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And then there’s Silas.

He’s in the corner, not reading, not searching, not even pretending to be useful. He’s squaring up with a statue—some winged relic I vaguely remember from the old chapel ruins, its stone face chipped in a permanent sneer. Silas mimics the pose, one arm thrown dramatically out, the other curved like he’s either about to deliver divine wrath or confess his undying love to a squirrel.

“Oh mighty pigeon god,” Silas intones, deadpan but loud enough to break what’s left of the room’s sanity, “grant me thy stony wisdom, or at least make my biceps look like yours.”

Elias doesn’t even look up from the book he’s only half reading. “If that thing comes to life and murders you, I’m not helping.”

“I’d help,” Luna says, not bothering to glance up. “Help the statue, I mean.”

I press my fingertips against the spines of a row labeledArcane Governance & Supernatural Infrastructure. Nothing about the Pillars. Nothing about containment systems or soul-binding contracts. Just policies. Regulations. Dead-end pages meant to sound impressive while hiding everything that matters.

Riven slams a drawer shut, hard enough to jolt the desk forward a full inch. “There’s nothing here.”

“There might be,” I counter, calm even as irritation needles behind my ribs. “But Blackwell wouldn’t be stupid enough to label it.”

Luna stands and brushes off her knees. “Then where would he hide it?”

I meet her gaze across the room, sharp and deliberate. “Same place every coward hides what they fear will be used against them. Somewhere he doesn’t want even himself to find it.”

She blinks once. Then she gets it.

The room falls silent—well, as silent as it can get with Silas whispering to a statue about leg day. She walks past the bookcases, past the portrait-lined walls, toward the stained glass window on the far end. The one of Blackwell himself, all stoic gaze and sanctimonious robes. Pretentious bastard.

I follow her, the others watching now, curiosity pulling them from their distractions.

She reaches out—hesitates—and then presses her hand against the painted glass.

It doesn’t give.

“Try under it,” I say. “Or behind.”

Riven’s already moving, dragging a chair over and gripping the frame. “If he built this into the wall, there’s a cavity. Something shallow. We just have to—”

The glass hums.

Faint. Barely audible. But real.

And then it shifts, a shimmer across the surface like heat warping vision. The image of Blackwell dissolves, ink bleeding into gold, and beneath it—

A door.

No handle.

Just a sunken keyhole carved into obsidian.

“Okay, that’s not ominous at all,” Elias mutters.

Luna glances at me. “You’re the one with a thing for locks and deals.”

I smile. Cold. Slow. “Let’s see what he was so desperate to keep buried.”

I raise my hand.

And the door responds.

Silas steps in front of me like he’s the one who coaxed secrets from stone, like he bled the lock open with charm instead of me luring the door to life with nothing but my voice and power. He plants his hands on his hips like a cartoon prince, eyes glittering with mischief and something too close to satisfaction.

Then Luna smiles at him. Soft. Fond. A private little moment carved from the mess of shadows and dust and mystery, and she gives it tohim.