They did not wait.

  Curiosity had already gotten them into trouble before, but this did not feel like a choice.

  They circled the construction site, keeping to the edge where stacked lumber cast long shadows. Workers were crowded around a shallow pit.

  Velthur and Azandra slipped closer. They stood near the stone edge of a nearby building as not to draw attention to themselves, standing on two wooden water barrels that gave them a good vantage point.

  At the bottom of the pit, a slab of dark stone lay exposed. Not the usual pale foundation rock. This was smoother, almost black, with faint lines carved into it.

  Symbols.

  Not letters Velthur knew. Shapes. Curves and angles that made his eyes ache if he stared too long.

  “We started with this spot yesterday,” a mason was saying. “We dug and hit this. Tools slide right off.”

  Nethira knelt at the edge, brushing mud from the surface with her fingers.

  Her jaw tightened.

  “Cover it for now,” she told the workers. “No more digging here until the magisters meet.”

  One of the men spat to the side. “Bad luck stone, that is what it is.”

  “Maybe,” Nethira said. “So we will treat it carefully.”

  Velthur swayed.

  The lines on the slab seemed to shift when he blinked. Not moving. Just refusing to stay the same.

  Azandra leaned close. “Do not look too long.”

  “I am not trying to,” he said.

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  The air above the slab shimmered. Just a little. Like heat over a forge.

  And for a heartbeat, Velthur heard something.

  Not a voice.

  A breath.

  Deep. Slow. As if the stone itself slept.

  He stepped down and back hard enough to bump into a stack of wood.

  A shadow passed over them.

  He looked up.

  The raven sat on the frame of the unfinished hall, head tilted, watching the pit.

  “Of course,” Azandra muttered. “Your friend is back.”

  Velthur looked at the bird intensely, feeling it might share why it was watching him or what message it may have for him. He didn’t even realize Nethira had found them until she put her soft green hand on his shoulder.

  Nethira followed Velthur’s gaze, then looked back at him.

  “You hear it,” she said, not a question.

  He nodded.

  Azandra raised a hand. “What is it?”

  Nethira glanced at the workers, then lowered her voice. “I do not know. But I know this. We need to ask Justinus what he knows, now.”

  Velthur thought of Justinus. Of the way the older magister sometimes looked at empty corners of rooms, as if he expected something to step out of them. Strange, because he was often so jovial, though ever so often he could seem forlorn.

  “Do you think this is why the old school closed?” Azandra asked.

  “I think,” Nethira said, “it’s best not to make guesses right now.”

  She stood.

  “Both of you, go to your next lesson. Say nothing about this to other students. Panic spreads faster than fire in a dry field.”

  They nodded.

  As they walked away, Velthur felt the pull again. Gentle. Patient.

  Like a hand resting on a door that was not yet open.

  Azandra watched him from the corner of her eye. “You are doing that thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “The one where you look like you are already halfway into trouble.”

  He huffed a breath. “I am trying not to be.”

  “Good,” she said. “Keep trying.”

  They passed under a wooden arch where students had hung clay charms for luck. Small suns. Fish. Hands.

  Bronze hopes against old stone secrets.

  Velthur glanced back once more.

  The workers were covering the slab with planks and dirt.

  The raven was still there.

  Watching. Waiting.

  “Let’s go find Tarrow and see if he has learned anything else,” said Velthur, trying to place his mind back on things he could control.