Read Chapter 5: The Forged Letter

The summons came at breakfast.

Élodie had barely touched her croissant when a folded note appeared beside her plate, delivered by one of the university's mechanical ravens. The wax seal bore the Dean's crest—a griffin clutching a scroll. Across the table, Margaux went still, watching.

"What does the Dean want with a first-year?" Margaux asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Élodie unfolded the note with steady hands, though her stomach had already begun to churn. *Élodie Marchand. Report to the Dean's office. Immediately.*

No explanation. No courtesy.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Élodie said, sliding off the bench. "Orientation paperwork, probably."

Margaux's eyes narrowed. "At the start of term? That's not how it works. You only see the Dean for disciplinary hearings or—" She stopped herself.

"Or what?"

"Or questions of admission." Margaux looked at her with something close to pity. "They make sure you belong."

The walk to the administrative tower felt longer than usual. Élodie counted the stone arches as she passed under them, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. The morning light filtered through stained glass windows, painting fragments of color across the floor—saints and sorceresses frozen in eternal study. She tried to memorize the names engraved on the plaques beside each window, anything to keep her mind from spiraling.

The Dean's office occupied the top of the tower, a circular room with windows on every side. When Élodie entered, the light was so bright she had to squint. Three people waited for her.

Dean Perrin stood behind a massive oak desk, his white beard groomed to a perfect point, his robes the deep violet of the university's administrative order. To his left sat a woman Élodie didn't recognize—thin, severe, with spectacles perched on a sharp nose, a brass star pinned to her collar marking her as a registrar. And to his right, standing with his back to the window, was Professor Delacroix.

Élodie's pulse quickened. She forced herself to breathe.

"Miss Marchand," the Dean said, his voice carrying the practiced warmth of a man who had delivered many speeches to captive audiences. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

The registrar woman was already flipping through a folder. Élodie recognized her own name typed on the tab.

"We have some questions about your admission file," the registrar said without preamble. "Specifically, your letter of recommendation."

Élodie's heart stopped.

"Recommendation?" She kept her voice even. "From Professor Leclerc in Lyon. We corresponded before I applied."

"Did you?" The registrar pulled a sheet from the folder, held it up. "Because we wrote to Professor Leclerc to confirm your placement—standard procedure, we do it for all scholarship students. His response was... curious."

The room felt very quiet. Even the dust seemed to hang suspended in the light.

"You see," the Dean said, sitting down heavily, "Professor Leclerc has been at the University of Lyon for thirty years. A respected man, a renowned theorist of applied enchantments. But he retired three years ago to a villa in the Loire Valley." He paused. "And he says he has never heard of you. Has never met you. Has never written a letter of recommendation for any Élodie Marchand."

The words hit Élodie like a physical blow. She fought to keep her expression still.

"That's impossible," she said. "I have the letter. It was in my acceptance file. My grandmother—"

She stopped. Her grandmother. The woman Delacroix had mentioned with dangerous familiarity.

The Dean and the registrar exchanged a look. Delacroix remained motionless by the window, watching her with those dark, unreadable eyes.

"Your grandmother," the Dean said slowly, "is listed as your emergency contact. A Madame Geneviève Marchand of Lyon. When we reached out to her about this discrepancy, she said she never submitted any recommendations on your behalf. She was, in fact, surprised to learn you had applied to an institution of higher magic at all."

The floor seemed to tilt beneath Élodie. None of this made sense. She had the letter—folded in the pocket of her traveling coat—delivered by a courier with the university's seal. Her grandmother had helped her fill out the forms, had smiled with pride when the acceptance arrived. Why would they deny it now?

Unless—

"May I see the letter?" she heard herself say. "The one that's in my file. Please."

The registrar hesitated, glancing at the Dean, who nodded. She slid the folder across the desk. Élodie's hands trembled as she lifted it, turning the sheet of thick cream paper over to examine the handwriting.

It was her letter. The same one she'd received. And yet—

"There's no watermark," she said slowly. Her memory magic gave her a gift for details, for the small inconsistencies others missed. "The university's official stationery has a watermark—a griffin in the corner. This paper is blank. But mine..." She was already pulling her own folded letter from her coat. "Mine has always had it."

She placed the two side by side.

The registrar leaned forward, frowning. The Dean's eyebrows rose. Even Delacroix shifted slightly, a creak of his fine leather shoes on the wood floor.

The writing was identical. The signature, the date, the letterhead. But Élodie's copy carried the faint raised shape of a griffin in the corner, visible only at certain angles.

"Ink," Élodie said, her mind racing. "The letter I received was written with a spell to mimic handwriting. Anyone with basic transcription magic could have done it. But the paper—" She pressed her finger against the watermark. "This is the real university stationery. Whoever wrote the letter in my file used the real thing."

The silence stretched.

"A forged letter," Dean Perrin said finally, "written on genuine stationery. That would require access to university materials."

"Or," Delacroix said softly, speaking for the first time, "someone with the power to make a replica so perfect that only a memory mage could spot the difference."

Élodie's blood ran cold. He knew. Of course he knew what she could do. He'd felt her reach into his mind back at orientation, that brief flash of a chained corridor and a scarred man. And he'd been waiting for her to make a mistake ever since.

"I don't know who sent the letter," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "It arrived two weeks before the term began, with the university's seal. I assumed it came from Professor Leclerc—the name matched the one in the course catalog. When I wrote to thank him, he replied, acknowledging my questions about the program. I had no reason to doubt its authenticity."

She was lying, of course. She was lying through her teeth, spinning a story of correspondence that had never happened because she'd been too terrified to write the professor, too afraid he'd confirm her grandmother's doubts about her magical abilities, too grateful for the acceptance to question it.

But the registrar was nodding slowly. The story was plausible. It explained everything without explaining anything.

"And you say you know the professor personally?" Dean Perrin asked.

Élodie's throat closed. One wrong word and she was expelled. The Rule of Three loomed in her mind—students vanished from this university for far smaller infractions. Margaux had been reassigned, scarred, silenced.

"Yes," she lied. "He was my grandmother's colleague. A family friend. He recommended me out of affection for her memory."

The words tasted like ash. But something shifted in the Dean's eyes—a flicker of calculation, of reconsideration.

"A family connection," he murmured. "I see. We will, of course, verify this with Madame Marchand directly."

"She's been ill," Élodie said quickly. "Her memory is not what it was. If she seems confused, it's not deliberate."

Another lie. Another wrinkle in the fabric of a story she'd never intended to create.

The Dean exchanged another look with the registrar, who shrugged almost imperceptibly. Delacroix had turned away from the window now, his gaze resting on Élodie with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

"We'll revisit this if necessary," the Dean said, closing the folder. "For now, you're dismissed. Miss Marchand—I would advise you to remain on campus. Do not leave Montpellier without authorization."

"Of course, Dean." Élodie gathered her letter, folding it carefully and replacing it in her coat pocket. She turned to leave before her legs could give out.

She was at the door when Delacroix's voice stopped her.

"Miss Marchand."

She didn't turn around.

"Your grandmother," he said, his voice pitched low, meant only for her. "When did she last write to you?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. Élodie thought of the last letter from her grandmother—a brief, shaky note wishing her luck in her studies, signed with a hand grown unsteady with age.

"Last week," she said. "Why?"

Delacroix said nothing. When she finally glanced back, he had turned to stare out the window again, his profile sharp against the morning light.

She fled down the tower stairs, her footsteps too fast, too loud in the narrow spiral. When she burst out into the courtyard, the cold air was a shock against her face. She bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath.

*They know. They forged my letter, and they know I don't belong here.*

But the letter had been real. The watermark proved that much. Someone at the university had written it. Someone had wanted her here.

And now someone wanted her gone.

"Élodie?"

She looked up. Margaux stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, expression carefully blank. "I saw you leave the tower. You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

Élodie straightened, forcing a smile. "Administrative mix-up. Nothing to worry about."

Margaux's eyes flicked to the tower windows—to the fourth floor, where the Dean's office sat. "If you're going to lie to people, don't make it easy to catch you," she said quietly. "The Dean's office has a mirror above the desk. They can see everything behind you."

Élodie's smile faltered. She remembered turning to leave, remembered the flash of her own reflection, remembered the folder in the registrar's hands.

*They have watchers everywhere.*

"Thanks," she said hoarsely. "I'll remember that."

She walked back toward the dorms, the forged letter burning a hole in her coat, the question of who had written it burning even brighter in her mind.