Read Chapter 4: The Rule of Three

The note was crumpled in Élodie’s fist before she even realized she’d crushed it. The ink—cheap, hurried—had smeared against her palm, leaving a gray ghost of the threat. *Leave before the week is out.* She’d read it so many times the words had lost meaning, but the menace hadn’t faded. It sat in her chest like a cold stone.

Margaux was perched on the windowsill of their shared room, a thin glass vial held up to the fading evening light. She swirled the contents—something amber and viscous—with the practiced nonchalance of someone who had never once worried about a deadline or a threat. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe knot, and her eyes, sharp as cut glass, flicked toward Élodie without turning her head.

“You’re making that paper sweat,” Margaux said. “Either burn it or frame it. Staring won’t change what it says.”

Élodie looked down at the ruined sheet. “How did you know I had a note?”

“Everyone gets one.” Margaux set the vial down on the sill and finally turned, crossing her arms. “First-years with *unusual* gifts. The committee likes to test the waters. See who flinches.”

A spike of cold went through Élodie’s stomach. “This wasn’t a test.” She smoothed the paper against her thigh, holding it up. “It says I should leave. It mentions my grandmother.”

Margaux’s expression flickered—a crack in that porcelain composure. She slid off the windowsill and crossed the room in three strides, snatching the note from Élodie’s fingers. She read it in silence, lips moving over the words.

“Shit,” Margaux breathed.

“That bad?”

“This isn’t the standard warning.” Margaux’s voice dropped. “The committee sends a *formal* letter through the registrar. This is… personal. Handwritten. Off the books.” She looked up, and for the first time, Élodie saw something beneath the sharp tongue—a wariness that bordered on fear. “What did you do?”

“I touched Professor Delacroix’s hand.”

Margaux blinked. Then she laughed, short and humorless. “You *touched* him? And you’re still breathing?”

“It was an accident. I saw—” Élodie hesitated. She hadn’t told anyone about the full vision. Not Camille, not even herself, fully. “I saw something. A memory. A corridor. Chained doors.”

Margaux’s face went pale. She handed the note back like it was poisoned. “You need to be careful, Marchand. Delacroix doesn’t tolerate accidents. And the archive—” She stopped herself, jaw tightening.

“The archive,” Élodie pressed. “You know about it.”

“Everyone knows *of* it. No one talks about it.” Margaux walked to her desk and picked up a small brass instrument, turning it over in her hands. “There’s a rule here. The Rule of Three. Every year, three students disappear from the rolls. Expelled, they say. Transferred, they whisper. But it’s always three. And it’s always the ones who got too close to something they shouldn’t have.”

Élodie’s mouth went dry. “My tutor said something about that. She said a student is expelled every year for misusing the archives.”

“Your tutor’s smarter than she looks, then.” Margaux set the instrument down. “But here’s the thing you don’t know. Last year’s expulsions? All three of them had one thing in common. They’d been in the east wing. The chained corridor. The one you just described.”

The room felt suddenly smaller. Élodie thought of the hidden chamber behind the tapestry, the locket burning in her pocket. She hadn’t told Margaux about that. She hadn’t told anyone.

“Why are you telling me this?” Élodie asked. “You barely talked to me before today.”

Margaux’s lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Because I was one of them. Last year. I got the note. I made the mistake of ignoring it.” She pulled up her left sleeve, revealing a thin silver scar that ran from her wrist to her elbow—a mark Élodie had never noticed before. “This is what happens when you get too close. I survived because I had a friend who knew how to hide me. You don’t have that luxury.”

Élodie’s mind raced. “But you’re still here. You weren’t expelled.”

“I was *reassigned*. Different curriculum. Required potions focus. They watch me now.” Margaux’s smile turned bitter. “I’m the cautionary tale they wheel out for overachievers. So take the warning, Marchand. Leave before the week is out. It’s not worth it.”

“I can’t leave.” Élodie’s voice was steadier than she felt. “There’s something I need to find. Something my grandmother was involved in. And I think—I think it’s connected to the archive.”

Margaux stared at her a long moment. Then she sighed, shaking her head. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Maybe.” Élodie pocketed the note. “But I’d rather die knowing the truth than live wondering.”

---

The knock came at nine-thirty that night, hard enough to rattle the frame.

Élodie had been lying awake, the locket cold against her chest beneath her nightshirt. Margaux was already asleep in the other bed, her breathing even. The knock came again, sharper. Élodie slid out of bed and padded to the door, her heart hammering.

She opened it to find Camille Roux, her tutor, standing in the hallway with a lantern in one hand and a wild look in her eyes. Her hair was escaping its bun, and her robe was askew, as if she’d dressed in a hurry.

“Élodie.” Camille’s voice was breathless. “You need to come with me. Now.”

“What’s happening?”

“Professor Allard’s office. It’s been ransacked.”

Élodie’s blood turned to ice. Professor Allard taught archival theory—the only professor on campus who might actually know where the forbidden documents were kept. “Why would anyone—?”

“I don’t know. But there’s something you need to see.”

Camille led her down the darkened corridors at a pace that was almost a run. The university was eerily quiet at this hour, the stone walls swallowing the sound of their footsteps. They passed the library entrance, and Élodie’s eyes caught on the tapestry at the far end—the one that hid her secret room. She forced herself to look away.

Allard’s office was at the end of a narrow corridor on the second floor. The door was ajar, and even from the hallway, Élodie could see the destruction: drawers pulled out, papers scattered like snow, books thrown from shelves. It looked like a hurricane had swept through.

Camille pushed the door open wider and gestured Élodie inside. “Look at the desk.”

Élodie stepped over a fallen tome and approached the heavy oak desk. At first, she didn’t understand what she was seeing. The surface was clear, but in the center, there was a faint shimmer—a residue, like heat rising from summer pavement. She reached out a hand, and the moment her fingers touched it, a jolt ran through her.

A memory flood.

She saw a figure—hooded, unrecognizable—standing over the desk. They were chanting, their voice low and guttural, and in their hands they held a small black stone that pulsed with a sickly light. The memory was fragmentary, full of gaps, but one image burned clear: the figure reaching into a drawer and pulling out a leather-bound ledger, the same kind of register she’d seen in her vision of Delacroix.

Then it was gone.

Élodie stumbled backward, shaking. “Memory-drain,” she gasped. “Whoever did this—they used a memory-drain spell.”

Camille’s face went pale. “Are you certain?”

“I saw it. The stone, the chanting. They were trying to extract Professor Allard’s memories. To find something.” Élodie’s mind raced. She looked around the ransacked office, her eyes landing on the overturned chair, the broken lamp, the scattered papers. But what drew her attention was the corner of a document peeking out from beneath the rug—a corner that had been deliberately hidden.

She knelt and pulled it free. It was a single sheet of parchment, yellowed with age, covered in cramped handwriting.

*Transfer Log XII. Date: Winter Solstice. Subject: [REDACTED]. Destination: [REDACTED]. Clearance: Delacroix.*

“Camille,” Élodie whispered, holding up the paper. “This is it. This is one of the logs.”

Camille crossed the room in three strides and snatched the paper from her hands. She read it once, twice, her lips moving. Then she looked up, and Élodie saw a fear in her eyes she hadn’t seen before.

“This wasn’t random,” Camille said. “Whoever did this was looking for this specific document. And they didn’t find it.”

“How do you know?”

Camille held up the paper. “Because we just did.”

A sound echoed from the hallway—footsteps, slow and deliberate. Élodie’s heart seized. Camille shoved the paper into her own pocket and grabbed Élodie’s arm, pulling her toward the window.

“Out. Now.”

Élodie didn’t argue. She climbed onto the sill as Camille slid the window open, cold night air rushing in. Below, a drop of two stories to a garden hedge. She looked back at Camille, whose eyes were fixed on the hallway door.

“What about Delacroix?” Élodie hissed. “He’s connected to this. The logs have his name.”

“I know.” Camille’s voice was barely a whisper. “And that’s why you need to trust no one. Not even me.”

She pushed Élodie out the window.

Élodie landed in the hedge with a grunt, thorns snagging her nightshirt. She lay there, breathless, staring up at the window. Camille was closing it, her silhouette framed in the moonlight. And in that moment, Élodie saw something she wasn’t supposed to see: Camille’s hand, resting on the sash. On her wrist, a thin silver scar—identical to Margaux’s.

Élodie’s blood ran cold.

Camille had been touched by the archive too. And she had never once mentioned it.