Chapter 8: The Dagger's Hilt

　　The sketch of the dagger’s hilt, with its stylized closed eye, burned in Caden’s mind like a brand. It was no longer a historical curiosity; it was a live wire leading directly into the heart of present-day corruption. Violet’s silent message was a seismic event. She was no longer a recipient of his guidance but a full partner, operating with a boldness that chilled him to the bone. Where had she seen it? On whose belt? The questions were a vortex, threatening to pull him into reckless action.

　　He had to be the anchor. He had to respond, but with the precision of a surgeon, not the panic of a fugitive. General Sorrengail’s visit had raised the stakes to a terrifying degree. The Archives were no longer a sanctuary; they were the eye of the storm.

　　For three days, he did nothing overt. He maintained the facade of the weary archivist, his interactions with Violet reduced to the barest professional necessities. But his mind was a forge, heating and hammering the new information. He needed to give her a response that was both an acknowledgment and a warning, a next step that would satisfy her investigative drive while tempering its inherent dangers.

　　He decided on a two-pronged approach: one for the dagger, and one for the woman who was becoming a revolutionary.

　　The first part required a descent into the deepest, most classified vault—a sub-level rumored to be warded with old, powerful magic. It held the "unwritten" histories, the records too damning for even the restricted section. Accessing it was a risk that could summon the very scrutiny they feared. He waited for a night of howling wind and lashing rain, when the elements would mask any sound. Using a complex sequence of keystones and a whispered phrase in a language forgotten by most, he entered the vault. The air was dead and cold. He found what he was looking for: a personnel file so heavily redacted it was almost blank, save for a code name—Stryker—and a single, inked rendering of the closed eye sigil. The file contained only one operational note: Aretia Cleanup.

　　Aretia. The name was a ghost in the room. The heart of the rebellion. The place where Brennan Sorrengail had died.

　　Caden didn't need to read the details. The implication was clear enough. This Stryker had been there. He was Lilith’s cleaner. And if Violet had seen his dagger, it meant he was active again. The past was not past; it was circling back.

　　He committed the details to his infallible memory and left the vault, sealing it behind him. He would not give Violet a document. That would be too dangerous. Instead, he would give her a ghost.

　　The next day, while shelving maps near her desk, he paused. Violet was studying a text on poisons. He spoke without looking at her, his voice a low murmur meant only for her ears.

　　“They say the old outpost at Aretia has a peculiar geology,” he said, as if musing to himself. “The shale in the riverbeds… when split, it sometimes reveals perfect imprints of ancient ferns. A record of a world that existed long before dragons or riders. A world that was… cleaned away.”

　　He stressed the last two words ever so slightly. Then he moved on.

　　He did not wait to see her reaction. He had given her the location—Aretia—and the operative term—cleaned. It was a breadcrumb, a hook for her formidable mind to seize upon. It was also a warning: the territory she was probing was not just dangerous; it had been sanitized.

　　The second part of his response was for the cadet, not the conspirator. He had watched the brutal, calculating efficiency with which she was now navigating the college. It was necessary, but he saw the light in her eyes hardening into something brittle. She was learning to manipulate her peers, to build her power base among the marked ones, to see everyone as a piece on a board. It was what he had wanted, but now he felt a pang of something akin to regret. He was helping to create a weapon, but he did not want to entirely erase the girl.

　　A few days later, he "accidentally" left a small, handwritten journal on a table in her path. It was not an official text. It was the personal diary of a long-dead rider, a woman who wrote not of battles, but of the stars she observed from her dragon’s back, the strange flowers that grew only on the highest peaks, the simple joy of a shared meal with her squad after a hard patrol. It was a record of a life, not just a military career. It was a reminder of what they were supposedly fighting for—not just against.

　　He watched her find it. She opened it with a look of suspicion, which slowly melted into a profound, weary sadness. She read a single entry, then closed the book and held it to her chest for a long moment, her eyes closed. She did not take it with her, but when she left, her step seemed slightly less heavy.

　　The fallen knight had performed his most delicate operation yet. He had given his agent a critical piece of intelligence, warning her of a lethal predator on the hunt. And he had given the young woman under the agent’s skin a reminder of her own humanity. He was managing not just an investigation, but a soul.

　　That night, as he locked the Archives, he felt the immense, terrifying weight of his role. He was a keeper of secrets, a weaver of shadows, a guardian of a flame that threatened to consume both the kindler and himself. The dagger’s hilt was more than a symbol; it was a key turning in a lock, opening a door to a past he had tried to bury. And on the other side of that door, he knew with a cold certainty, stood General Lilith Sorrengail, waiting.

　　Chapter 8 - End