Mason stared at the parchment for several long seconds.

Then he checked the room.

The windows were locked.

The door remained bolted from the inside.

Nothing appeared disturbed.

Which somehow made the situation worse.

"Tell me I’m hallucinating."

Athlian was silent.

That wasn’t encouraging.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze back toward the page.

The symbol looked identical to the others.

The circle remained.

The intersecting marks remained.

Everything matched.

Except for the additional line extending from the center.

A seventh line.

A line that shouldn’t exist.

His stomach twisted.

"Who put this here?"

No answer came.

Not from Athlian.

Not from the empty room.

Not from the increasingly concerning universe that seemed determined to ruin his sleep schedule.

A knock echoed against the door.

He nearly jumped out of his skin.

"By Heaven’s broken stairs!"

The knock came again.

More urgent this time.

"Mason?"

Draca.

He froze.

Athlian froze.

The parchment remained in his hand.

"Mason?"

There it was again.

The name.

Casual, natural and Instinctive.

As though Draca hadn’t even realized he’d said it.

He opened the door immediately.

Draca stood outside wearing a concerned expression.

The commander paused.

His gaze dropped toward the parchment.

Then toward Mason’s face.

"What happened?"

Mason held up the paper.

"Funny story."

Draca took it.

His expression darkened almost immediately.

"Where did you get this?"

"It appeared in my room."

The commander looked up sharply.

"Appeared?"

"Unless palace furniture learned how to write."

Draca ignored the joke.

Without another word he stepped inside and began inspecting the room.

Windows.

Walls.

Balcony.

Everything.

Several minutes later his expression had grown considerably darker.

"No signs of forced entry."

"That’s comforting."

"It isn’t."

"No."

"It really isn’t."

Mason rubbed his forehead.

Draca studied the symbol again.

"The seventh line."

"You’ve seen it before?"

"No."

The answer came too quickly.

Too honestly.

Draca wasn’t hiding anything.

That worried Mason more than a lie would have.

Because Draca genuinely had no explanation.

And lately that seemed to be everyone’s favorite answer.

The commander folded the parchment carefully.

"We need Zereth."

Mason groaned. "Do we?"

"Yes."

"I was afraid you’d say that."

Unfortunately, twenty minutes later, Zereth was already examining the document inside a secured chamber near the archives.

The immortal looked almost as exhausted as Mason felt.

The moment he saw the symbol, however, every trace of fatigue vanished.

His eyes narrowed. "Where was this found?"

"In my room."

Silence.

Zereth slowly looked toward Draca.

Then toward Mason.

Then back to the parchment.

"The guards reported nothing."

Draca nodded.

"I’ve already questioned them."

"Any inconsistencies?"

"No."

That answer seemed to bother Zereth.

It certainly bothered Mason.

Nobody entered.

Nobody left.

Yet someone somehow placed a message inside the most heavily protected residence in the kingdom.

Wonderful.

Absolutely wonderful.

The investigation was becoming increasingly normal.

By which he meant completely insane.

Several archivists were summoned shortly afterward.

Most looked confused.

One looked terrified.

Another appeared personally offended by the existence of the seventh line.

Scholars were strange people.

Hours passed.

Records were examined.

Comparisons were made.

Arguments began.

Eventually one elderly archivist slammed a stack of documents onto the table.

"I found something."

Nobody celebrated.

Experience had taught them better.

The woman pointed toward several copied records.

"The earlier symbols always appear in groups."

Zereth frowned.

"What kind of groups?"

"Six."

The room became quiet.

The archivist continued.

"Six names."

"Six locations."

"Six references."

"Six witnesses."

Draca folded his arms.

"And now?"

Her gaze shifted toward the parchment.

"The seventh line changes the pattern."

Nobody liked that answer.

Mostly because it sounded important.

And important discoveries had recently become synonymous with terrible discoveries.

Mason leaned forward. "What happens when the pattern changes?"

The woman hesitated.

Then shook her head.

"I don’t know."

There it was again.

The answer haunting every investigation.

I don’t know.

The meeting eventually dissolved into speculation.

Theories multiplied.

Evidence remained frustratingly scarce.

By midday the discussion had drifted toward politics.

Which somehow felt even more dangerous.

The tribunal envoy had learned about the new symbol.

Nobody knew how.

Nobody was surprised.

The woman seemed capable of discovering secrets before they officially existed.

Mason sat through exactly twenty minutes of political debate before deciding his sanity deserved better treatment.

He escaped to the palace gardens.

Draca found him there.

Again.

Mason was beginning to suspect the commander had developed supernatural tracking abilities.

"You’re doing it again."

Draca sat beside him.

"Doing what?"

"Hunting me."

"I wasn’t aware you were prey."

"That’s exactly what a hunter would say."

A smile appeared briefly.

Then disappeared.

The commander looked unusually distracted.

Mason noticed immediately.

Something was bothering him.

"What’s wrong?"

Draca hesitated.

Interesting.

The commander rarely hesitated.

Finally he sighed.

"Can I ask you something?"

"That’s ominous."

"It isn’t."

"Those are also ominous words."

Draca ignored him.

A familiar habit.

"When I call you Mason..."

Mason immediately sat upright.

"...what do you feel?"

The question caught him completely off guard.

For several seconds he simply stared.

"What?"

Draca looked frustrated.

Not at Mason.

At himself.

"Every time I say it, something feels familiar."

His voice lowered.

"As though I’ve forgotten something important."

Athlian suddenly became very still.

Mason felt it immediately.

The tension.

The fear.

The confusion.

Draca continued. "But whenever I try remembering, nothing is there."

Mason swallowed.

Neither of them spoke for several moments.

Then he asked quietly,

"Do you think you’ve known someone named Mason?"

"I don’t know."

The commander laughed softly.

A tired sound.

"I’m starting to hate those words."

"Join the club."

For the first time that day, Draca genuinely smiled.

The expression lasted only a moment.

Yet it warmed something inside Mason’s chest.

A dangerous feeling.

One he quickly ignored.

Because emotional self-awareness sounded exhausting.

A servant appeared moments later.

"Commander."

Draca looked up.

"The tribunal envoy requests another audience."

His smile vanished immediately.

Mason almost felt sorry for him.

The commander stood.

"I’ll see you later my goddess" he bowed.

"Assuming politics doesn’t kill you first."

"Let’s hope."

Then he left.

Mason watched him disappear down the pathway.

Athlian remained unusually quiet.

Eventually she spoke.

’He really doesn’t know.’

Mason nodded slowly.

"I know."

For some reason that bothered him more than if Draca had been lying.

The afternoon brought another unpleasant surprise.

Assura arrived.

Without warning.

The immortal settled onto a nearby bench as though he owned the palace.

Which, annoyingly, he might have at some point.

"The seventh line."

Mason groaned. "Can one conversation exist without mentioning it?"

"No."

"Wonderful."

Assura looked toward the horizon.

For once, he didn’t appear amused.

That immediately drew Mason’s attention.

"What do you know?"

The immortal was silent for a long moment.

Then he spoke.

"Someone wants the symbols discovered."

That wasn’t what Mason expected.

"What?"

"If secrecy was their goal, the markings would remain hidden."

Assura folded his hands.

"Instead they’re being found."

Mason frowned. "Why?"

The immortal smiled faintly. "That is the correct question."

Before Mason could demand a real answer, Assura stood.

And began walking away.

Because providing useful information apparently violated immortal law.

As evening approached, a strange unease settled over the palace.

Guards doubled their patrols.

Officials whispered behind closed doors.

Even the servants seemed nervous.

The seventh symbol had spread through the palace faster than wildfire.

Rumors multiplied.

Nobody agreed on the truth.

Everyone feared it anyway.

That night, Mason couldn’t sleep.

The parchment remained locked inside a secured archive.

Yet he kept thinking about it.

The seventh line.

The dream.

The message.

Find the seventh mark.

Hours passed.

Eventually exhaustion won.

Sleep finally arrived.

And the dream returned.

The endless library.

The impossible shelves.

The shadowed figures.

This time there were fewer voices.

Only one.

A figure stood alone beside a table.

Watching him and waiting.

For the first time, the figure seemed aware of his presence.

Mason tried moving closer.

The distance remained unchanged.

The figure lifted a hand.

Then pointed.

Not toward the shelves.

Not toward the records.

Toward a door.

A door Mason had never noticed before.

It stood alone in the darkness.

Ancient and closed.

The voice finally spoke.

Only four words.

"The seventh opens it."

The dream shattered.

Mason woke violently.

Breathing hard.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

Darkness filled the room.

Then someone knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Urgent.

He immediately knew something was wrong.

He crossed the room and opened the door.

A pale-faced guard stood outside.

"My goddess..."

The man swallowed.

Fear flashed across his expression.

"The lower archives."

Mason’s stomach dropped.

"What happened?"

The guard looked as though he wished he didn’t know.

Then he answered.

"Another symbol appeared."

A pause.

Then the guard added the part that truly mattered.

"This one was drawn on a door that wasn’t there yesterday."