Page 76 of Ashen Souls

Harper set the tray down on the nearest table. “Always. Food before life-altering decisions.”

He tilted his head. “Life-altering?”

“Metaphorical,” I said. “Very metaphorical.”

“Shame.” Harper picked up her pastry. “I love drama with substance.”

Ethan laughed, then looked back at me. “Are you coming to the guest seminar this afternoon?”

“I might be late.” I shifted my weight. “Research.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “Good luck with it.”

“Thank you, Professor Hale.”

“All right then, enjoy your breakfast.” He took a step back, his voice dropping into a quieter register meant just for me. “Take care, Aveline.”

He turned and walked out the glass doors, disappearing into the morning rush.

Harper watched him leave, then turned to me.

“…Hm,” she said, biting into her pastry, “that man is trouble in a completely different font.”

I traced the rim of my cup, the thought of food suddenly making my stomach turn.

“Eat,” she instructed, pushing a plate toward me. “You’re going to need the carbs.”

We survived the rest of breakfast in distracted silence. The morning lectures were no better. I took pages of notes I didn't actually read.

Harper nudged me halfway through our second seminar.

“You just underlined the same sentence four times.”

“It deserves emphasis,” I muttered.

“It’s the syllabus.”

By the time one o'clock rolled around, the caffeine and anxiety had boiled down to a restless need to move.

We ditched campus exactly on the hour.

The Old City Archives sat a few blocks off the main square. Its pale stone facade was dull, the gothic windows caged in wrought iron and clouded by decades of grime. Most people walked past its tarnished brass plaque without a second glance.

Harper slowed beside me. “This place definitely has ancient curse energy.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Relax. Worst case, we find nothing. Best case, we uncover some centuries-old record explaining why an immortal entity is claiming your wrist.”

I pushed the heavy front door open.

The air inside hit us immediately: dry, freezing, and smelling faintly of floor wax and decaying paper. The thick walls swallowed the street noise, leaving an oppressive quiet.

A bored woman at the front desk barely glanced up from her monitor.

“Property records or genealogy?” she droned, pushing a battered clipboard across the counter.

“Neither,” I said. “Local history.”