Bryony's pen glided over the journal's cream pages, precisely capturing the locket's binding glyphs. Afternoon light filtered through the frost-covered window, its soft glow catching the wet ink and illuminating faint traces of residual magic. For decades, she had maintained this habit—meticulously documenting the most dangerous curses, preserving a quiet legacy of her work.

  The copper markings pulsed faintly as she wrote, remnants of dark energy lingering in their intricate patterns. She paused, studying the glyphs, a nagging sense of familiarity tugging at her thoughts. With deliberate care, she completed the outer ward circle. A faint warmth tingled at her fingertips as she traced the finished diagram, the magic responding subtly even to its inked form.

  Setting the pen aside, Bryony's gaze drifted to the fire crackling in the corner. Its golden glow reflected off the ancient tomes lining the walls, their shadows dancing over leather-bound spines. The familiar scent of aged parchment mingled with the earthy aroma of burning wood, wrapping the room in a cocoon of comforting stillness.

  She closed her eyes, letting the nostalgic scent carry her back. In her mind's eye, she saw herself as a child, curled beside her father's desk in a plush armchair. His soothing voice recited passages from ancient texts, blending with the fire's gentle crackle. A soft smile touched her lips as the memory unfolded with bittersweet clarity.

  She could almost feel the worn leather of the chair beneath her and hear the rhythmic scratching of Elias's quill against parchment. When she'd dozed off, surrounded by the scattered volumes of his library, her father would carry her up the spiral staircase.

  His beard would brush her forehead as he tucked her in, the faint scent of pipe tobacco lingering. 'Sleep well, little scholar,' he'd murmur, smoothing back her auburn hair. The weight of her blankets and the warm glow of his enchanted nightlight stayed vivid in her memory—a cherished fragment of a time long since passed.

  Magic crackled through the air, raising the fine hairs on Bryony's arms. She jerked upright, her father's study dissolving into the familiar confines of her office as energy pulsed through the dimming firelight.

  A glyph shimmered into existence above her desk, its silvery glow like spun gossamer. The symbol rotated lazily, casting shifting shadows across her journal. She recognized it immediately—her mentor's signature, the Council's preferred method of announcing their presence.

  The air thickened with old magic, precise and formal, making her teeth ache as static danced along the glyph's edges.

  Marcus Wraight's spectral form materialized from the glyph, his brown suit shimmering as if woven from light. He adjusted his lapel with a practised gesture she knew as well as her own habits.

  His gaze swept over her desk, lingering on the scattered books, papers, and precariously balanced tea-stained cups. The corners of his mouth twitched with barely concealed amusement.

  'Bryony, I see you've maintained your talent for turning workspaces into academic battlefields.'

  She grinned, unbothered by the familiar reproach. 'Caught in the act, Marcus. But I'll have you know this "battlefield" is a highly advanced filing system—despite what your librarian instincts might say.'

  He drifted closer, his spectral fingers tracing the spines of her books. 'Ah, yes. The Legends of Albion beside Simmons' Foundations of Arcanology. Truly inspired.'

  Bryony rolled her eyes, though her smile lingered. 'And I wonder how you've survived all these years surrounded by your rigid filing cabinets.'

  His astral form shimmered faintly, amusement glinting in his eyes—the same spark she'd delighted in provoking as an apprentice, often misplacing volumes just to see him sigh.

  'What you see around you, Marcus is decades of development,' she continued, leaning back with mock indignation. 'Meanwhile, I bet you still alphabetize your tea by origin and steeping time.'

  The playful familiarity between them settled over the room like a warm blanket. Still, her smile faltered as her eyes caught something—a flicker in his form, subtle yet telling. She'd spent years reading his moods, and it seemed this wasn't an idle visit.

  Bryony straightened, her tone shifting. 'Why are you really here, Marcus? Surely not just to judge my filing?'

  His expression turned solemn, the shimmer of light in his astral form dimming. 'I wish it were that simple. This is about the locket from Norway.'

  Bryony's stomach clenched at Marcus's words, the warmth of her earlier memories extinguished by the chill of the Wraiths memory.

  Marcus's spectral form flickered, his composure briefly faltering. 'The family you retrieved it for... the father attacked his wife in a rage. They surrendered it to the Council, too terrified to keep it.'

  Bryony's breath hitched. 'I suspected it might be unstable—' Her voice caught, the memory of the locket's dark magic resurfacing. Tendrils of spite, curling and insidious, haunted her thoughts.

  Marcus raised a hand, silencing her with the sharp authority she remembered from her training days. His form steadied, commanding the room as it had so many times before.

  'It's more than unstable,' he said, his tone low, the worry-crease between his brows deepening. 'I was tasked with researching its origins. The magic is ancient, Bryony, Older than anything in the Council's archives. And now, it's gone.'

  Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. 'Gone?' The word cut through the air, sharp and disbelieving. 'What do you mean, gone?'

  Marcus's form flickered again before solidifying, his expression darkening. 'It was stolen from the Council's vault.'

  The news hit like a bucket of ice water. Bryony shoved her chair back with a harsh scrape. 'Stolen? The vault is impregnable.'

  She knew the defences intimately. Ancient wards layered and reinforced over centuries. Breaching them should have been impossible, an act that the simple attempt should have alerted half of London's magical community.

  'So we thought.' Marcus's spectral shoulders were taut with frustration, static crackling faintly around his form. 'But apparently, we were mistaken.'

  The uncharacteristic worry etched into his features chilled her more than the words themselves. The Council's vault had stood for centuries, its protections never breached. Until now.

  Marcus's spectral form paced, trailing silvery light that flickered faintly with his agitation. 'The locket was the only thing of real value. Nothing else taken mattered but the locket. I couldn't even trace its origin or purpose, yet someone knew enough to do the impossible.' He stopped abruptly, turning to her with a gaze sharp enough to make her skin prickle. 'We must discover what it is.'

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  Bryony crossed her arms, bracing against the pressure building in her chest. 'Then question the family who requested it. I only know what they told me.'

  Even as she spoke, doubt gnawed at her. The locket's magic had resonated with something unsettlingly familiar, like a fragment of a dream she couldn't quite grasp.

  Marcus's form flickered with impatience. 'Think, Bryony. You retrieved it yourself. The church, the wards, the runes—you're the only one who witnessed it all. Every detail could be crucial.'

  His tone cut too close to the countless hours she'd spent under his meticulous guidance, cataloguing artefacts and decoding texts. Bryony bristled, the weight of his expectations pressing down like a physical burden. The church's layout, the wards, the artefact's placement—each tugged at the edges of her memory. Still, the thought of diving back into Council affairs made her temples throb.

  'You're the Council's scholar,' she shot back, retreating to the window. The sprawling London skyline blurred against the cold glass beneath her fingertips. 'Why not investigate the church yourself?'

  Her breath fogged the surface, a fleeting refuge from the tension coiling in the room. She didn't need this, didn't need Marcus or the Council dragging her back into their mess, not with the locket's lingering presence already weighing on her mind.

  Marcus's spectral form shimmered again. 'You know it's not that simple.'

  'Actually, it is.' She turned sharply, arms crossing. 'You have dozens of eager suck-ups at your disposal. Let them handle it.'

  Her words landed with deliberate precision, honed by years of keeping the Council at arm's length. She wasn't about to let them pull her in—not this time.

  Marcus faltered, a rare crack in his usual composure. His form shimmered unevenly, his frustration bleeding into the room. 'We can't. The Council's forbidden it. They've barred us from investigating and.... they've brought in outsiders.'

  Bryony's hand froze mid-trace on the glass. The Council never involved outsiders. Their secrets were too precious, too carefully guarded.

  'Outsiders?' Her voice edged with disbelief. 'What do you mean?'

  'I mean exactly what I said. The Council has brought Nulls in.' Static crackled along Marcus's spectral outline, his frustration palpable.

  'Nulls? People without magic?' Bryony's jaw tightened, her disbelief giving way to anger. 'What are they thinking?'

  'They've silenced everyone,' Marcus said grimly, his voice dropping. 'This goes beyond politics. They hope that using the Nulls will stop the news from getting out. The last thing we need is for the community to be talking. This makes the council look weak.'

  'That's idiotic, even for them. How will outsiders help with that?' But the chill creeping along her spine betrayed her unease. If the Council was involving outsiders, this was far more than a theft. Something bigger was at play—and the locket was only the beginning.

  Marcus's spectral form crackled with energy as he leaned closer. 'Meet me at my house. Now. This stays between us.'

  Bryony's jaw tightened at the commanding tone, that same voice from her training days. But she wasn't his apprentice anymore.

  'Marcus, I've got appointments....'

  'Cancel them.' His form pulsed with an intensity that raised the hairs on her neck, urgency bleeding through every flicker of light. 'This isn't a request. There are things I can't discuss through projection.'

  The weight of duty pressed against her chest. Marcus wouldn't risk meeting in person unless it was vital, she knew that much.

  She stepped back from the window, the skyline blurring behind her as years of hard-won independence stiffened her spine.

  'I can't help you with Council business, Marcus. I won't.' Her voice remained steady though tension coiled in her gut. 'Whatever's happening with these Nulls isn't my problem.'

  Her gaze swept across her office, the worn desk, the well-ordered shelves that had become her sanctuary. 'I've built something here on my terms. I left the Council's politics behind for a reason.'

  Marcus's image wavered, but she held her ground. 'Ask someone else. Someone who still believes in their cause. I'm finished with their schemes.'

  His spectral form surged forward, the scholarly facade cracking. 'You don't have a choice. You woke it, Bryony. What were you thinking, meddling with magic of this magnitude?'

  The accusation struck like a blow, anger flaring hot in her chest. How dare he, after years of building her reputation for handling dangerous artefacts?

  'I was doing my job, Marcus. Preserving and protecting artifacts.' She met his gaze, her voice cold and hard. 'If it's so dangerous, why didn't the Council destroy it?'

  Bitterness edged her words. She'd followed every protocol, every safeguard Marcus himself had drilled into her.

  Marcus's form flared with crackling energy, thickening the air between them. 'Because it can't be destroyed!'

  The declaration hit like ice water, chilling her to the bone. Her centuries of experience screamed this was wrong. Everything magical could be undone or neutralized. That was a fundamental truth.

  'That's impossible,' she said, but the memory of the locket's ancient power surged back. Its darkness had pushed against her magic like something alive, sentient.

  Marcus's form flickered, frustration sharpening his voice. 'We tried everything. Every method of magical destruction. The locket absorbed it all. It's completely impervious.'

  His projection stiffened, his gaze darting beyond her as his composure cracked. 'I have to go. Someone's coming.'

  His voice, strained and urgent, left goosebumps along her arms. His form dissolved into silvery light, the air still humming with his energy.

  'Do not delay,' his voice echoed faintly. 'I'll be waiting for you.'

  The shimmer faded, leaving silence in its wake. Bryony stood motionless, staring at the space where her mentor had been. The familiar sanctuary of her office felt smaller, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a physical burden.

  Bryony exhaled sharply, her fingers drumming impatiently against the polished desk. The faint static from Marcus's projection still lingered in the air, prickling her skin like an uninvited reminder.

  'Typical Marcus,' she muttered, shoving back her chair with a sharp scrape. 'Barges in, makes demands, then vanishes before I can get a word in.'

  Resentment settled in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Even after all these years, he treated her like the lost young mage who'd once needed his constant guidance. Her gaze swept across her office—the books, the artefacts, every carefully chosen piece a testament to the life she'd built without the Council's interference.

  Rising abruptly, she began to pace, anger simmering beneath her skin. Each step struck against the polished floor with deliberate force. The nerve of him, threatening her as if she were some wayward student, as if decades of honing her craft meant nothing in the face of his authority.

  Her eyes snagged on the open journal, its sketched glyphs faintly pulsing with residual energy. She stepped closer, tracing the edge of the page with her fingertips, following the intricate patterns that had contained the locket's curse. Even now, in ink form, its power hummed like a warning, low and steady.

  Her father's voice echoed in her mind, soft but insistent: 'We preserve not just objects, but stories, lives, histories.' The weight of those words pressed down, heavy with obligation. Power and knowledge weren't just gifts. They were burdens.

  Leaning against her desk, arms crossed, Bryony let out a wry chuckle. 'You always did know how to push my buttons, you old bastard.'

  Marcus wasn't entirely wrong. She'd retrieved the locket, felt its power, witnessed the ancient magic woven into its core. That made her responsible, whether she liked it or not.

  Her fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve, feeling the concealed weight of her runeblade.

  At the window, she watched snowflakes swirl past the frosted glass, their fragile forms fleeting against the cold expanse. The locket's power had been unlike anything she'd encountered before, ancient, deliberate, alive. Not merely cursed but designed with precise, sinister intent. And now it was gone, along with other artefacts stolen from London's most secure vault.

  Her fingers pressed against the chilled glass, her thoughts piecing together fragments of the puzzle: outsiders brought into the Council, the deliberate selection of stolen items, Marcus's uncharacteristic urgency.

  'What aren't you telling me, Marcus?' she murmured to her reflection.

  The scholar never reached out unless it was vital, and he'd never broken Council protocols before. Whatever this was, it stretched far beyond missing artefacts or petty Council politics.

  Despite her irritation, a spark of intellectual challenge stirred within her. Secrets, puzzles, and the unknown, these were her lifeblood, and Marcus knew it.

  'He knows I won't ignore this.' She straightened her jacket, the weight of reluctant duty settling on her shoulders. 'Damn him for being right.'

  Her words carried more weary acceptance than anger. She'd play Marcus's game, but this time, she'd do it as an equal. Not his obedient student.

  Crossing back to her desk, she traced the worn edges of her journal, memories of nights spent in her father's study flickering in her mind. The locket's power hadn't been mere magic—it had been purposeful, sentient. And Marcus wasn't sharing everything.

  Tucking the journal away, she set her jaw. 'If he thinks I know so much, I'll learn more than he expects. On my terms.'

  The drawer closed with a soft, final click.