The air in the study felt brittle, as if one wrong move might shatter the room entirely. The strangers closed in, boots scraping over the scattered papers until they surrounded Alaric and Morgan.

The man gripping Morgan’s arm leaned close, his breath sour. “What’ve we got here, missy? You a drinker?” His gaze slid to the clinking bottles on her belt. “Or maybe just a collector?”

Morgan’s smirk was slow, dangerous. “Why don’t you have one and find out?”

He grinned, thinking he’d called her bluff, and yanked a bottle free. “Don’t mind if I do.” He uncorked it, sniffed the shimmering contents, and chuckled. “Smells like it’d put a bear on its back. You make this yourself?”

“They’re strong,” she said, voice edged like glass. “Hope you can handle it.”

With a shrug, he tipped the bottle back and swallowed half in one gulp. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his eyes blinked rapidly, his grip on her arm loosened, and the knife at her throat clattered to the floor.

The laughter from the others started before the bottle even hit the ground—until George’s body began to swell, puffing like bread in an oven. His feet lifted off the floor. Slowly, steadily, he drifted upward.

“What the hell—!?” the gruff man with the eyepatch barked, lowering his crossbow to stare.

Morgan spread her hands in mock innocence. “Guess he couldn’t hold his drink.”

“Jack’s right—you did something!” the blonde woman in the bright red shirt snapped. She jabbed a finger toward the ceiling. “Bring my brother down right now!”

Morgan tilted her head. “He’ll be fine. Probably. Just... floating for a day or two. Shouldn’t have chugged—these aren’t for drinking.” She plucked another bottle from her belt and swirled it slowly. The liquid inside shifted colors like oil on water.

Jack hesitated, eye flicking between Morgan’s belt and the man now lazily spinning against the ceiling beams.

“I’m gettin’ outta here!” Crooked Nose blurted. He bolted for the door before Jack could stop him.

“Will! Get back here!” Jack roared, but Will’s footsteps were already pounding down the hall.

“Clara, we—” Jack began.

“I’m not leaving him up there!” Clara shot back, pointing at her still-floating brother.

While they argued, Morgan’s fingers closed around Alaric’s wrist. She pulled him from behind the desk, the pair edging toward the open hall.

They’d nearly reached the threshold when Jack spun on them. “Hold it!” His crossbow rose, arrow aimed directly at Alaric’s chest. “You’re gonna bring him down, or I put a bolt through the boy.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened. Her eyes flicked to Alaric—fear flashed there, but he didn’t move. Her grip on him loosened just enough for her to grab a bottle from her belt.

“Run,” she said.

She flung the potion straight at Jack. It burst in a plume of violet mist, the shockwave rattling the room.

The manor groaned like a living thing. Deep cracks raced along the walls; the chandelier above them shuddered violently. Morgan seized Alaric’s hand, pulling him into a sprint.

They dashed into the hall as beams began to crash down, dodging splintering wood and falling plaster. Behind them, voices shouted—but the roar of the collapsing ceiling swallowed the words.

At the stairs, the entire landing buckled. They jumped the last steps as the staircase tore free, crashing into the floor below.

The front doors loomed ahead, still solid—for now. Morgan shoved them open. Sunlight blinded them for an instant before they stumbled into the open air. A heartbeat later, the manor behind them gave way with a deafening roar, the dust cloud swallowing it whole.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Bent double, gasping, they coughed the dust from their lungs.

“I... can’t believe that just happened,” Alaric panted, running a hand through his hair. “I used to read about things like this... never thought I’d be in one.”

Morgan’s laugh was short, almost disbelieving. “You’re full of surprises, kid.”

But her eyes followed his to the ruins. His shoulders sagged as he stared. For all the danger they’d just escaped, there was no victory in this for him—only an ending. His home, his past, his father’s memory—all buried under stone and ash.

“I’m ready to go,” he said at last, voice quiet but steady.

———

That evening, they sat at Morgan’s table. Candles flickered between them, casting warm light over the piles of books and papers.

“I’ve gone through nearly everything I have,” Morgan muttered, flipping through another cracked leather volume. “And nothing matches the symbols on that paper.”

Her eyes darted to a high shelf—and stopped. Slowly, she rose, reached up, and pulled down a thick, dust-caked book. Its cover was bound in dark leather, the latch set with a gleaming blue stone that seemed to hum faintly in the candlelight.

She tried the latch. It didn’t budge. She whispered a word in her language. Nothing. She tried another—louder, sharper. Still nothing. By the third attempt, her voice had sharpened into frustration.

“Looks old,” Alaric said, leaning over to get a better look. “Maybe it needs a riddle. Or a passphrase.” He grinned. “Open sesame.”

Morgan rolled her eyes—until the stone pulsed with light. The latch clicked open.

“What—!?” she sputtered.

Alaric beamed. “Guess it speaks my language.”

Morgan snatched the book, flipping through—and froze.

The pages were blank.

“Revelate,” she said firmly.

The words spilled into being like ink blooming in water. Diagrams. Maps. Symbols. Notes. The air seemed to thicken as the pages came alive.

Morgan’s fingers brushed over the handwriting.

It was hers.

She stared at the book, her face unreadable. Whatever was written there, she wasn’t ready to share it—not yet.