“I don’t get it.” Casanova rubs her temple, now red and raw.

  “You’re not looking at it right,” Xena frowns, adjusting the worn paper, “See?”

  Caline bends over the parchment, her own frown far more intense than Thornbern’s. She traces a knobby finger across the markings, her nail scraping lightly into the sun-eaten map. She scans with intense searching, almost desperate in her attempt to understand. Finally, she throws her head back, releasing a dramatic groan.

  “Screw me like a doxy,” she shoves the map away with thunderous eyes, “I’m done.”

  Casanova lurches to a stand, stomping across the mountainside, muttering vile curses which send a group of Hollownest students scattering for safety. Kaiya and Xena grow the same crooked grin, quick to roll up their map, waving goodbye as they stampede back to Etari, hot on Caline’s smoking footsteps.

  I look back to our own map, my thumb grazing my lips with focus. While most of Etari’s trials have been as difficult as forcing a whale into a birdcage, mapping has been delightfully easy. It all seems to click, the jagged slashes and curving indentations, each of which uniquely describe a treacherous cliff or fall. The shaded crevices, displaying varying depth of strange lakes, and thick, empty lines which show river routes.

  Like here, the hollow, cracked slit is clearly the entrance we first came through all those weeks ago. And across the canyon, the wide, towering peak, is undoubtedly Romahide, obvious by the severe cut of the climb.

  Ryker and Kieran follow the map as easily as I, but it is clear that Kieran has taken the lead. Even with the Thornberns he was able to provide guidance, though Kaiya seemed to play too heavily into his side. Somewhat surprisingly, Kieran did not seem to notice, his obliviousness as thick as Ambrathi’s skull.

  “What do you think these are,” Kieran points to a descending series of jagged drops, leading south to the Swamp of Galiatta.

  Ryker leans in, his forehead almost grazing mine, “It could be a rockslide.”

  “It wouldn’t be new,” I add, lightly touching the thick wrinkles, “This parchment seems to be at least ten years old.”

  I flip it over, looking for a date despite knowing it will not be here. No map of Isle Parisama will be dated, nor will any be allowed out of confidential hands. The secrets here are far too precious, and will be guarded with utmost security.

  The map soon grows shadowed, the sun dipping behind the mountains, casting a honey glazed glow across the grooved canyons, turning Ryker’s eyes sparkling and bright. I look around our rocky base, and find we are the only students still standing, the last of which long since retreated, shivering until they disappeared under the mountain.

  It has grown significantly colder in these last few weeks, with winter approaching as an unavoidable beast. The winds have grown brutal, and the sky smothered with clouds, even the innermost dungeons of Etari have begun to grow morning frost. But at least we were given extra layers, and I am very grateful for my light jacket, even as it billows fiercely at my sides.

  As we make our way back, I look to the darkened sky, catching my last glimpse of the stars. They are falling into place of the solstice, the constellation of Goddess Merikna approaching with haste.

  As we descend the ancient steps, the rich smell of dinner making me quicken my pace, I come to an abrupt halt. Ryker, who had dropped behind, stumbles into me, almost falling over. Kieran watches with the same hawk-like focus, his breath unheard as we gaze down the hall.

  Across the dim path, lit by crackling torches, Greyson Panthera slinks down the far wall. His head is bowed, his disposition almost unseen, but there is something strange holding his face, somewhat desperate and needing.

  His steps are eerily silent, and his clothes make no sound, which suits him well as he stops at a curved stone, which goes unnoticed beside the others in the wall. He glances around for only a moment, missing our hidden presence atop the crest of the stairs, and lightly pushes the rock in, turning it a few notches to the left.

  He waits for a tick, and soon the wall retracts, a narrow entrance revealed as the thin slip is sucked into the ground. He ducks inside, having to bow his head, and the wall snaps back, though it too moves without a sound.

  We wait for a moment, watching with eager eyes, before Kieran turns and signs.

  ???

  “Shh!”

  “Well, sorry.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “The whole school is going to hear you!”

  “Now who's making a scene?”

  “Would both of you shut up.”

  Kieran rolls his eyes as Ryker and I at last fall silent, emerging into the main hall and the swarming darkness, a brush of smoke coiling in my hair. We only waited until the others succumbed to slumber, during which even Panthera drifted off to sleep. He has spent most of his nights roaming the castle, but tonight was the unexpected exception.

  We approach the wall we saw him at earlier, and I press my hand to the stone. It sinks in, though only by a fraction, and I turn it to the left, just a few clicks. Just as before, the hidden doorway sinks into the ground, louder now that there are no roaming students to create distracting sound.

  We slip inside, and soon the wall reforms, revealing a small hall with a curved ceiling, leading to what appears to be a dead end, carved into it a strange, unreadable word. It is near impossible to see, as the cavity is as dark as a midnight sea, but Kieran has no trouble leaning his ear to the wall, which must be a hidden doorway.

  He pauses for a while, making sure the coast is clear, before running his hand down the wall, searching for the way in. There is no doorknob, only a blank slate of stone, and it takes us many minutes until we at last find it; a button hidden amongst the cobbled ceiling.

  Ryker finds it as he runs his hands over the uneven tunnel, and jumps when the door at last creaks open. The room is silent, and illuminated by a blueshish glow, which seems to tint Kieran’s hair somewhat violet, his eyes now glimmering like the starscape hidden above.

  The room is rather serene, homey with a lick of something deadly. There are tall bookshelves lining the entire back wall, with a mahogany ladder that can swing to each side. The stone floor is covered in a massive navy rug, which has stars and black markings winding from corner to corner, and the walls are covered in maps and artifacts, some so old they look a breath away from dust. Comfortable seating is placed in shadowed corners, though for the most part the large desk at the center appears to be the most used. Papers are scattered all across the wide slab, and as I approach, I lift one with cautious eagerness.

  This one has been written quite quickly, the letters crammed and panicked, the handwriting utterly terrible. It is a letter, from the front line, by a man who signs himself as KF. It is quite old, dated some 15 years ago, and speaks of a terrible choice. With a start, I realize that it is discussing Rakile, and that the man called KF must be my father.

  My hands grow clammy, and my mouth quite dry, as I read the paper as quickly as I can force my eyes to fly. But there is nothing here that I do not already know. Rakile was falling, General Iazahov is dead, and Krein must make a split decision. He gives no apology to acting on his own, only brute confidence and determination.

  Swallowing my unease, I replace the paper, making sure it is left in precisely the same position, with the signature layered on top of the one below, turning it a tick to the right.

  I look up from the desk, finding the boys exploring their own areas, each focused to lethal extent. Ryker gazes at one of the side walls, which has shelves filled with relics and awards. There are thousands of them, some grand, others small. His head is cocked as he prowls up and down, at times pausing to run his finger over some ancient weapon.

  Kieran is scanning a pile of books, some of which have been left open, their spines cracked and browned. They are placed on a small table by a chair, which sits illuminated by a lampshade of royal blue. He leans on the back of the velvet chaise, his eyes flitting the pages rapidly and his brows scrunched in interest.

  I turn back to the desk, observing more papers. Many of these are quite outdated, only a few with current information. This must be an office, likely for a Merikna, which makes this venture all the more dangerous and tenfold more exciting.

  Another letter catches my interest, this one written in a language I do not recognize, with no date and no signature to identify. I look up once more and beckon over Kieran, who slowly peels away from the book to meet my side. He gazes at the paper for many moments, before turning to me and signing,

  “This is not Vernezian.”

  Surprised, I look back, desperate to decipher the words. Something about them seems familiar, as if I should recognize them from some place far away. The thought winds in my head, snuffing my other senses as I desperately try to figure out the loose end.

  Kieran observes more of the papers as I look over the comforting words, the illusion of some brief understanding rocking deep into my core. A flash of a woman, with dark hair and cornflower eyes pierces my mind, but her face does not register. I scratch the back of my neck, a tingling sensation tickling my spine.

  The sound of a door makes all of us freeze, before quickly diving for cover. Ryker slips behind the entrance, preparing for it to open and make his break. Kieran slinks into a deeply shadowed corner, winding his own around his body to fully disappear. I slide under the desk, pressing myself as far back as I can manage, desperately trying to shrink any of my size, a skill that used to be easier than closing my eyes.

  Footsteps soon enter, and as the door creaks shut, I see Ryker’s quick footsteps silently sneak out. There is only one man who has entered the room, his black boots thudding lightly on the lush, worn rug. He approaches the desk, sighing as if he has had a long and stressful day, and leans over the front side, shifting a paper, the fast crinkle of a pen telling me he is not here to stay.

  I hold my breath for the many minutes until he at last stands upright, papers in hand, and leaves through a secret doorway hidden in the bookshelves. The door snicks shut and I wait for a moment, unable to move with the fear of being caught.

  And then, scaring a year off of my life, Kieran leans under the desk, and gestures frantically for me to get out. As we scamper to the door, I find the strange paper missing, and can’t stop thinking about it as we enter the main hall, where Ryker comes out from behind a suit of armor, looking thoroughly relieved.

  As we head back to the dormitory, Ryker signs, “It was feathers office,” and Kieran and I give him a strange look. Unimpressed, he flaps his arms, eyes wide and making a faint caw.

  With a nauseating realization, we push open the door, and I spend the rest of the night thinking about how we infiltrated the office of Colonel Crane, the deadliest assassin in Leiyetta, and the most dangerous man in all of Parisama.