I stumbled upon Luthen in the pale light of dawn, far earlier than sanity would deem fit. He was hunched over Melcin's desk in the upper stacks, his thumb drumming an anxious rhythm against the edge of a ledger.

Good. I preferred to keep this grim conversation shrouded in secrecy.

"Luthen."

He started violently, as though my voice were a cold blade upon the table. "Oh. Vaerin. You—you've come early."

"Sleep evaded me."

"Indeed," he mumbles, his gaze returning reluctantly to the ledger. "Same here."

I pulled the chair beside him, the wood creaking beneath my weight, but he remained entranced by the worn pages before him.

"Something dark transpired last night," I said, my tone carefully measured, carefully devoid of emotion.

His shoulders stiffened, an unspoken tension rising between us. "I suspected as much."

"You suspected?"

His ink-stained fingers brushed against his temple, the weight of dread heavy in the air. "You weren't the sole victim of reassignment, Vaerin. I've been plagued by...communications."

I froze, the chill of unease creeping over me. "What manner of communications?"

He hesitated, the silence stretching taut like a fraying thread. 

At last, he retrieved a folded scrap of parchment from the depths of his coat, hesitating as he clutched it tightly, his jaw a grim line of resolve.

Finally, he relinquished it to me; the parchment felt wrong--thin, brittle, exuding an unnatural chill. 

I unfolded it with trembling fingers. 

Written within were words, cramped and elegant--a penmanship too refined to belong to Luthen:

"WE SEE YOU."

Beneath it, scrawled in wildly different handwriting--larger, looping, frenetic--

"DON'T TURN AROUND."

I swallowed hard, a lump of dread solidifying in my throat. "This isn't your handwriting."

"It's the scribbles of three different souls," he intoned softly, his voice barely a whisper. "Strangers to me. The messages arrive unbidden--on my bed, on my desk, hidden in my pockets."

My pulse quickened, fear coiling tightly in my chest, and I fought to steady my breath against the encroaching darkness. 

"Luthen... have you acquired cards?"

His complexion drained of color. "What kind of cards?"

"Mirror-polished. Thin. Chilled to the touch."

"That metal?" he gasped. "Silver that isn't truly silver?"

"Precisely."

He faltered, then delved into a different pocket--a lower one he'd sewn shut, a charm for good fortune. 

With trembling fingers, he tore the stitching apart and extracted a small cloth-wrapped square.

"You weren't meant to possess this," I murmured.

"Nor were you."

He placed it carefully between us. Neither dared to lay a finger upon it.

As he unwound the cloth, dread gripped my insides.

His card bore words as well. Not a warning. Not a cry for help.

Simply one line:

"LOOK BEHIND HER."

My breath stuttered. "Her?"

"I fear," he whispered hoarsely, "I believe it refers to you."

I confronted the mirrored surface. No reflection met my gaze--only a grayish shimmer, as if fog pressed against glass.

Then something flickered across it. A shape. Tall. Hooded. Looming behind one of us--I could not discern which. 

I sprang to my feet. Luthen let out a yelp and dropped the card, retreating as if it might strike him. 

The card fell to the ground without a sound. Just as mine had done. 

I grasped the edge of the table to steady myself. "Luthen... why did you not confide in me?"

"Because," he whispered, his voice cracking, "I thought I could dismiss it. Archivists lose their sanity down here at times. It transpires. I believed that if I turned a blind eye, it would simply vanish."

"And it did not."

He shook his head violently. "No. It grew worse. The writings began to fill my drawers. My boot. Yesterday, I found one nestled in my teacup."

A knot twisted within my stomach. "What did it say?"

He remained silent. Instead, he retrieved another folded scrap from his pocket and pressed it into my hand. 

I unfolded it. The words were scrawled with such rage that the ink had torn the parchment. 

"SHE HEARD US."

"WE'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HEARD."

"SHE. HEARD. US."

I shot a glance upwards. "Who is she?"

Luthen's gaze darted toward the stairwell leading to the Mirror Hall, where Mistress Kallith had spent nearly every waking moment in these recent days.

But before either of us could utter another word, a sudden, violent crash reverberated through the distant aisle--a book hurled to the floor. Not dropped. Thrust.

Melcin, seated at his own desk, showed no hint of surprise. He merely muttered, "They've awakened today."

Luthen seized my arm. "We must leave."

Yet his voice was tinged with an unsettling edge. Thin. Strained. 

When I turned to him, something caught my attention--a smear of gray dust upon his collar. A fingerprint. Pressed into the fabric. 

I stepped back. "Luthen...someone has touched you."

He froze, the weight of dread settling upon him. Then he whispered--barely there--

"I know."