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akumainu · 6 days ago

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Sage of Truth x Reader Pt.3

Warnings : None, bad writing, shy reader

Part 2

Author note : My stupidity deleted everything and I had to quickly rewrite it all from my terrible memory... Lowkey i wanted die</3 So, sorry but this will be a bit weird with the emotion not developed enough than what I had planned!! I REALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER SO SO SORRY, normally I draw, not write!!

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Despite the revelations of the night before, the week had no choice but to continue.

The rest of the days arrived the way it always did, quietly, as if on tiptoe, bringing with it a hush that settled over everything like dust on old parchment.

You were, as usual, at your post in the library. The sun filtered lazily through the tall stained-glass windows, casting fractured beams of color onto the white-and-blue stone floors, floors that had borne the soft erosion of centuries worth of footsteps. The morning moved slowly, a patient tide. Few students wandered through at that hour, most of them still locked away in classrooms, heads bowed beneath floating scrolls and chalk that whispered their lectures in cursive spells upon enchanted slates.

Only a handful made their way here, those who claimed to be studying for upcoming exams but who, in truth, sought escape from the rigid cadence of academic routine. You could recognize them in an instant, the ones who flipped pages too fast, tapped their quills too often, stared out the windows as if trying to remember what existed beyond them.

With a soft groan, you hoisted a stack of returned tomes into your arms and made your rounds, slipping them back into their rightful places with the kind of reverence usually reserved for relics. When you slid the final one onto the shelf, you released a quiet sigh, not of fatigue, but of something gentler. A moment of pause. A moment that was yours.

You stepped out from between the aisles, casting a slow, attentive glance across the space. Nothing out of place. Nothing calling for your hand.

Everything seemed still.

The kind of stillness that doesn’t simply fill a room, but wraps around you like a forgotten shawl. Outside, birds sang without rhythm or reason. Morning light spilled in through the arched windows, gilding the rows of books in shifting bands of gold. From the far end of the library, you caught the faintest hum, two students, perhaps, murmuring in voices too hushed to decipher.

You hadn’t expected it, as you watched them, those students leaning over their notes, exchanging glances, the occasional stifled laugh, something stirred.

Old feeling, long-buried and softened by time, began to surface.

You recognized the restless flicker of anxiety in their hands. The quiet pride hidden beneath the comparison of scores. The shared secrets, exchanged in glances and half-suppressed grins. That kind of pride was delicate. Fleeting. Beautiful in its transience.

You saw yourself in them. Or rather, the version of you that might have been, if things had been different.

But it wasn’t the laughing pairs that held your attention.

It was the others.

The quiet ones. The ones who came alone.

The ones who wandered the aisles without ever selecting a book, brushing fingertips across spines like they were touching ghosts. The ones who folded themselves into corners, backs turned to the world, pretending to read while their eyes flicked again and again to the clock on the wall.

You noticed one of them that morning.

A girl. She hadn’t touched a single page, just drifted like a wisp between shelves, as if being surrounded by books might keep her from unraveling entirely.

And in her, you saw too much of what you once were.

Not the self who once sat in groups or passed notes between desks.

But the one who had come here for no other reason than to let the hours pass silently.

The one who didn’t know how to speak unless a book first lent you the words.

The one who lived in fear of the question, “Why are you here?”, because you didn’t know how to answer it without shattering something.

You told yourself, perhaps foolishly, that you should let go of such thoughts. That memories were not meant to be summoned so easily.

You were still caught in that quiet spiral when a gentle tap on your shoulder pulled you back.

You turned.

Two students stood before you, uniforms crisp in the morning glow, white trimmed in sapphire, the Academy’s golden crest gleaming on their collars. Their postures were too perfect to be casual. Their expressions held just enough amusement to suggest they’d been rehearsing this moment.

“Excuse us,” one of them said, sweeping a fringe of hair out of their face with exaggerated grace. “We were wondering if you had any books on… Flamecraft?”

You blinked once. “Flamecraft? For what purpose?”

The shorter one cast a glance at his companion, who gave a lopsided smile that barely masked mischief. “A class project,” he added quickly, his hair tousled in a way that suggested either deep thought or a complete lack thereof.

You tilted your head, trying to gauge the sincerity in their voices. You didn’t find much. But you let it pass. A small breath escaped you, your stolen moment of calm scattered now like dust. You gave a resigned nod and muttered, “Follow me, you two…”

You led them toward the far side of the library, your steps slow but sure. “Elemental Theory,” you said, gesturing. “Second row on the left. You’ll find everything the Academy permits on the subject.”

They thanked you and wandered off, their footsteps already lightening with laughter.

Your fingers, by habit, trailed across the labels of nearby shelves. Behind you, the boys’ conversation resumed, this time softer, threaded with humor. You couldn’t catch the words, but you watched the way they leaned toward each other.

And for a fleeting second, you smiled.

Even if they were lying, even if their interest in fire was born of nothing more than curiosity or chaos, it was theirs to carry. And the Academy, if nothing else, had room for that.

Still, you found yourself wondering, what sort of class involves flamecraft?…

But the question drifted away. The Academy had never needed to make sense. Not fully.

And besides, magic had never quite belonged to you.

You had tried, once, when you were younger, a student yourself. You had memorized the incantations, traced the diagrams in ink and ash, whispered ancient syllables beneath your breath until your voice was hoarse. You had followed every instruction with the precision of desperation.

And still… nothing.

No fire leapt from your hands. No shimmer of light danced in your veins. The words, no matter how beautifully spoken, fell flat.

The magic never stayed.

Eventually, you stopped trying.

You found a home instead among the books, among the dust and pages and the rustle of paper that never demanded anything from you.

And you told yourself, over and over again, that it was enough.

And some days, like today, it almost felt true.

———

The rest of the day blurred in small rituals, shelving returned volumes, whispering reminders to students to keep their voices down, gently reprimanding a group of third-years who had turned the history corner into a café... Answering soft-spoken questions about indexes and sections, and many others formalities.

The hours passed. The light shifted. Shadows stretched long across the marble.

By the time the sun dipped fully behind the stone towers of the Academy, the hush had returned.

Evening arrived. You were alone in the library, finding once again the same silence that had welcomed you in the morning, as if it had been waiting for your return.

For once, you closed the library properly. No hidden invitations. No half-unlocked doors. No secret visitors.

Tomorrow was your day off. Another librarian would take your place, your closest colleague. And for once, you allowed yourself the peace of stepping back.

The Academy was quiet now, wrapped in the velvet of night. The moon filtered through the windows as you made your way to the main door, fingertips grazing the heavy wood.

Just as you reached for the lock, a soft, almost apologetic voice stopped you.

“Um…excuse me?..”

You turned, a voice unfamiliar, one you didn’t know by sound alone.

But then, her face stirred a memory, recognition unfolding like a quiet bloom.

It was her.

The same girl from the morning. The quiet one. The one who wandered like she was looking for pieces of herself between the shelves. Her uniform looked slightly wrinkled now, and there was something hesitant in her posture, like she wasn’t quite sure she belonged here anymore.

She stood there awkwardly, hands clasped behind her back, fidgeting with the edge of her uniform, as if unsure whether she should speak or turn around.

“Is the library not open tonight?” she asked, her voice fragile but full of something familiar you couldn’t quite name.

You blinked, caught off guard by how timid she sounded.

You stepped back inside, so your voices wouldn’t ripple into the quiet veins of the corridor, holding the door open with a quiet hand, inviting her into the hush of the library. She hesitated, with the same uncertain grace that haunted her every motion, she unsurely followed you in. After she slipped through like a whisper, you let the door close behind her.

“Well..” you started softly. “I didn’t expect anyone else to come tonight.”

Facing you now, as if the quiet had drawn her closer, the student bit her lip. “I just… it’s easier to read here, it’s quiet.. And no one really notices you here.” Her voice trailed off, like she regretted admitting that.

At her word, your hand tightening around the handle, as though the truth in her words had tugged at your spine.

You understood more than you wanted to admit.

But quickly, you released the handle, gently, as if surrendering something heavy you’d held too long. You offered her a quiet smile.

“Normally, yes. It’s always open at night. But… unfortunately, tomorrow’s my day off.”

She looked down, trying to fold her sorrow neatly behind her eyes, but failing just a little.

“Oh- Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. I just thought…”

“It’s alright,” you interrupted softly, while stepping aside. “You can stay for a bit. Just until I finish tidying up.”

Truth be told, everything was already in order, but a small lie seemed kinder than sending her back into the dark too soon.

Her eyes widened, the smallest flicker of gratitude sparking there. “Really?”

You nodded, a smile slipping from your lips at her reaction.

Then, she walked past you with careful steps and vanished back between the shelves. You watched her as she disappeared, drawn not by purpose, but by presence.

And for a moment, in the vast silence of this ancient place, you stood there, she reminded you too much of someone, a hollow bloom unfolding in your chest as you realized who it was. Perhaps, of yourself.

———

The evening unfolded in silence, the moon had climbed to its zenith, draping the Academy in silver silence.

You had just finished locking the last window latch, the flickering lanterns casting sleepy halos of gold over the polished wood floors of the library. The shelves stood tall and dignified behind you, silhouettes of silent witnesses. For once, you were done.

After letting the quiet girl linger in the aisles a little longer, you finally closed the library for the night. The comforting scent of paper and candle wax still clung to your sleeves as you stepped outside into the corridor, wrapping your scarf a little tighter around your neck.

You stepped outside, the halls dim and still, only the echo of your footsteps daring to disturb the quiet. The cold nipped gently at your uncovered skin.

Your mind was already halfway home, imagining the comfort of a blanket, the slow hum of your kettle, maybe a book untouched by academic weight. All you wanted now was to slip away into the city night, into your own little world far from the humming undercurrent of this place.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Just as you turned a corner, steps echoing softly on the marble floor, you froze in place.

In the corridor ahead, two figures stood bathed in pale lamplight, one tall and unmistakably poised.

Shadow Milk, the Sage of Truth, the Academy’s own celestial legend. His blue silvery hair shimmered faintly, even beneath the low glow, as though it remembered the stars themselves.

A figure next to him, perhaps a professor, leaned in to say something, then paused, as his gaze shifted, sudden and sharp, in your direction.

Your breath caught in your throat. Without thinking, as always, you turned quickly, stepping into the shadows, slipping behind one of the tall columns, holding your breath. Pathetic, maybe, but instinctive. You didn’t know why exactly, embarrassment, probably. Or the gnawing feeling that you didn’t belong in his world of perfect prose and gentle knowledge.

You weren’t ready to face him again.

Not after the intimacy of the notes. Not after the quiet conversations pressed between pages.

You stayed behind the pillar, breath held, whispering silent prayers to the witches, let them show mercy, let them have not seen you.

Further down the corridor, the professor of potioncraft kept his gaze lingering where the shadows had stirred. He glanced at the Sage beside him, confusion touching his voice.

“Was that one of the librarians…?”

A pause. Then, the Sage replied, his tone calm, unreadable,

“…Pay her no mind. Come, we’ve somewhere to be.”

The professor simply nodded and continued walking beside him. But with a quick glance, Shadow Milk looked toward the pillar, just enough to glimpse your hand slipping back into shadow.

A wry, knowing smile played at his lips, quiet, but unmistakable.

You waited until their footsteps faded completely, then exhaled and finally made your way out of the Academy gates, this time, you didn’t forget to glance around the corner, wary now of fate’s little surprises…

———

The morning had started with silence. Not the peaceful kind that comforts, but the kind that clings, like dust in the corners of a room too long undisturbed.

You sat curled into your favorite blanket, knees drawn close, a mug of tea resting against your palms. The steam had long since stopped rising. A quiet sigh left you as you stared through the window, watching droplets of last night’s light rain slide lazily down the glass. The air in your home was still. Books were scattered over your desk in a chaotic harmony only you understood, half-open volumes, annotated scrolls, bookmarks poking out like restless feathers. It was your sanctuary.

And then came the tapping.

At first, it was so soft you thought it was a branch brushing the glass. Then it came again. Rhythmic. Persistent. A tap. Then another. Like someone too polite to knock loudly but too determined to leave.

You rose slowly, blanket dragging behind you across the wooden floor. Each step made the old planks groan beneath your weight. You reached the window and drew the curtain back.

A bird.

Small. Blue. Its feathers slick with morning mist. It looked unimpressed, as if it had been sent on errands too early in the day.

You hesitated before unlocking the window, letting the crisp air in with a breath that chased away the fog of your rest. The bird hopped in without invitation, landing gracefully atop your cluttered desk. One clawed foot bore a tiny scroll, tied haphazardly with string. The creature gave a low chirp and then nestled into the papers like it belonged there.

You stepped closer, brushing hair from your face, and reached out. The bird remained still, eyes half-lidded. You untied the scroll carefully, whispering soft apologies to the creature as your fingers worked. With your other hand, you began to gently stroke its feathers, out of gratitude, or habit, or the simple, wordless comfort of contact.

The paper felt familiar. The texture, standard academy stationery. Coarse, but always reliable. The ink, however, was rushed. Still wet in places. You unrolled it.

"I’m so, so, so, sorry, I wrote this in a rush!! An incident happened at the library. And I know, it’s your day off, but I would really need some help. I owe you something if you come!! -A."

You blinked. Recognition came instantly. The crooked letters. The uneven line spacing. Your colleague.

Of course.

A groan formed at the back of your throat as you glanced down at your cup of tea, now lukewarm. Your blanket sagged from your shoulders like defeated wings. So much for a day of rest.

Still, you moved.

It didn’t take long to dress, your usual work clothes were still draped over a nearby chair. Rumpled from yesterday, the fabric smelled faintly of ink, old book, and something vaguely floral. You shrugged into it without thinking, too distracted by the letter and the strange knot forming in your chest.

The bird remained behind, watching you with unblinking eyes as you laced your shoes and grabbed your bag.

Outside, the air smelled like wet stone and distant fireplaces. The streets glistened with rain left from the night before. Your shoes splashed gently in puddles as you walked, each step echoing in the quiet, thankfully the academy loomed not so far away from your home, a collection of spires and stained glass catching the soft grey light of morning.

You took the side path, where fewer students walked. Moss covered the stone steps like a green tide, and leaves clung to the edges of the railing. Your fingers brushed them idly as you ascended, the cold air waking you up more than the duty of work ever could.

By the time the tall spires of the Academy came into view, after seemed like too long, you enter. The closer you got to the library, the more noise filtered through the air, distant voices, echoing footsteps, the hum of worry disguised as curiosity.

Something had definitely happened, you made your way toward the library. A crowd lingered near the entrance of the library, not a mob, but more than usual for this time of morning. Students whispered in clusters, standing too close to the doorway but never crossing the threshold. Some peered in with cautious fascination. Others just stood, arms crossed, clearly waiting for gossip to unfold.

You pushed your way through them with murmured apologies, slipping between robes and bags, eyes lowered to avoid being stopped. Most didn’t notice you. One or two did, but didn’t dare question you.

You stepped over the threshold.

And then the smell finally hit you.

Acrid. Dry. The sharp, unmistakable scent of burned parchment and scorched wood. Smoke still lingered in the air, thin and ghostlike, trailing between shelves like it hadn’t decided to leave yet.

The light inside was strange. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass ceiling above, casting warped colors onto a ruined scene. One of the Elemental Studies shelves had collapsed, its spine snapped like a felled tree. Ash clung to everything, floating, falling, resting in piles like grey snow.

You stood still for a moment, taking it in. Your throat tightened.

A professor was at the far end of the damage, crouched beside a stack of melted scroll cases. They were muttering, inspecting the extent of the damage. You caught one word, “costly” and something twisted in your gut, but your eyes didn’t stay on him for too long.

A few steps further, you spotted your colleague.

His sleeves were rolled up. His hair slightly singed. A smear of soot ran along his jaw. His voice, usually chipper and full of academic optimism, was lower now, strained.

He was speaking to two students.

Pale. Head down in shame. You knew them.

The same two who had asked you about Flamecraft. The same ones who had smiled like nothing was dangerous, like the rules didn’t quite apply to them.

Now they looked as if the ground itself might open up and swallow them.

You stepped carefully across the scorched floor. Your boots left faint prints in the ash.

Your colleague looked up and when he saw you. His eyes flashed toward you the second he noticed your arrival brightened slightly, relief visible in the soft exhale that escaped his lungs.

“Thank the stars,” he breathed, striding over quickly. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

You gave him a tired look. “It’s hard to say no when you were almost begging in the letter…”

He chuckled, but the sound was short-lived. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “Listen, I know it’s your day off, witches, I know, but it got bad. They were experimenting. Said they read about a theoretical combustion chain. Thought they could reproduce it. In a library. Near parchment, paper’s…”

You winced.

“I’ve got to finish the disciplinary paperwork. Can you handle the incident report? Inventory, damages, repairs, that sort of thing.”

You nodded. The words wouldn’t form, but your body moved. You turned toward your desk near the entrance.

And that’s when you saw it.

Your breath caught.

There, on the edge of your desk, the book the Sage gave you, your book.

Only it was no longer the book you remembered.

The leather binding had blistered. Gold filigree peeled back like flaking paint. Pages curled and blackened. Some were entirely gone, turned to ash that clung to the desk like ghosts.

You rushed forward.

The heat lingered. But the heat licked at your fingertips, and you recoiled, whispering a sharp breath through your teeth. You pulled back instinctively, then still trembling, you lifted it with your sleeves like sacred glass.

The book’s weight felt wrong. Lighter. Hollowed.

You used the edge of your sleeve to nudge it open, the inside was even worse.

The once-graceful handwriting, the carefully etched diagrams, were now blurred, smeared into blackened stains. Ink had melted into the paper. Pages stuck together. Some turned to brittle curls that crumbled when touched.

You swallowed hard.

This wasn’t just a book. It was a gift. A key to something more. There were so many questions left unanswered in its pages. So many sentences you had reread, knowing they meant something more. You had only just begun to understand some of his words. And now, it was gone.

And now it was gone.

You closed it carefully. Pressed it against your chest, accidentally leaving black ash stains on your clothes.

You sat down slowly, every movement deliberate. You placed the ruined book in the safest corner of your desk, a corner where it might rest, if not recover, away from any lingering sparks.

And after a long, bitter breath, you reached for a blank sheet of parchment. Your pen hovered for a second too long before you dipped your quill. The ink bled slightly.

Your hand hesitated above the page.

Then, you wrote. Slowly. Precisely.

Everything that has been damaged, destroyed.

Because if nothing else could be salvaged, this part had to be done right.

———

You had finished the list.

Your hand, stained with ink and soot in equal measure, moved slowly as you tied the final knot on the scroll. Each name, each item, each burned remnant had been recorded with a precision born not of discipline, but of obligation. The kind of duty that digs into your ribs and makes a home beneath your skin.

You sat there for a moment after sealing it, the rolled parchment resting in your palms like something fragile. Your thumbs brushed over its surface absently, tracing the wax seal you’d pressed only moments before. It was still warm.

Your eyes drifted up, drawn, unbidden, to the far southern wall.

The blackened stain that stretched across the stone seemed darker today, as if it had sunk deeper into the structure. A lingering echo of fire, etched not just into the physical walls but into the soul of the place. The smell was almost gone, scrubbed out by layers of fresh air and lavender, thanks to your colleague who opened the many windows, but the memory still clung to the air like a shadow.

It felt… wrong, somehow, that the world had carried on so quickly. Students laughed again in the hallway, shelves were already being reordered, that ink ran so easily across fresh paper when so much had been reduced to ash.

Your fingers clenched slightly.

You forced yourself to breathe.

Steady. In. Out.

Across the ruined aisle, your colleague made an undignified sound, half a grunt, half a whimper, as he attempted to carry a stack of badly burned tomes in his arms. The topmost book looked as though it had been half-eaten by fire and then spit back out in protest. Charcoal flakes drifted off the edges of the stack like ash snow.

He caught you watching him and gave you a sheepish, crooked smile, the kind that asked not to be judged. You stepped forward instinctively as the books tilted dangerously, but he danced backward with a shaky laugh and somehow managed to regain control before the entire tower of knowledge toppled onto the cracked marble floor.

“Graceful as ever,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

He stuck out his tongue in reply, a childish reply despite his age.

But even as you prepared to turn away, something else caught your eye. Just beyond him, partially obscured by the broken beams of a ruined selves, two figures sat in the shadows. Quiet. Still. They didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Your heart sank.

The same two students whose foolishness had kindled the first spark. The ones who had, in their arrogance, pried open what should have remained sealed. They looked small now. Shrunk. As though some great hand had wrung the defiance out of them and left nothing but brittle silence behind.

Their faces were drawn, lips pale and pressed tight, eyes rimmed with guilt, or perhaps fear of the repercussions.

For a flicker of a second, something in your chest twisted. Not pity, not exactly. Something more like… sympathy. You hated it. But they deserved their fate, didn’t they?

You turned away before the feeling could root itself, walking toward your colleague.

“Where do I take the report?” you asked, your voice low. Steady.

Your colleague blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. He adjusted the stack in his arms with an awkward grunt. “Hm? Oh- ..uh. You’ll want to bring it to one of the senior archivists or a Circle scribe. If you want to be official.”

You raised an eyebrow, the names being unknown to your ears.

He hesitated, then added, almost apologetically, “Or... the Sage. If he’s in. He’s not lecturing today, I think. Just… sorting through paperwork. It would make the procedure easier.”

You stopped breathing.

The scroll in your hand suddenly felt ten times heavier.

You didn’t need to ask which Sage.

There was only one whose name had become such title, whispered only in the safety of side halls and dormitories. Only one whose presence seemed to pull the air tighter, like gravity had a favorite.

Shadow Milk.

Your chest tightened.

He was the last person you wanted to see today.

Hell, you’d built the last day around not seeing him. You’d traced his patterns like a stargazer mapping constellations, carefully aligning your own routines to avoid shared paths. You’d even lingered in the herbarium an extra hour yesterday during your break, pretending to study root systems when you heard that he was teaching in a class nearby.

And now the stars, or perhaps just cruel coincidence, had decided this was the moment. This was your penance.

You opened your mouth, ready to object, to explain that today was technically your day off, that you weren’t even supposed to be here, and that surely someone else could.

But your colleague was already walking away, wobbling dangerously under the weight of the ruined books.

“Thanks!” he called, voice muffled by a plume of dust as he turned a corner.

You stood in place for a moment. Silent.

Then, of course, you made your way to the exit.

Muttering half-hearted complaints to yourself, you resignedly turned toward the hallway. The paper burned in your hand with phantom heat, as though the guilt of the ruined book, his book, had soaked into the parchment.

---

The halls felt longer today.

Maybe it was the way your shoes echoed too loudly on the stone. Or maybe it was the stillness, how few others walked these corridors now that classes had resumed. You passed a few stragglers, students clutching papers or books tucked under arms, too lost in their own world to notice you.

You envied them.

They walked like ghosts, untouched by consequence. You wondered if you’d ever moved that way.

Sooner than you expected, too soon, you found yourself facing it, the door.

The Sage’s office.

An imposing slab of dark oak, carved with symbols that pulsed faintly at the edge of your vision if you looked too long. It loomed more than it should have. It had always felt like a boundary to somewhere... holier. Or more dangerous.

You stopped in front of it, heartbeat loud in your ears.

Raised your hand.

Paused.

You hovered there, knuckles just inches from the wood, suspended in uncertainty. The muscles in your arm trembled slightly, not from fear, not exactly. From awareness. From the weight of what this gesture meant.

You stared at the grain in the wood.

What if he’s busy? What if he’s in the middle of something important? What if I bother him? What if I bother him?

And more dangerously, what if something’s changed since that night?

The thought slipped in uninvited. You tried to shove it back, but it lingered like perfume. A memory, quiet words in the dark. Fingers brushing yours as exchanged book. His voice, hushed, looking at your book like it mean something.

What if he looked at you now and didn’t see that anymore?

Your fingers twitched and slowly lowered to your side. Maybe you could just slip the scroll under the door and leave. That wouldn’t be too unprofessional, right? Just slip in, place it, and go. He’d understand. He always did.

You took a step back.

Just as you were about to turn away, a gentle but unmistakably weight settled on your shoulder. Warm. Gentle. Terribly familiar. You flinched, heart lurching. Someone had touched you. Someone who clearly thought they had the right to.

Your body locked into place, a string pulled taut.

You spun on instinct, intending to scold whoever it was, only to find yourself face-to-face with the one person you'd hoped to avoid.

There he stood.

Shadow Milk.

The Sage stood just infront of you, his mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement, that ever-cryptic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hand lingered on your shoulder for a second longer than necessary before he pulled it away, as if savoring your shock.

He stood casually, hands now tucked behind his back, his posture effortless yet precise, as though he were always exactly where he intended to be.

His clothes were the same soft white you remembered, layered with navy accents in his back, which follows each of its steps. They caught the light strangely, as if the fabric remembered shadows. A few loose strands of light blue hair fell across his brow, as always, defying the otherwise surgical neatness of his appearance.

But it was his eyes that held you still.

Behind a veil of white lashes, the right one, of deep and quiet blue, caught the light like a frozen pond at dusk, cold, reflective, endless.

The other one gleamed gold, steady, knowing. Warmer… Watching you.

Amused.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, a corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Trying to slip away again I see?” he said softly, his voice low and playful, like a secret joke only the two of you shared.

You stared, had he saw you in the hallway?-

He continued, with a faint sigh of false sympathy. “Tsk. Come now. You’ve come all this way after all.”

You opened your mouth to object, to deny it, but nothing came out.

The last time you’d heard his voice this close, there hadn’t been anyone else in the building. There hadn’t been parchment between you. Just late-night lamplight and the slow, deliberate exchange of stories not found in any other library.

“I wasn’t-” you began, but the words stumbled. “I was just-”

He raised an eyebrow, cutting the space between you with silence alone.

You swallowed hard and shifted your grip on the scroll, suddenly aware of how tightly your fingers had curled around it. The wax seal was half-crushed now. You hadn’t even noticed.

He glanced at it briefly, then stepped past you, not dismissively, not cold, but with the kind of smooth inevitability that said ‘I’ve already decided this is happening.’

You stood frozen as he reached out and touched the door.

The sigils etched in the wood glowed briefly beneath his fingertips, a shimmering pale blue, and the wards parted without resistance.

The door swung open, slow and deliberate.

He held it there, his eyes flicking back to you.

“Well?” he said, voice dry. “You’ve come this far, you're not going to turn around right away.”

You stared at him.

Then, against your better judgment, you stepped inside.

His office hadn’t changed. On your first day you innocently glanced in, not even knowing who owned the desk, luckily no one was there. But this time, it felt different. Because you were welcomed in.

The room was high-ceilinged, book-lined, and filled with light, but the kind of light that didn’t seem to come from anything in particular. No lamps were lit. No sunlight spilled directly through the arched windows. Yet everything glowed faintly. Softly.

The shelves were crammed with more books than a dozen students would read in their lifetime, some leather-bound, some chained shut with delicate silver loops.

You tried to stare at anything but him.

The desk.

Crafted from dark wood, its surface etched with swirling patterns that curled like sea foam frozen in obsidian. It was cluttered, but not chaotically so, open scrolls lay scattered among half-finished notes written in a precise, deliberate hand. A chipped mug of tea rested amid the mess, still faintly steaming. Everything was bathed in the soft, shifting light that poured through the wide window behind the desk, illuminating the scene with a quiet, contemplative glow.

And near the edge, almost like a forgotten relic, sat a book.

Midnight blue cover. Gold lettering faded but intact.

Your eyes recognize it.

It was the second in a trilogy, Celestial Architectures, Vol. II. A story you had once pressed into his hand half in hope, half in something far more vulnerable. He hadn’t said much when you gave it to him.

But the silk bookmark now nestled near the final pages told you everything.

He was almost finished.

You stood there, not moving, as he strode to the desk and sat, elegantly, comfortably, the air shifted, as if the place itself welcomed its owner home.

With a flick of his fingers, the scroll lifted from your hands.

You didn’t even feel it go.

The magic was subtle, no flare of light, no dramatic gesture despite the stories that told about his past. Just a whisper of motion and then the parchment floating gently toward him. He caught it midair, unfurling it with a practiced ease.

You watched as his eyes scanned the lines you had written. His brow furrowed faintly at first, then smoothed as he read on.

His expression remained unreadable.

You stood motionless, a tight knot forming at the base of your spine. Your heartbeat felt slow and heavy now, like a drum muffled beneath too many layers of cloth.

Maybe he would say nothing.

Maybe that would be worse.

Then, finally,

“Scholars,” he muttered, exhaling softly through his nose. “Always so thorough.”

He didn’t sound annoyed. Just… resigned.

You cleared your throat quietly.

“I… I wanted to tell you-” you began.

His eyes didn’t lift from the scroll.

You tried again. “The book you lent me. The one you gave me before- before the fire…”

He looked up, just a flicker of attention, enough to catch the hesitation in your voice.

“It didn’t survive,” you said.

He blinked. Once.

Then, simply “Oh?”

You nodded. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taken it out sooner. I didn’t think- I didn’t know-”

He waved a hand lazily. “It’s fine.”

You stared at him, perhaps even bothered by the lack of reaction.

“…You’re not angry?” you asked, the words out before you could second-guess them.

That earned you a longer look.

His mismatched eyes caught the faint glow of the light outside. “Should I be?”

“It was rare,” you said, hesitantly. “It was not just a copy, it was handmade. You spent time writing it.. You said it was part of a-”

“Everything’s rare when it’s irreplaceable,” he said simply. “That doesn’t mean it’s sacred.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

He tilted his head slightly, regarding you with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but not far from one, either.

“Books are meant to die,” he said quietly. “Especially the good ones. Their job is to pass on what they know. Not to last forever.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“No,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “That’s not true.”

His eyebrows rose, mildly impressed. “No?”

“Some books, some stories, should last,” you said, your voice firmer now, but the hesitation persists in your voice, “because they matter. Because they deserve to.”

He was silent for a moment.

Then, with deliberate care, he set the scroll down on the desk.

Folded his hands.

And looked at you.

Not just a glance. Not a fleeting look. No.

He stared, straight into your eyes, with a calm yet unyielding intensity.

You froze, unsure of what you were supposed to feel, perhaps wondering if you had finally crossed the line with your words.

“Are you implying,” he said, voice smooth, “that I just lied?”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the sharpness in his tone.

You opened your mouth, already flustered. “No!” you said, your voice rushing. “I-I didn’t mean it like that, I just-”

And then, he laughed.

Not a scoff. Not a simple breath.

A laugh.

Warm. Real. Louder than any chuckle you've managed to get out of him before.

It startled you.

He leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing as he rested his chin lightly in his hand.

“And here I thought you were the type to believe everything I say without questioning it...”, he murmured low, but that didn't stop you from hearing each of his words.

You blinked, stunned.

A dozen thoughts fought for room in your skull and none of them made it to your mouth in time.

You were still trying to decide what to say when a sharp knock rattled the wood of the door behind you.

Once. Twice.

Rhythmic. Measured.

He sighed. Not loudly. But you knew that sigh.

His gaze drifted toward the door, irritation flickering across his face like the shadow of a bird’s wing, but it quickly disappears.

“Enter,” he called.

The air seemed to tighten around the word.

You turned slowly toward the door.

And just like that, whatever strange quiet had been growing between you, ruptured.

———

Hope you liked the third chapter!!🫶 Lowkey Y/n colleague… HEAR ME OUTTT

I really hate this chapter, it fell weird and even more so since it’s not the original, so many small details and dialogue were forgotten as I result of my dumbass.

I’d rather do my 100 ask in my box than write the chapter 4, I DON’T HAVE IDEASSS!!!😫 I want to finish that fast.

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