Mithra sat at a desk in the Guardian’s archive, the only person there other than the archivist on duty. Her heart was racing and she tried forcefully to still it, focusing on the inane details of her environment to take her mind off what she was about to do.

  The main archive room was an open space with ample desks to study at, unlike the labyrinthine upper floors. She was wide open here, sitting under the soft glow of a glyph lamp. Too soft, in fact—the lamp was running out of divine energy. That could be a complication. The next maintenance was scheduled for next week, but what if the old Light Shaper noticed it and came to charge it early?

  Truthfully, there wasn’t much of a chance of that. Mithra had spent almost as much time in the archives as she did in the training halls, and she had paid extra attention to the staff’s habits this past year. She knew who would be on duty, who was opening today, and when the last maintenance of the locks in the restricted area was done. She knew everything there was to know.

  Yet, she still worried.

  She wasn’t used to breaking the rules. For eighteen long years she had lived her life exactly as she was supposed to. Top of her class year after year both in combat and in academics, just as her father raised her. Gods, if he knew about her plan, he’d be beyond furious. Oh, he wanted to know the truth as much as she did, but the family’s reputation was more important. More important than the truth about her mother, even.

  “What’s got you so focused?” A voice startled her and she almost jumped out of her chair. August, the archivist, stood behind her. Even with his lame leg, she didn’t hear him approach—a testament to the retired Guardian’s skill.

  “Just studying,” she answered, struggling to control her voice. “You startled me.”

  “Ha! The old man still got it, it seems,” August said. “Let me see, maybe I can help.”

  “No need, just memorizing some stuff.”

  The book in front of her was open on an anatomical diagram of an abomination variant—one of the many enemies the Guardians encountered outside the Veil. It was a disgusting mess of steel, flesh and wires, a mockery of the Gods’ work given form. The diagram pointed out weaknesses and highlighted recommended ways of approach, both for individual fighters and for a group. Mithra had memorized it all long ago, of course, but it served as plausible deniability.

  “Oh, that one’s a nasty bastard alright. Tough to kill and deadly to boot. Did I tell you about that one time we had to quarter the thing to get it to stop moving?” August was peering over her shoulder, looking at the book. “Good to see you’re taking the preparations seriously, though. I knew a few blokes who skimped on the studying. Knew being the operative word.”

  He patted Mithra on the shoulder, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “Well, if you need anything I’ll be downstairs. And if anybody comes looking for me, tell them I’m not in today.”

  Mithra nodded in haste and he turned and walked away, leaving her to herself. This was part of why Mithra chose today. August wasn’t known for taking the archiving duty too seriously, and who could fault him? It wasn’t like many people frequented the archives, especially in the mornings.

  Finally alone, Mithra returned the manual to its proper place and slowly approached the upper floor. Wooden steps creaked under her feet, paranoia spiking with each one. Every step was a miniature heart attack, during which she imagined all the worst scenarios. If she was caught, it could mean the end of her career as a Guardian before it even began. Sneaking into restricted areas to look through classified reports? She would have been dismissed as a recruit and not even her mother’s reputation would help her. Still, that wasn’t the worst of what she could imagine. No, the worst was her father’s reaction. She could practically feel his anger and indignation. How dare she smear her mother’s memory in this way. How dare she go against the rules of the Guardians, the only thing protecting people from certain ruin.

  She didn’t have to imagine his punishment.

  Mithra stopped that train of thought before it could change her mind. The Marking ceremony was tomorrow. After that, she’d get shipped straight to basic. She wouldn’t be back for years, maybe ever. No—this was her last chance.

  The second floor of the archives housed most of its collection, shelves stacked high with books forming a labyrinth most people would get lost in within minutes. Mithra made her way through it with confidence born from countless hours spent looking for manuals and references, as well as mapping the floor fully in preparation for today. Soon, she stood before a locked room, nestled against the west wall.

  There was a padlock holding the door closed, but she was prepared for it too. It was a combination lock, but not the usual kind one could find anywhere. No, this one was from the outside, used here not only for security, but to honor the Guardian that brought it back. Unlike any other lock she had ever seen, this one had a small glass square in the middle, with an outline of a fingerprint on it. Even with the proper combination only the head archivist’s touch could unlock it, the magic inside keyed to his soul. It was a priceless artifact, the technology to make it lost long ago in the Final War. There was one vulnerability, however. The lock had to be recharged by a Lightning Shaper periodically, otherwise it wouldn’t work. And the last time such a mage passed through the town was over two years ago.

  Mithra set the cylinders in the proper position—position that took her three long months of spying on the head archivist to figure out—and hesitated. It was her last chance to back out.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  She wasn’t going to. She held her breath and pressed a thumb into the cold glass.

  Nothing happened. Two years without maintenance and it still worked. A testament to the ingenuity of old. A tragedy for Mithra.

  “Ah, screw it,” she grabbed the hasp itself and snapped it off. It was old. If anybody asked, it broke by itself.

  She entered the head archivist’s office with no time to waste. Inside there was a singular desk in the corner, most of the space occupied by rows of drawers labeled with letters. All of it direct Guardian reports. She moved to the one with a plain letter ‘N’ on it and it opened easily, not secured in any way. That was a lot of trust to be placed in one padlock and a fragile door. What if the drawer itself had a magical alarm she didn’t notice? Or worse, what if the reports stored here weren’t of much value? What if they were just a decoy?

  One way to find out.

  Rows of documents filled the drawer, index cards with names separating them into sections. Mithra was proud to see most of the names were her family’s. Uncle Duncan’s section was particularly impressive for someone his age, but of course, no one had more mission reports than her mother. A slight anxiety filled Mithra at the sight. Her mother was the most prolific Guardian in history—would she be able to live up to the legacy?

  No time for that, though. The reports were ordered chronologically and Mithra leafed through them quickly, not wanting to risk any second when someone could just come in and see her. The last report was what she was after anyway, the retelling of the last mission her mother ever went on, right before her pregnancy. She quickly confirmed it was the right file and took it out.

  The document was well organized. The cover itself was meaningless to Mithra, mostly the mission’s location and sector number, as well as some serial numbers and designations she couldn’t understand. Inside, however, was a detailed report in neat handwriting. Perfect. Her loose robes provided plenty of space to hide the papers and she quickly tucked them under her belt, covering them with the fabric. It was a bit hard to move with the file pressing into her stomach, but if she stood straight and walked slowly it was manageable. She closed the drawer and moved to the exit.

  She stopped abruptly, about to pass through the door. There was something on the inside of the frame. Symbols, carved in the wood.

  Detection glyphs. Mithra cursed her own haste. She was almost caught by the simplest of countermeasures—a ward set to trigger if something was taken out of the office.

  Change of plans, then. She had to read through the file here and hope nobody would find her in the time it took to do so. She didn’t dare to sit at the head archivist’s desk so she simply sat on the floor, piling her robes under her to act like a cushion, and began reading.

  The document told a tale of heroism, piety, and sacrifice in its own detached, bureaucratic way. A whole team of Guardians reduced to a few survivors in search of a pre-war facility sheltering a strain of particularly dangerous abominations. Many died on the way and even more died during the assaults. Mithra committed their names to memory despite the time constraint. They deserved all the honors for laying down their lives.

  The abominations moved to a different facility after each attack, evading the Guardians. The final assault was led by her mother—and it was a complete victory. They took the abominations unaware, taking out their sentries and storming the hideout of the monsters before they could realize what hit them. There were no losses in that last assault; out of the six Guardians that entered, six came back home. Not many, compared to the number that left the Veil originally, but still a testament to her mother’s skill as a leader.

  But it wasn’t the heroics Mithra was interested in. It wasn’t what she broke into the restricted section for. She scoured the report for information, for any clues about her mother’s eventual fate. Father always said that last mission was when the symptoms started. The symptoms that led to the death of the best Guardian the Veil had seen.

  Frantically, Mithra leafed through the pages. There was no mention of injury or poison. No mention of an abomination biting into her mother and infecting her. Nothing. By all means, her mother came out unscathed.

  No, it had to be there. She read as fast as she could, looking for hidden meaning. She even leafed through the reports of the other survivors, cross-referencing them. They all differed slightly, as expected, but one fact remained unchanged.

  Her mother was fine when she came back.

  Then why? Why did she die before she could raise her daughter? Mithra didn’t believe for a second she could fall to mundane sickness. No, it had to be something so horrific it was scraped from the reports.

  A section in one of the files she previously disregarded caught her eye. It was a summary of the notes and diagrams found in the facilities. It held seemingly nothing of note; details of long-lost technology that she couldn’t understand, that no one could understand. They were collected for completeness's sake, the language used forgotten and the drawings too advanced for the scholars of the current era. Maybe in the future they could be decrypted, but right now they were meaningless drivel.

  But what if the truth hid in them?

  Mithra searched, looking for Gods knew what. Divine understanding, maybe. She couldn’t decipher the words, what good would it do to just look at them? But she was desperate for answers, clinging to hope.

  One thing stood out to her. A drawing pervasive enough that she started expecting it on every other page. Sharp lines organized into squares, contained within a circular outline. The pattern was distinct—simple at first glance, but incredibly complex when examined further. It seemed to be the focal point of the notes, subsequent diagrams dissecting the shape in more and more detail.

  She tried to glean anything from it, but it was beyond her. Nonetheless, she memorized the shape the best she could before the sound of a church bell ripped her out of her research trance.

  “Shit.”

  The floor was littered with paper. Mithra scrambled to clean everything up, to put it back in its proper place and hide the traces of anyone looking through the documents. She hoped no one would notice even if she had mixed up a few pages. How often did anyone read through these old reports? Not often, she hoped. And even if they did—who would visit a small and distant town to read them, when copies were readily available in the capital?

  She closed the door and put the latch more or less in place, trying to hide where she broke it. It looked almost convincing. Almost.

  She ran out of the empty archives, leaving the evidence of her crime behind. She had to hurry if she wanted to make it to today’s training. It would be unlike her to be late—and the less scrutiny on her right now, the better. As long as she made it to the Marking tomorrow without being discovered, she’d get her magic and leave town.

  Nothing to worry about.

  https://discord.com/invite/nw9GNE2Qjb