The ‘Knight’ was standing by the turn of the section as they walked back out. He had probably heard the entire conversation, yet he hadn’t made any comment. The first person to speak up was Anabeth, who said, “About the contract . . .”

Fabrisse’s first instinct was to snap at her and tell her outright he wouldn’t be signing anything until she got to the bottom of this for her, but from what he’d observed from Anabeth, she didn’t seem like someone who’d plot against him. If she had, she wouldn’t have brought him here and not harm him, unless . . . she was really in on this ‘convincing the Eidralith binder’ plan, whatever that entailed. Surely his EMO was high enough to reasonably judge now, if not his INT.

So he waited for her to continue.

Eventually, Anabeth said, “My parents are good people.” She paused for another second. “and—if I recall the voice correctly—the man speaking may have been my distant uncle Ivar.”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes,” she interrupted quickly, her tone almost apologetic. “He served as liaison to several Synod delegates years ago. It would make sense for him to be in proximity to such a conversation. But if he was involved, then I must be certain before I start defending anyone’s integrity. I cannot, in good faith, dismiss the possibility without evidence.”

He studied her face for any hint of deceit, but there was only unease, perhaps even fear of what she might discover.

“Ivar Margenholt,” she continued, voice gaining a trace of composure, “is currently residing in the northern quarter of Aurum Hold. If you would accompany me there—at your earliest convenience, naturally—you could hear his voice yourself. Then you may decide whether it matches the one we heard in the quartz.”

Fabrisse squinted at her, trying to gauge whether this was a trap, a genuine offer, or both.

“I give you my word,” Anabeth added, straightening her back with that practiced aristocratic poise, “that if the voice is indeed his, I will make certain my family’s role is investigated. And if it is not, then you will know we had no part in this conspiracy.”

Her gaze steadied on him, clear and unwavering now. “In return, I ask only that you give me a definite answer afterward. About the contract. No more indefinite postponement, no more ‘we’ll see.’ Once you’ve heard him, I would like an answer one way or another. I trust that is not too unreasonable?”

She sounded pretty serious. He would give her a serious answer.

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“Yes,” he said. “Also, can I borrow your scale?”

The corridor outside his dorm was quiet, save for the soft echo of armored boots. The Knight stopped a respectful distance away, helm tilting slightly toward the door. He raised his hand once, gesturing that the escort was complete.

Fabrisse nodded stiffly, fishing for his key. His thoughts were still tangled with the echoes from the quartz: those disembodied voices, the word binder, and Anabeth’s composure cracking just enough to make him believe her.

Anabeth stepped forward, her posture poised but her tone uncharacteristically subdued. She reached into the inner pocket of her coat and drew out a glowing circular object twice the size of her palm. “You asked to borrow my scale.”

He turned halfway, watching her place it in his palm so gently like handling something fragile. The device was beautiful—its surface a smooth pane of translucent aetheric crystal threaded with fine lines of silver. Unlike quartz, which stored resonance like a sponge but never let go, this kind of crystal channeled it, breathing in and out with a magus’s flow.

Anabeth brushed her thumb across the rim, and the crystal woke at once, threads of ivory light rippling through the surface. “This should be enough to measure for the night,” she said, holding it out to him. “I’ve infused it with a generous charge enough for dozens of tests, so long as you don’t start scaling Leader Muradius’ statues.”

“That’s a very specific warning.”

“I speak from experience,” she said, managing a self-satisfied grin. “The last student who tried was forced to write a six-page apology to the municipal restoration committee. In triplicate.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Anabeth lingered in front of him for a beat too long after handing over the scale, brushing a stray curl from her face. Then she gave an overly theatrical sigh, one hand pressed to her chest as though she were on stage rather than in a dormitory corridor.

“Oh, heavens,” she declared, her voice rising in perfect mock distress. “I am positively drained from all that walking through the caverns. Surely . . . surely there exists in this dreary world a gentlemanly noble soul who might deign to lend me his legs, just for a short while?”

What? Is she talking to me?

Before he could form a more coherent follow-up, the Knight set one gauntleted hand to the wall for balance, and lowered himself on one knee.

Fabrisse stared at him, utterly nonplussed.

Anabeth smiled, radiant. “Ah, there he is,” she said. “Chivalry incarnate.”

Then, with surprising ease and no apparent shame, she stepped forward, placed one hand on the Knight’s shoulder, and climbed onto his back. The size difference was almost comical—the Knight, tall and broad as a statue, and Anabeth, small enough that once she settled, she looked less like a magus of noble heritage and more like a child playing cavalier in the academy courtyard.

Fabrisse could feel the Knight’s weariness even from where he stood. It wasn’t visible through the visor, but something about the faint stiffness of the movement, the small exhale of metal and breath, made it unmistakable. Still, the man said nothing.

Anabeth adjusted her posture with a regal little hum, crossing her arms as if she were riding in a carriage rather than on a man’s back. “Well then,” she said breezily, “back to the estate, good sir Knight. Our day’s adventure has been quite enough.”

Fabrisse just stood there holding a glowing scale in his hand, as the unlikely pair started down the road. He blinked once, then muttered to himself, “I think my EMO stat just took damage.”