Patterns of Friction

Cael had spent years perfecting the art of irrelevance. But now, as he stood at the threshold of the Grand Library's restricted wing, he could feel the weight of unseen eyes pressing upon him.

For the first time in a long while, he had been noticed.

The thought was more unsettling than it was reassuring.

Lirienne's words from the previous night still clung to his mind like stubborn cobwebs. Because you're lonely. As if loneliness were some affliction he had unknowingly contracted, some hidden sickness gnawing at his edges. She thought she had him figured out.

She was wrong.

He wasn't lonely.

He was just careful.

His fingers trailed over the spines of ancient tomes as he moved deeper into the library, his presence barely more than a whisper among the shelves. There were records here—old, forgotten things. If Abstract magic was an anomaly, then there had to be a record of why. Of what made it so dangerous.

And of what happened to those who wielded it.

He pulled a volume from the shelf, its leather cover worn with age. The title was faded, but the insignia of the Academy still gleamed faintly on its spine. Magics Forbidden and Forgotten.

He exhaled slowly. Found you.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows as Cael turned the brittle pages. The book detailed various lost magics—some erased through time, others deliberately purged. Each entry read like a cautionary tale, a reminder of what was deemed too unstable, too unpredictable.

Chaos Weaving: A school of magic that distorts probability, leading to unpredictable and often catastrophic consequences.

Dream Binding: The ability to shape reality through subconscious thought. Banned due to the instability of manifested constructs.

And then, near the very end of the book, he found it.

Abstract Magic: An anomaly that defies classification. Its wielders exhibit an unnatural ability to perceive patterns beyond the scope of human cognition. They see the weave of existence, the echoes of what is to come.

His pulse quickened.

Few individuals have manifested Abstract magic, and fewer still have lived to understand its full implications. The mind perceives too much, fractures under the weight of knowledge it was never meant to hold. Those who survive are rendered unstable or...

The rest was smudged, as if someone had deliberately obscured the ink.

Cael's jaw tightened. This wasn't just superstition. It was a warning.

And it had been buried here for a reason.

A soft creak echoed through the library.

Cael stiffened, snapping the book shut. Footsteps. Approaching.

He moved swiftly, pressing himself into the shadows between towering shelves. The candlelight wavered as a figure stepped into view—a man robed in deep violet, the embroidered sigil of the Academy marking him as one of the Scholars.

His eyes were sharp, scanning the room with purpose. Searching.

Cael held his breath, counting the seconds.

The scholar lingered for a moment too long, then turned and disappeared into the next aisle.

Cael exhaled slowly, slipping the book beneath his cloak. He would not find answers here. Not in a place where even history had been rewritten.

If he wanted the truth, he would have to seek it elsewhere.

And that meant stepping into the open.

For the first time in years, Cael Mavros would have to let himself be seen.