He entered the Archives with a heavy heart. He knew he was grasping at false hope; there was little chance any information about the secret project would be here. Even proposing to Elisabeth wouldn’t guarantee access to it, and once he was seen as the director’s future son-in-law, the scrutiny he faced would only increase.


    The Archives were located in the underground section of the Institute, a place where records of all research areas were stored. He passed the corridors, coworkers’ offices, and took the stairs leading to the west-north side of the building. This part of the Institute was older, its walls plain stone—uncovered, with sparse embellishments aside from the occasional torch hook. The Archives had only one entrance, and every visit had to be registered and approved by Annie, the keeper.


    She wasn’t at her desk. A meticulously organized list of visitor cards lay next to a notebook filled with names and dates of visits. Tilting the notebook slightly, he saw only a handful of entries from the past month. He angled it further when—


    “Alexander, right?” A cold voice broke the silence, and he jerked his head up, taking in the man before him.


    “Sanders,” Alexander corrected, keeping his tone low.


    “I see you’ve found your way to the Archives.”


    “Yes,” he replied calmly. “I need to catch up on the projects I’m expected to lead. It’s best to know the history of their progress.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Speaking of which, Udona sends her regards.”


    The man smirked. Alexander’s expression remained carefully neutral, though a shiver ran down his spine at the mention of her name.


    “Be careful,” Alexander said, his tone even. “It’s easy to misstep in new surroundings.”


    The man laughed softly. “You’re off your game. Keep it up, and you’ll be eaten alive.”


    “Oh! Sorry, I was in the back explaining to Niethen how we organize new manuscripts,” Annie’s voice broke the tension as she returned. “I trust you found what you needed, Mr. Sanders?” Her cheeks turned pink at the smile Sanders gave her. Alexander couldn’t help but notice: she never smiled at him like that.


    “Yes, of course, thank you, Annie. I’d have been lost without your guidance.” The warmth in her eyes lingered as Sanders departed.


    When she turned to Alexander, her expression softened but lacked the flirtatious edge. “Which section are you visiting today?”


    “The reports from last year.”


    She nodded, marking the visit in her notebook. “Here you go,” she said, retrieving a key from the orderly rows hanging on the board beside her desk. “I trust you know the rules?”


    “Of course.”


    “Felix?” A soft voice called from behind a door. “Should I throw out the extra copies of manuscripts if there are too many? It seems unnecessary to keep them.”


    “Hmm, let me check...” a hesitant male voice responded.


    “No, no! Wait for me, Niethen!” Annie’s voice was suddenly high with alarm. She glanced at Alexander, worry creasing her brow. “I’d go with you, but I need to supervise Niethen. Otherwise, this whole place will be chaos.” She sighed, half-apologetic.


    Alexander silently welcomed her preoccupation—it meant she wouldn’t check on him when he strayed into restricted sections.


    As he moved deeper into the Archives, he tried to suppress the bitter thoughts creeping in. If Sanders had entered the Archives, he must have been sent by the same people as Alexander—by Udona. That realization felt like a stone in his gut. This wasn’t just a test of loyalty; it was a challenge, a direct move against him. He had underestimated the gravity of the situation.


    Descending into the darker, older parts of the Archives, the air grew colder, biting his lungs. These sections were carved into ancient caves by a forgotten civilization. Their original purpose was unknown, but the rough edges bore the marks of primitive tools—proof, historians claimed, of human hands. He’d never cared much for such details. He had no time for reflection now; his focus was survival.


    The restricted section was pitch black, its silence oppressive. He struck a match, the brief flare of light illuminating rows of iron bars and shelves. The sulfuric scent pricked his nose, oddly comforting in its familiarity. It reminded him of training days in the Mondovian Desert—just him and a matchbox, left to survive. His body tensed at the memory, his stiff back protesting as he straightened. He needed to return to regular practice. Two weeks without training was too long.


    Quietly, he picked the metal lock on the iron gate and slipped inside, moving with the silence of a predator. He navigated to the section containing records from the previous month and searched.


    Nothing. No clues about the secret project. Either the Institute kept no records, or Sanders had beaten him here and taken what he needed. Alexander swore under his breath and slammed the shelf shut with more force than he intended. The noise made him freeze, but the silence remained unbroken. Still, it was a mistake. Another slip like that, and Sanders wouldn’t even need to try to beat him.


    On his way out, he offered Annie a faint smile.


    “Oh, Mr. Sanders!” Felix called, his arms full of precariously stacked documents, some threatening to fall. “There is something I’d like to discuss with you, can I come by your office?”


    Alexander waived his hand impatiently.


    “Pay attention to that!” Annie’s scolding voice was the last thing Alexander heard as he exited.


    Outside, the air was fresher, the bustling streets of the merchant district alive with noise and smells. The contrast with the Archives’ quiet was sharp. The aroma of fried meats and stews mingled with the tang of sweat and market produce. His stomach growled; he realized he hadn’t eaten all day.


    As he scanned the food stalls, a sharp pain shot through his leg. A small boy had collided with him. The boy—blond, wiry, and well-dressed despite his dirty clothes—glared up at him with a mix of defiance and embarrassment. Before Alexander could react, a stern voice called out.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.“Ivan!”


    The boy froze, eyes wide, and tried to dart around Alexander, but he grabbed the boy’s arm.


    “Where are you running off to?” Alexander asked, his voice edged with annoyance.


    The boy struggled but didn’t seem intimidated. Alexander recognized the boldness of aristocratic upbringing in him. Before he could say more, a breathless woman approached.


    “Avery.” Alexander’s voice was neutral, but she tensed.


    “Alexander.” Her tone was cold, her green eyes sharp. The resemblance between her and the boy was unmistakable.


    “Thank you for catching my son,” she said stiffly, pulling Ivan closer. “He has a habit of running off.”


    “Glad to help. How old is he?”


    “Six.”


    “Would you like me to escort you back?” he asked. “It’s crowded; easy to get lost.”


    Her lips tightened, suspicion clear in her gaze.


    They walked in tense silence, side by side, the boy ahead of them, held by the nanny by his shoulder. No one spoke a word, and Avery made it very clear that she did not want to engage with him. Her upbringing was the only thing that prevented her from rejecting his offer of company publicly.


    He felt a bitter satisfaction at making her angry. It was probably the first time she had shown any emotion publicly. To an observer, she probably looked as though she were having a pleasant day. But after evening upon evening of watching her, he had learned to notice the slight tension in the corners of her lips, the almost unnoticeable frown every time she glanced at him.


    He knew he shouldn’t indulge in this. He knew he should probably ignore her, just as she ignored him, but he was too weak. There was something about her that made him want to see her stripped of all the layers of social norms and polished upbringing.


    He wanted to shout at her—that her husband was a piece of trash, that she was a stuck-up socialite who had sold her soul for splendor, and that she had never once looked at him without a shimmer of heat in her eyes. He wanted her to either act on it or stop looking at him entirely. He wanted to break through all her walls and see the raw essence of who she truly was.


    Of course, he couldn’t do that. He was supposed to be a gentleman.


    “How is Elisabeth?” she broke the silence as they walked. He almost stumbled. That was unexpected. She knew exactly how to make him uncomfortable; he could see it in her eyes.


    “She’s well, thank you,” he managed to reply.


    “Ah. That’s great news, I suppose.” Was she mocking him? “Please send her my regards. I never seem to have enough time to speak with her at social gatherings. Goodbye.” She nodded her head, dismissing him like a common errand boy.


    She had done that on purpose. He had been in similar situations countless times before, and it had never mattered. Yet now, he couldn’t bring himself not to care.


    He cursed himself and turned around, hoping no one had noticed their brief stroll. After all, gossip didn’t need fertile ground to grow. And if he was being honest with himself, this ground was as fertile as it could possibly be.


    He was walking back through the street when he felt a low rumble in the buildings, soon followed by the loud sound of an explosion. It caused a stir among the crowds, with people nervously searching for the source of the disruption. Small explosions like this happened regularly—at least a couple of times a year. Someone always forgot to properly handle lightning powder or used too much of it. After a brief moment of unrest, the people around him returned to their chores. The city guards and officials would soon take care of it, and it wasn’t in the immediate vicinity of the street.


    Alexander didn’t think much of it until he saw a plume of fumes crossing the blue sky above the buildings. It was right above the archives.


    His chest tightened. It couldn’t be the archives. There were so many buildings surrounding them. Uneasiness crept over him as he continued his way. He stopped. He had to make sure.


    Turning, he almost ran back through the streets, pushing past people and heading toward the bridge. The closer he got, the thinner the crowd became. Many of the people were heading in the opposite direction.


    His chest tightened further. The archives were protected; no one would be so stupid or careless there. Yet he couldn’t shake the memory of Sanders’ cold smile earlier.


    The closer he came to the building, the more he smelled dust and smoke mingled with fire. Voices shouted over one another, rising above the chaos. Stone debris littered the street.


    One last turn and—


    Part of the archives had collapsed. The fire was small, but the explosion had caused part of the building to crumble. Dust still hovered over the area, thick and oppressive.


    He couldn’t believe it. Running to the ruins he scanned the crowds of people gathered in front of it. With relief he noticed Annie, with dust covering her shawl, but otherwise unscratched. There was a young woman next to her, looking shaken, probably Niethen, but… he couldn''t see Felix.


    Nervously he looked through the crowd, but soon turned to the place of explosion and began to frantically search for the boy. He went in the direction of Annie’s reception, where the small back room was previously, its walls now destroyed and only a part of them still stood straight.


    He found the boy’s body beneath a broken stone pillar, snapped in half. The sight was terrible, though the stones and rubble mercifully concealed the worst from prying eyes. He didn’t uncover it, giving the boy a last shred of dignity.


    He stood there for a while, unable to move, feeling utterly detached from the moment—numb. A pale hand lay exposed in the sun. Slowly, Alexander removed his coat and covered the body with it. He knew the others were coming to join him, but he didn’t register them.


    Did the boy have family? How would they take the news? He had been so young—nineteen, maybe twenty. Always annoyingly optimistic, smiling as he brought Alexander files or asked questions about his work.


    Alexander noticed something in the boy’s hand. Leaning closer, he saw a smudge of dark powder—black powder. That piqued his interest. It was uncommon. Why would it have been in the archives? Why would Felix have it in his hands when everything exploded?


    Discreetly, Alexander gathered some of the powder on a handkerchief he carried, intending to investigate later.


    A heavy weight settled over him. Shock twisted into anger and guilt. He had known about Sanders, had known something was wrong. He should have realized this might happen.


    This death was his fault.


    Felix lay there, buried under stone, because of him.


    He swallowed hard. But why would Sanders do this? It didn’t fit the usual pattern. Drawing so much attention was unwise; they were always taught to act subtly.


    Unless Sanders wanted to cover something up.


    Maybe Felix had found him out. Or perhaps something else was at play. Had Sanders gone off script?


    Felix had tried to speak to him earlier at the archives. Something about it being important. But Alexander had brushed him off, saying he didn’t have time.


    He cursed himself for it now.