The next morning, the snow fell slow and steady, as if the sky were trying to pad the world in silence.

  Maisie stood outside her tent, arms folded tightly against her coat, watching as two M.A.D. porters loaded a familiar wooden case onto a reinforced sledge. The padded clamps were unmistakable. So was the blue Rysti fragment inside.

  Her father’s fragment. Her fragment.

  Not yours anymore, she thought bitterly.

  Behind her, a soft rustle of fur-lined boots on packed snow. Maisie didn’t turn around.

  “You’re taking this better than I expected,” came Serenya’s voice—syrupy, poised, sharp with frost.

  “But then, you’ve always been a little... emotionally rigid.”

  Maisie’s lips thinned.

  “Hello, Serenya.”

  Serenya Vale stepped into her periphery like a glacier carving through spring. Platinum-blonde hair braided into a tight coil. Cheeks flushed just enough to seem sun-kissed instead of frostbitten. Her custom verdant cloak—stitched with gold thread and M.A.D. trim.

  Academic elegance, weaponized.

  She glanced at the sledge.

  “Don’t worry, it’s going to a much warmer archive. Might even get some proper results under Calren’s direction. It’s amazing what happens when a project is approached... collaboratively.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Maisie’s fingers clenched inside her gloves.

  “You mean when someone lies, fondles, and fabricates their way through academia?”

  Serenya laughed lightly.

  “Come on, Maisie. Don’t be so righteous. You could have been brilliant, if you learned how the game is played. But no. You always insisted on keeping your distance. Your body. Your mind. All walled off behind your little glyphs and grief.”

  Maisie turned, eyes sharp.

  “And you always insisted on being a glorified shadow. All your discoveries and citations are tied to Calren. Without him, you’re just an archivist, a footnote.”

  Something flickered in Serenya’s smile—an edge, quickly sheathed.

  “You’re not wrong,” she said coolly. “But footnotes still get published. And credit, Maisie, is only as permanent as the person who holds it.”

  She pulled a parchment from her satchel—Maisie’s expedition permit. The red seal across the center said it all: REVOKED.

  “Effective immediately. You are to vacate by sundown. Any remaining notes or items will be claimed as joint intellectual property under Clause 7B. Signed: Magical Antiquities Directorate”

  Maisie’s heart sank—but her spine stayed straight.

  Serenya leaned in, lips barely parted.

  “You really should’ve let him help you. You’ve been so... lonely, ever since your father died.”

  The words were a blade.

  Maisie didn’t flinch.

  “I’d rather be alone than owned.”

  Serenya stepped back. Smiling again.

  “Well. Now you’re both.”

  Maisie’s eyes flicked toward the receding sledge, then back to Serenya.

  “You’re wrong about one thing.”

  “Mm?”

  “You just said I lost everything.”

  She stepped forward, nose to nose, calm as ice.

  “People are most dangerous when they’ve got nothing left to lose.”

  Serenya’s smile barely cracked.

  Maisie turned, walked back to her tent, and let the flap fall shut behind her like the final page of a book she no longer intended to finish their way.