The Mage

Chpt 5: Peter

(Peter’s POV)

I had planned the office long before I pushed the door open. It’s easy to pretend accidents when you’ve practiced the steps until they become second nature. I walked down the corridor after training because I knew the route Henry took when he wanted to be alone; I timed my rounds to match the lamplighter’s cadence and the apprentice’s practice so other sounds would hide my footsteps. The latch yielded under my hand like a promise made when you know how to ask for it. The room didn’t surprise me. It was exactly what I had expected: paper, oil, and the faint, sour sweetness of old grief, with the private lamp on the desk like a small, obedient light.

I did not come because curiosity stirred me. I came because I had been curious for a long time, and because curiosity, when fed, turns into appetite. I had watched Henry for months — his habits, the way he left his journal open to a specific page when he wanted to remember something, the way he slipped a piece of paper into his pocket, folding it as if it were something precious. I had observed him carry his silence like a cloak, wondering what lay beneath its folds. People who hide things always leave a seam. I learned to find seams.

The journal on the desk was the clue I had been searching for. Henry’s handwriting was neat and precise, the kind of script that tries to make things clear by writing them down. I had expected the journal to be dry — lists, ward inventories, the bureaucratic neatness a man uses to feel in control. Instead, the pages revealed a confession. The ink grew darker as the entries continued; the sentences shortened until they were nearly breathless. He wrote about a book, about a binding that should never have been made, about a darkness that learned the shape of people, and wrote Morgan’s name like a wound.

She laughed like the sun, the line read. I believed I could keep her safe by hiding what hurt her. I thought that if I buried the thing that could take her, I could keep the rest of us whole. I was wrong.

The ink had bled there, as if the pen had been dragged through tears. I let the words sit in the lamp’s light and watched how the paper absorbed them. Henry had not been a monster. He had been a man who tried to bargain with grief. That made him predictable. Predictability is a valuable thing when you want to take advantage of someone’s mistakes.

Beneath the journal, tucked into a slightly ajar drawer, was the photograph I had been searching for unknowingly. It was small and faded, with softened edges from being handled. Three faces pressed close together: Henry, Morgan, and their father. The child in the middle — Morgan — smiled with a dimple in her cheek; the father’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes were shadowed, hard to see clearly. Henry’s face looked younger in that photo, less guarded. Someone had smoothed the same corner of the image so many times that the paper had become thin and translucent, like a memory.

The photograph wasn’t meant to be discovered. That was the point. Things stored in drawers are kept for a reason. They are parts of lives people can’t bear to reveal. I pressed my thumb to the worn corner and felt the faint oil of another hand. The room tilted in a way that made me glad I had planned for stability.

Under the photograph were maps, notes, and a ledger listing rooms and wards. One sheet had a detailed sketch of the library’s lower vaults — hand-drawn corridors, with distances estimated from memory. A small X marked a chamber I had never seen on any official map. Next to it, in Henry’s handwriting, a single line: Dark Magic Library. Keep sealed — key in drawer.

I expected a map. I didn't anticipate the line being so blunt. The key was under the journal, heavy and cold. It was simple — iron, with a worn loop from use — but the weight of it in my hand felt like a verdict. I took it because I knew where it was and how to leave the drawer slightly open.

There are ways to get a man to leave a drawer open. A misplaced note, a knocked-over inkwell, or a servant sent with a question that requires a private answer — small, harmless things that create the exact moment you need. I didn't need to be clever. He kept his secrets in the places he thought were safe. I kept my eyes open.

The journal was more upsetting than I had expected. Henry had written about the ritual, how the runes tasted like iron, and how the book had drained him completely. He described nights when he woke up with his hands clenched, as if he could still feel what his father had done, and wrote about the house becoming increasingly silent.

I thought I was saving us, one line said. I believed I could keep the darkness at bay by hiding it. I didn’t realize that hiding is a form of feeding. I didn’t know that forgetting is a kind of hunger.

The confession wasn't an excuse; it was a map of a man’s guilt. It revealed everything I needed to know: that Henry had been desperate, that he believed secrecy could be a cure, and that he was wrong. Desperation makes people predictable, and that makes them valuable.

I carefully slid the photograph back into the drawer. I closed the journal and put it where I found it, as if returning the pages could make the past less dangerous. Then I slid the key into my sleeve. The metal was cool against my skin, a quiet heat that kept me steady.

I didn’t take the key because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I took it because power is something that can be held and used. The prophecy had been whispered in corridors long enough for me to learn its rhythm. Star-touched leader, a book that eats souls — these weren’t just warnings. They were a map of influence. If the world names a leader, then the one who controls the book controls a crucial point. If the book can be opened to reveal the truth, then owning the book, or having the means to find it, is a kind of currency. People will trade for it. People will kill for it. People will kneel. I had no intention of letting anyone else kneel first.

When I left the office, I walked slowly because quiet steps don't attract attention. I passed the practice yard and watched Nanari move, water responding to her like a loyal friend. She didn't see me at first. I observed her for a long moment, noting how she carried herself and how her magic responded to her like a faithful companion. Then she turned, and her eyes met mine.

I haven't told her what I took yet. Some truths are better kept hidden than confessed. There are tools you hold onto until the right moment, then use to shape the world to your advantage. The key in my sleeve was a tool. The map in the ledger was a plan. Henry’s journal was a story I could retell in ways that would influence others.

Power is a quiet force when you first grasp it. It hums beneath your skin like a secret. I closed my fingers around the iron and felt the cold seep into my bones. Tonight, I will sleep with that comfort pressed close to my ribs. Tomorrow, I will decide how to make the prophecy work for me.