timing couldn’t be coincidence.

  Ash’s fingers drummed against the counter, an anxious rhythm Rafe had never witnessed from the usually composed shopkeeper. His grey eyes darted between the grimoire and Vesper’s distant form.

  “Listen, Rafe.” Ash’s voice dropped even lower. “I maintain neutrality for a reason. Information flows better when you’re not taking sides. But this—” He gestured at the grimoire. “This isn’t normal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those marks she mentioned, the ones that appeared on her skin? I’ve only read about similar occurrences in ancient texts. Binding marks. The kind that link a person to powerful magical artefacts.” Ash ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “And now every major magical faction in Nightreach is suddenly playing nice? Working together?”

  Rafe’s jaw clenched. He’d known Ash long enough to recognise when the shopkeeper was genuinely rattled. “But it’s common for grimoires to bind to their owners.”

  “Not like this.”

  Rafe fell silent. Ash was getting too close to the truth. He’d known the shopkeeper for a while now, and he’d proven trustworthy, but the grimoire had thrown yet another spanner in the works. Selene, what were you up to?

  “The timing’s too perfect,” Ash continued. “A mysterious grimoire appears, bearing marks of old magic. Mages start hunting through ancient magical sites…” He shook his head. “I’m breaking my own rules telling you this, but something’s coming. Something big enough to make lifelong enemies friends.”

  Rafe glanced at Vesper, who had settled into a worn armchair with a stack of books. She looked so ordinary, yet in just days she’d demonstrated extraordinary magical potential. And now Ash, who’d built his reputation on staying out of magical politics, was practically vibrating with concern.

  “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting you watch your back.” Ash’s fingers stilled on the counter. “And hers. Because if I’ve noticed these connections, others have too. And they won’t all be as friendly as me.” He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “Word is spreading that the Concordat is conducting trials. I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, but I also suggest staying out of the Bizarre.”

  Rafe curled his lip. “What aren’t you telling me, Ash? What are they looking for?”

  Ash busied himself with reorganising papers on the counter, avoiding Rafe’s gaze. “You know I can’t⁠—”

  “You’ve already broken your neutrality. What’s one more secret between friends?”

  The shopkeeper’s shoulders sagged. “I’ve heard whispers. A name.”

  “Who?” Ice spread through Rafe’s veins. Something in Ash’s tone…

  “Lucian D’Arco.”

  The name hit Rafe like a physical blow. Memories flashed—blood on marble floors, screaming in darkened halls, the acrid stench of corrupted magic.

  “That’s impossible.” His knuckles whitened against the counter. “He disappeared years ago. He was banished by all the factions. It was the only thing they ever agreed on.”

  “No idea. I only heard his name.” Ash glanced nervously at the shadows between the shelves.

  Rafe’s gaze drifted to Vesper, still absorbed in her reading. The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. Resonants. Ancient magic. Indecipherable grimoires. Mages united in purpose for the first time in centuries.

  They were looking for the Echo.

  “Don’t mention any of this to Vesper,” Rafe said. “Especially not D’Arco’s name.”

  Ash nodded. “You know I won’t. But she’ll need to know eventually.”

  “I’ll tell her. When she’s ready.”

  Vesper returned to Ash’s workbench, her boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. Rafe leant against a shelf, arms crossed, whilst Ash hunched over the grimoire, his array of brass instruments scattered around him.

  “Have you found anything?” she asked.

  Ash lifted his head. “This is remarkable. The protections on this book—I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” He gestured to a delicate contraption that resembled a brass spider suspended over the grimoire’s cover. “Multiple layers of wards, certainly, but that’s not what makes it special. The entire text is encoded at its core.”

  “Encoded? Are you saying the book is password protected?”

  “Not exactly.” Ash set down his tools. “The book has essentially bonded with your magical signature. It’s become part of you. It happens, but not a lot.”

  Vesper’s hand instinctively went to her chest, where she’d felt that strange resonance when first touching the book. “What does that mean?”

  “To read the grimoire, you need a cypher.”

  “So, I do need a password,” Vesper said with a groan. “Where am I going to find it? It’s not like I can hit the forgot password link.”

  “The cypher you need already exists within you,” Ash went on, lifting an eyebrow. “It’s not about finding the right word or gesture—it’s about accessing something that’s already there.” He ran his fingers over the grimoire’s spine, careful not to actually touch it. “Whoever created these protections was brilliant. They’ve woven the encoding into the very fabric of the book’s magic. It’s not just locked—it’s transformed itself to match your specific magical frequency.”

  “Like a key that reshapes itself to fit only one lock,” Rafe mused from his position by the shelves.

  “More elegant than that.” Ash’s eyes gleamed. “It’s as if the book has become an extension of Vesper’s own magic. Absolutely brilliant piece of spellwork.”

  Vesper pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting back a headache. Another magical revelation, another weight pressing down on her shoulders. The grimoire sat innocently on Ash’s workbench, its blue cover reflecting the lamplight as if mocking her.

  “Brilliant. Just brilliant.” She threw up her hands. “So not only am I suddenly magical, dealing with murderous shadows, and preparing for potentially lethal trials, but now I’ve got a book that’s decided to get cosy with my magical signature and won’t give up the password. Perfect.”

  “The grimoire choosing you is a good thing,” Rafe said, pushing off from the counter. “It means⁠—”

  “It means more responsibility I didn’t ask for.” Vesper snatched up her bag, her movements sharp with frustration. “I was quite happy being a librarian, you know. The most exciting thing in my life was repairing fragile binding and making sure people didn’t smuggle coffee into the reading room.”

  She grabbed the grimoire, shoving it perhaps more forcefully than necessary into her bag. The leather seemed to warm beneath her touch, that familiar resonance humming through her fingers. Vesper ignored it.

  “Right now, I’d give anything to go back to worrying about what glue to use with sixteenth century manuscripts rather than magical assassination attempts.”

  Rafe stepped closer, reaching for her arm, but Vesper shifted away. She caught Ash watching them, concern etched across his features. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, his gaze dropping to the workbench.

  “We should go,” Vesper said, already heading for the door. The shop’s cluttered aisles felt suffocating now, the countless books pressing in around her like silent witnesses to her mounting frustration.

  “Vesper, wait,” Rafe called.

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” she said. “I had to crack sometime, right? And if I’m going to have an emotional meltdown, it should be over a book. That’s just irony.”

  The door to Brigue & Sons clicked shut behind them, and Vesper’s irritation faltered as she stepped into the market’s bustle. Something felt off. The bright, sparkly, chaotic energy of the Bizarre had shifted, the magic of the neighbouring shops clashing with something discordant.

  A group of men loitered near the potion shop, their dark coats marking them as different from the colourful market crowds. Vesper’s skin prickled with a woman’s intuition—those men weren’t shopping.

  Rafe had sensed it, too. “Keep walking,” he murmured, his hand settling on the small of her back. “Don’t look directly at them.”

  Vesper forced herself to maintain an easy pace, though her heart hammered against her ribs. More figures emerged from between the stalls and shopfronts—three by the charm seller, another pair lingering near a display of spices. Their movements were too coordinated, too purposeful.

  The market’s warmth seemed to leech away. Vesper clutched her bag closer, acutely aware of the grimoire’s weight against her hip. The book’s energy pulsed in response to her anxiety, sending tingles through her fingers.

  “There’s at least eight of them,” she whispered, counting the dark-clothed figures in her peripheral vision. “They’re boxing us in.”

  “Mages,” Rafe breathed, steering her past a stall of floating lanterns. “Powerful ones. We need to be careful—they’ll notice if we start running. We need to disappear.”

  The first attack came without warning. Dark energy exploded through a nearby stall, sending crystal vials and delicate charms flying in deadly shards. Vesper dropped, her knees hitting cobblestones as Rafe yanked her behind an overturned table. Screams erupted across the marketplace as people scattered.