The forbidden archive, as Nicholas came to call it, was not nearly as exciting as the nickname suggested. He had tried it out in several voices in the hopes that a sense of drama would make this all more bearable, then registered that he hadn't been down here long enough to start talking to himself and stopped mid-whisper.

He thought it was his third day. He couldn't be sure.

The torches never went out; he went to sleep and woke up in the same orange light. There was no way to measure time. The best he could do was to pass it. And the only way to pass it was to read.

He supposed that was what Rayan wanted.

There was a large stack of books near the sofa. He had spent his first day painstakingly scouring half of the shelves, picking out anything that mentioned witchcraft within the first page. The rest of his time had been devoted to moving through the pile itself, struggling with faded script, curly handwriting, and the sort of language he had hated reading in his old literature classes. He would never finish if he went word-for-word, but he couldn't afford to skim too light and miss anything, either, and towing that balance had left him with a permanent headache.

So far, he had learned the names and life stories of several autobiographical and heavily poetic witches, how to hide his budding magical abilities, so many potion recipes, recipes that didn't seem to have anything to to with witchcraft at all, the geographical distribution of kova zem, the date and method of many Maesian executions...

He had gathered in bits and pieces that there were more zem than the nine he had invented, and that the control of these alternative stones constituted "witchcraft." But any mention of them was closely followed by words scratched off the paper, or paragraphs covered by ink spills, or even entire pages torn from the binding.

Nicholas was losing what little hope he'd had to begin with. He kept his water-wrinkled pad of sticky notes at his side to mark pages that might be even remotely helpful and hadn't used a single one. His pile of discarded books was growing, and yet the original pile hardly seemed to have shrunk at all. He wasn't any closer to unearthing how he had gotten here or how to leave. And he wasn't any closer to saving Rayan.

He wasn't sure how much he wanted to. The fact that he was contemplating his own morality over a storybook villain irritated him to no end. But if the events in the journal really were set in stone, Rayan would die by Nicholas' pen. No matter how awful he was, that didn't feel right, not now that he had become flesh and bone and breath. Maybe it was because of how awful he was- or, how awful he wasn't. Unkind, warmongering, temperamental, sure. Absolutely the cause of most of Nicholas' problems. But bad enough to die?

Nicholas wasn't sure Rayan had done enough to deserve that. Either way, he didn't like being the one to decide.

The only place to sleep was the sofa, tucked into a reading nook across from the stairs. It was long enough if he bent his knees. There was an armchair, too, but he only moved to it when he felt himself fossilizing in place. Three times a day, he was fed like a hungry circus lion in a cage. The ceiling opened up, a guard floated a tray of food down onto the stairs, the ceiling closed again. Those were the only glimpses of daylight he got.

He had a lot to be pissed about, but that particular hit tipped him over the edge.

On that third day, he did his reading from the stairs, as high up as he could sit without bending his neck against the ceiling. The shurta who appeared holding his dinner didn't outwardly flinch, but there were instantly four conical blades hovering threateningly above the hole in the ceiling. The ceiling where Nicholas had laid his hand so that it couldn't be magically closed.

"I'm not gonna leave," he said dryly. "I'm not dumb."

"Could have fooled me," said the guard. "If you're so smart, you'll distance yourself from the exit."

Nicholas had no interest in bantering with a man who had sharp objects pointed at his neck, so he cut to the chase. "I want a window."

"I said-"

"I heard you. I said I want a window. How am I supposed to work when my circadian rhythm is all confused?"

The guard narrowed his eyes. "Cicadoran rhyth-? You're underground!" His voice slipped into exasperation before he caught himself and squared his shoulders. "A window is impossible. Withdraw. I will not ask again."

"Do you even have clearance to harm me? Boss might get pretty mad if something gets in the way of my very important work. Where's your diplomacy? I'm not asking a lot. But if it's too much for you, take it up with the big man. Or bring Rayan down here and let me talk to him myself. "

"You impudent-"

"Anyway. I'll get to work now. Very slowly, until I have my window."

He emerged just far enough to take the tray out of the guard's hands and went down the staircase. His own hands were shaking, but here in his dungeon, he was the only witness. He ate at the base of the stairs and comforted himself by picturing how Malik and Adrian would react to his behavior. Malik would be horrified, irritated, and secretly a bit impressed. Adrian would laugh big and loud and throw an arm over Nicholas' shoulder. Where have you been hiding all that?

I don't know, thought Nicholas. I don't know where it came from and I don't think I like it.

He was still on the floor, twisted at an odd angle so the torchlight didn't cast shadows over Bedtime Stories for the Little Witch, when the room shook. Shapeless voices drifted down from the library above and didn't stop for several minutes. There was a lot of rumbling, a lot of creaking, then nothing again, except for the gentle groan of the ceiling opening up the way it did at mealtimes. But he'd had all of his meals already. And the ceiling didn't close again.

Nicholas gave the ceiling a good minute to decide it was sure. Then he went to check it out. Upstairs was a window.

It was taller than him, a round-topped pane in the library wall that overlooked Lake Charlatan far below. He rapped his knuckles against the glass; it was thick. Not that he had any desire to dive to his death again. He didn't remember seeing it when he'd come through the library days ago. The rest was definitely new.

Three doorless walls enclosed the top of the staircase and a bed situated beneath the window. There was space to take maybe four steps in any direction. Small steps.

Nicholas grinned.

He knelt on the bed. The sheets were thin, but the mattress had a nice give, and Caldoran summer nights were sweaty, anyway. Through the window, he could see the stars. He could see the moon. Once in the sky, once in the lake's reflection.

Nicholas turned around with plans to fall blissfully back into the sheets like he'd seen in movies and nearly jumped off the bed instead.

"Oh, what the hell."

Rayan looked at Nicholas like somehow he was the crazy one.

"You have your window," he said, leaning against the opposite wall. "But allow me to be very clear: you will not get along here by throwing tantrums to have your way. You are not a guest. You are going to behave, do you understand?"

"I want a clock, too," said Nicholas.

"You were smarter before."

"You said you wouldn't punish me for speaking my mind."

"The situation was different."

"Is there anything else you need, or..."

Rayan looked for a second like he didn't understand the question. Nicholas saw the moment it clicked and recognized that he might have pushed too far.

"Are you trying to dismiss me?"

There was no inflection in his voice, just a cold steel grind. Nicholas' throat did its best to crawl into itself. It was a familiar feeling. It was how he'd always reacted in the face of authority or power. Unobtrusive and non-confrontational. Dull but likable. Inoffensive, unremarkable, harmless, trustworthy, unheard.

He forced his voice forward. "Should I be more direct?"

Rayan's long legs brought him before the bed in two strides. "I own everything within these walls."

Nicholas refused to crane his head the way he knew Rayan wanted. Instead, he stood and walked to the stairs, offering a slight bow as he passed. "Not everything," he said. "Have fun lurking. I've got work to do."

Footsteps followed him down. Nicholas cursed whatever saints Rayan worshiped. He tried to act as though he didn't notice, grabbing a new book from the pile just so he didn't have to turn around. But Rayan's presence loomed heavy behind him, and when the king reached over him for a book, Nicholas shuddered to his fingertips and snapped, "What are you doing?"

Rayan's fingers paused over a time-stained leather cover.

"Turn around," he said. Nicholas obeyed before he could think, tugged by the quiet danger in Rayan's tone. "Listen carefully. You are standing on my floor holding my book. You will sleep on my bed beneath my window. You live off of my food and water, and my generosity. Every step you take within these walls - every step you take on this soil - it all belongs to me. I will not be questioned for treading over my own earth, and you will not act as though I owe you any explanation. Say you understand."

"I understand."

Rayan took the sofa. Nicholas sank onto the armchair like a stone dropped in still water, rigid and out of place. But Rayan didn't acknowledge him again, and the goosebumps faded and his stomach settled, and they read through the night.

The next morning, his breakfast was delivered through a slit in the upstairs wall. With it was a small analog clock. Nicholas propped it on the windowsill, but he eventually had to turn it around. He was glancing at it often, disheartened every time by how little it moved. Not that he had anything to look forward to.

At least he could read under the light of the sun.

It made him think of Adrian again. He had been trying not to do that too much.

Where were he and Malik right then? Were they okay? Were they worried about Nicholas? Were they...

He laid his book on witchy pet care over his face. It smelled of must.

Malik cared for Adrian. That was clear as day to Nicholas, maybe because Malik was so much like himself. But Adrian...he had liked Nicholas, hadn't he? Or was Nicholas so starved for attention, he had misconstrued all of the touching and the smiling and-

It didn't matter. Adrian and Malik had been written for each other. They were inevitable.

Malik was the fictional projection of a prettier, more interesting version of himself. Adrian was the fictional projection of the boy of his dreams. Nicholas felt gross.

He missed having company. He missed the noise of it all.

He was so lonely, he might have even appreciated it when someone barged into his peace and quiet two nights later, if that someone had been anybody else. Rayan didn't say a word as he came downstairs. Nicholas stiffened as he approached, kicking his legs off the armrest, but Rayan only took another book from the pile and settled into the armchair.

It became an irregular pattern. Rayan would appear without preamble or greeting, always at night. There were no torches upstairs, so they read in the forbidden archive together, though "together" was a generous word. Even in the same room, the king occupied his own space.

It was annoying, but Nicholas guessed that if his life was on the line, he'd have trouble leaving his survival in someone else's hand, too. Two sets of eyes were faster than one, though Rayan made it hard to focus. Nicholas read slower when he was around. He thought better of telling him that.

The first time Rayan broke the silence, it was to tell Nicholas, "You're falling asleep."

Nicholas straightened from his slouch. He had made the mistake once of drifting off on the armchair over a book on potion chemistry. He'd woken up with his head lolled back as if he'd died there, and with such an excruciating pain in his neck he almost wished he had.

"I'm fine," he said, blinking the haze from his eyes to look down at his book on...potion history.

"There's drool on your chin."

Nicholas wiped his face with his sleeve. Very thoroughly, so Rayan wouldn't see his flaring cheeks. Rayan coughed into his fist.

"'S your fault for destroying my sleep schedule," Nicholas grumbled. And just when he'd started getting his circadian rhythm in order.

"My job is not to idle on a throne, you know. I have business to attend to during the day. I never asked that you stay up. Go to bed."

"I'm not falling asleep in the same room as the evil king, thanks."

"And how are you so sure that I'm evil?" said Rayan. "I studied that page well. The one where you described me as surly, distant, detached, severe, domineering, short-tempered, haughty - the list goes on."

"What are you getting at?"

"You called me cold, but not cold-hearted. Nowhere does it say I am to be evil. Or wicked, or malicious, or vindictive, or anything of the sort."

"That won't work," said Nicholas. "I know you."

"Do you." Rayan thought a second. Nicholas could see it in the tap of his fingers against his open book. "What time of day do I like the least?"

"Is this what you think it means to know someone?"

"Isn't it?"

Nicholas realized he wasn't too familiar with the whole thing himself.

"Ok. I don't know you. But does anyone?"

Rayan rolled his shoulders. Stumped.

"People might have, once. Or..." his gaze drifted, and he began to mumble. "I suppose they never did, if my existence only began when you wrote it. I don't know what to make of it, that history is fake and all of my memories are meaningless."

Nicholas said, "I don't care."

"Of course."

They returned to their work.

Sometime later, Rayan perked up in his seat. "Listen to this," he said, and read aloud, "Wherever reality exists, so exists the ability to alter it. This is the foundation of what we call witchcraft or sorcery, though it may take on a different name elsewhere."

Nicholas had been nodding off again, but that woke him up. He was in front of the couch in a second, bending awkwardly forward to read.

"What else does it say?" he asked. Because the words were upside-down.

"Nothing of note," said Rayan, angling the page toward himself with a wary glance at Nicholas. "But this suggests..."

"The existence of 'elsewhere.' Another world, or- many worlds."

"All with something in common." He looked up urgently. "Yours, tell me about it. Your world. Tell me about the magic."

"There was none."

"Clearly there was."

"I don't know! It was- hidden, I guess, or...I don't know."

"Do you mean to say you invented all of..." He made a vague, all-encompassing gesture. "This? Based on nothing?"

His tone made Nicholas bristle. "That's the point of fantasy."

"That is absurd."

"Excuse me?"

"Running off into some unreal world in your head like a child." Rayan chuckled in a way that was very intentionally fake. "Why would you waste your time that way?"

Nicholas hated this question. He'd heard it all through his undergrad, that he was throwing away his talent, that he was selling out before he'd even gotten started. He had nodded his head and bitten his tongue until it bled, saturated in shame.

"I wanted to be anywhere but where I was," he said, bleak and unyielding. "It kept me sane."

"From where I'm sitting, it certainly looks like insanity."

"You sit on a throne," Nicholas snapped. "Your real world has always served you."

He was forced back a step when Rayan stood.

"You really don't know me." He dropped the book between them, forcing Nicholas to fumble to catch it, and stepped around him. "In any case, there is no 'always.' Always was only in my head, apparently."

Nicholas watched him leave. When Rayan took his last step onto the higher floor, and he couldn't see Nicholas and Nicholas couldn't see him, Nicholas said, "I don't think your memories are meaningless."

He didn't call out, but his voice carried in the silent underground. He heard when Rayan's footsteps paused. "This land was shaped by its history; you were shaped by yours. Those things are undeniable. If your memories have a taste and a smell and a feeling, that has to mean something. It means you lived them. Even if it happened in the blink of an eye, or- I don't understand it. I don't think I can. But I've given up on logic at this point."

The king left him to his reading.

♛ ♛ ♛

Nicholas came to observe that Rayan had many shades. They were subtle, and gray, and easier to tell apart with time. Most nights, he was iron. Straight-shouldered and clean-pressed. Measured, magnetic, commanding attention without saying anything. But there were some nights, the ones that really kept Nicholas up late, when the king arrived after midnight with his coat rumpled like he had thrown it on in a haste. His hair seemed like an afterthought, messily tied back and pillow-frizzed, and his gloved fingers were restless against the pages. He was quiet in both states, but his silence was louder in this heather gray. Either way, he was distracting. Nicholas wished he would leave.

It was a dark heather night. Rayan's vest was buttoned unevenly. Nicholas had gotten used to napping during the day to adjust to the king's inconsiderate timing, but it still felt like being ripped from sleep when he heard a book thud against the floor and looked up to see Rayan on his feet.

"Tell me, Viper," he said, for once hiding nothing. Nicholas couldn't believe how young he looked when he admitted with his face how he felt. Right then, he felt afraid. "What possessed you to write this?"

"...Huh?"

"Is this your idea of a happy ending? Does everyone cheer when the villain dies? It's cruel, isn't it?"

He didn't stick around for an answer. The torch flames bounced angrily in their bulbs. They didn't settle until Rayan was gone.