Read Chapter 19: The Locket's Reckoning

The scream cut through the library like a blade.

Élodie's hand froze on the shelf where she'd been searching for more sabotaged spheres. Beside her, Margaux went rigid, her torch beam wavering. They'd been so focused on the ritual memory—on the horror of what they'd witnessed—that they'd forgotten they weren't alone.

"Did that come from—" Margaux started.

"Reading Room Three." Élodie was already moving, Lucien's key clutched in her fist. "The public section. Come on."

They burst through the service door into the dimly lit reading room. Rows of oak tables stretched into shadow, and at the far end, a cluster of students stood frozen in a loose circle. A girl knelt among them, her screams dissolving into choked sobs.

"No, no, no—please—"

Élodie pushed through. The girl was on her knees beside a study carrel, her hands cupped around something in her lap. A bowl. Ceramic, ancient, glazed with symbols that made Élodie's stomach drop. Memory-draining bowls. She'd read about them in her first week, in a banned-texts catalogue Dr. Roux had slipped her under the table.

The girl's face was grey. Her lips moved without sound. And scattered around her on the floor were pages of notes, written in a hand that had gone shaky and wild.

"What happened?" Élodie grabbed the nearest student's arm. "What did you see?"

"I—I don't know. She was just sitting there, studying, and then she started screaming. She said her head was empty."

Élodie's blood turned to ice. She crouched beside the girl, whose eyes had rolled back to white. "Hey. Hey. Look at me."

The girl's gaze snapped to Élodie's face with a violence that made her flinch. "You." Her voice was a rasp. "You're the memory girl. The one who—"

She lunged. Élodie caught her by the shoulders, and their skin touched.

The vision slammed into her like a wave of cold water.

*A girl—this girl, but whole, vibrant, a second-year named Camille from the history of magic department—sits in this same carrel, books spread before her. A shadow falls across the table. She looks up. Delacroix. The locket is in his hands, open, glowing with an amber light that pulses like a heartbeat. He speaks, but his words come out wrong, layered and hollow. "You've been asking questions about the archives, Camille. The wrong questions."*

*She tries to stand, but the light holds her pinned. The locket drinks. She feels it—the horror of memories being pulled out by the roots, descriptions of people, voices, faces, her childhood bedroom, the taste of her mother's stew, all of it being siphoned away in a golden stream. She tries to scream, but there's nothing left to scream with.*

*Delacroix watches, his face calm, even gentle. When the light fades, he closes the locket, tucks it into his vest, and walks away. Camille stares at her hands, knowing they are hers but not remembering why.*

The vision broke. Élodie gasped, jerking back as if burned. Camille collapsed forward, unconscious or worse.

"S-she's alive," Élodie managed. Her hands were shaking. "Barely."

"El." Margaux's voice was tight. "Look."

The ceramic bowl beside Camille was filled with a faint golden residue, now gone dull and lifeless. The symbols on its rim were the same ones on the locket's surface. The same ones Élodie had seen in her vision, glowing as they fed.

"He's harvesting them," Élodie whispered. "Delacroix. He's using the locket to drain students' memories. That's how he's stayed alive all these years. That's how the Order keeps its power."

More students were gathering now, whispering, pointing. Someone had already fetched a professor—a pale young lecturer who looked like she might faint. Élodie forced herself to stand, to steady her voice.

"We need to get her to the infirmary. Now."

It took three people to carry Camille out. Élodie stayed behind, crouching over the bowl. She touched its rim, trying to read anything else, but it was cold and empty. Whatever Delacroix had taken was gone, stored somewhere inside that locket, inside him.

"That's how he did it," she said, more to herself than to Margaux. "The ritual sphere. The sacrifice. He didn't just want power—he wanted to make himself untouchable. Immortal. And every student who gets too close, who asks the wrong questions, feeds him."

"El, we have to go." Margaux tugged her sleeve. "People are asking who you are. We're not supposed to be here."

"One more second." Élodie reached for Camille's unconscious hand, still warm. She closed her eyes, pushing past her own horror, and found what she was looking for: a final thread of memory, buried deep, too faint for Delacroix to have siphoned. The girl's last coherent thought before the attack.

*The locket. It was in his office when I found it. He keeps it in a drawer that's never locked. He thinks no one knows what it is. But I know. I know because I saw him use it on the Dean.*

Élodie's eyes snapped open. "Delacroix used it on the Dean."

"What?"

"The Dean is not his partner," Élodie said slowly, the pieces clicking into place like the tumblers of a lock. "She's his victim. She's been drained for years. That photograph—she was smiling because she didn't remember what he'd done to her. He's been feeding on her this whole time, keeping her compliant, keeping her in power because she's his puppet."

The realization hit her like a physical blow. The Order of the Quill wasn't led by the Dean. It was led by Delacroix. And the Dean was just another empty shell, another bowl drained of memory, walking around with her throat cut and no memory of the blade.

"Margaux." Élodie's voice was barely a whisper. "He's not just harvesting students. He's planning something. Why else would he need so much memory, so much power? The ritual sphere he took—it's not just about the past. It's about the future."

"What kind of future?"

"One where no one can remember the truth." Élodie looked down at Camille's slack face, at the bowl still glowing faintly at its edges. "One where no one can stop him."

Sirens wailed in the distance. University security. Someone had finally called them.

"We need to tell Dr. Roux," Margaux said. "Now. Before he comes back."

Élodie nodded, pocketing the bowl's cracked shard. It was evidence. It was all they had.

But as they slipped out through the service corridor, Élodie couldn't shake the feeling that Delacroix already knew they were here. That he'd left Camille in that reading room as a message.

A warning.

And if she didn't find the ritual sphere before he did, his next victim would be her.