Chapter Four of Professor McPhee's book was entirely dedicated to this exact subject.

The wind sheared sideways across the slope. Catherine knelt before the first stone, resting her knees on her folded coat.

It was the shortest of the pillars, reaching only to her chest. The side facing east had been worn completely smooth by centuries of wind.

The engravings were entirely on the west face. The bottom layer was carved in pre-Roman Celtic script—mostly arcs, with every stroke curling inward at the finish.

The first rule MacFie had taught her over the past six months: recognize the Academy Style before reading the words.

Identify who carved it, from what era, with which hand, and which stroke they habitually started with.

She pressed her fingers to the stone, tracing the surface from right to left.

The starting stroke was at the top right; the engraver was left-handed.

The first and second stones took her nineteen minutes combined.

The third stone was the Romanized layer.

She read this layer faster than Richard, and for a very simple reason: Chapter Four of Professor McPhee's book was entirely dedicated to this exact subject.

Catherine felt like she was retaking a test she had already passed. She didn't even need to check her rubbings; she could just copy down the answers.

She hit a wall at the seventh stone.

Medieval Latin was overlaid atop the ancient Gaelic in a chaotic mess.

Whoever carved that layer clearly hadn't understood what they were writing, merging two separate components into a single stroke before adding a cross next to it.

Catherine knelt there, motionless for a long time.

MacFie sat in the short grass at the center of the circle, not saying a word.

After a while, the red-haired girl shifted her Engraving Tool to her left hand and made the first cut at the bottom edge of that cross.

She left the belatedly added cross intact.

Her reason for sparing it had nothing to do with reverence. The monk who added the cross hadn't known what he was doing, but he had coincidentally placed it dead-center on a stress point.

If she dismantled it, half the stone pillar would collapse on the spot.

MacFie hadn't spoken a single word from start to finish.

Catherine knew exactly what that meant.

For the past six months, every time she submitted an assignment, the professor would pick it apart in excruciating detail.

Just last month, he had picked her deciphered draft of the ancient Highlands battlefield apart from beginning to end.

His absolute silence tonight was the highest praise she could receive.

The power of the Nemesis Mask circulated silently. Maintaining that sealing Spell Formula, Catherine deflected the mask's compulsion to forcibly level everything out, redirecting it entirely into her work on the inscriptions.

As she dismantled the seals, she could spot every unevenness.

Which stone bore too much of the burden, and which stone bore too little.

Every instance of corner-cutting and sloppiness inflicted upon the old formation over the past millennium was glaringly obvious to her.

Kneeling before the stone pillar, Catherine gripped the Engraving Tool tightly for a long time.

The urge to level everything out pushed outward from deep within her bones.

Instead, she carefully followed the sloppy strokes of that layer, replicating them exactly, cut by cut. Old scores wouldn't be settled tonight.

...

Hundreds of miles away, in that third-floor office of the Petrie Building.

Mortimer sat in the old armchair, a copper basin resting in his lap.

The pool of water inside the basin projected the situation playing out on the slope.

"Old Mac."

A voice from the water answered.

"Hmm?"

"Is the wind strong over there?"

"It is."

"Can you hold your seat?"

"I can."

Mortimer picked up the chipped teacup beside him, took a sip, and wrinkled his brow.

"Both students did well tonight."

"Catherine changed the order on the ninth stone. She judged the direction of the fractures herself."

"I saw."

"You didn't say a word."

"She didn't need me to."

Mortimer chuckled, pushing his reading glasses up his nose.

"Where is that boy, Richard, right now?"

"He's past the ferry. He's already in the section beneath the island."

Mortimer leaned back in his chair, making the old wood creak.

"That kid isn't bad either."

The lamp in the office buzzed with static.

"Old Mac, you have a fail-safe for tonight, right?"

Nothing changed on the surface of the water.

"I do. I'm prepared to call out that cu-sith—the Green-Furred Phantom Hound."

Mortimer lowered his leg from the other chair.

Over in the Highlands, that hound was one of the most frequently spoken of legends.

Green, the size of a calf, with a braided tail.

It ran without making a sound and would only take a person's life after barking three times.

The first bark sounded from far away, the second much closer, and the third right next to your ear.

"Where did you catch yours?"

"In a sacrificial scar out west. Caught it eleven years ago, and I've only used it twice since."

"How does it compare to a Hunter?"

"It's more useful in a fight than most Minor Adept Hunters."

Mortimer downed the last mouthful of his tea.

"Then why haven't you let it loose yet?"

The voice from the water chuckled.

"If I let it loose, those two kids would have come out tonight for nothing."

Mortimer laughed as well.

"Old friend, you're much more wicked than I am."

MacFie said, "I call it a fail-safe. If things really go south tonight, the panic button is right in my hand."

"And if nothing goes south, you just keep sitting there."

"Right. I just keep sitting."

The distant howling of the wind on the slope bled through the water.

"I did the exact same thing back in my day," Mortimer said.

"Did what?"

"The day my first student went out on his first field operation, I sneaked out early and hid in a ruined church near the weak point.

I kept this water basin on my lap, sitting there from dusk until dawn."

"Did anything happen to him?"

"No."

"Then what did you sit up all night for?"

"I sat up all night just so I could tell him the next morning that I'd had a wonderful night's sleep at home."

The voice in the water didn't laugh.

"What happened to that kid later?"

"Later, he started taking on students of his own."

"And later still, his student's student is currently cooped up here with me, copying books."

The office fell silent for a long time.

Outside the window, a gust of wind flipped the leaves of the old plane trees, and they fluttered back into place once it passed.

Mortimer rested his hand on the rim of the copper basin and suddenly spoke.

"Old Mac, once this mission is over, there's something I want to discuss with you."

"You actually have things you need to discuss with me?"

"That Spell Formula. I want to teach it to him."

The slope on the other side remained quiet for a long time.

So long, in fact, that Mortimer took off his reading glasses, wiped them on his cuff, and put them back on.

"Which one?" the voice from the water asked.

"Don't play dumb."

The old professor leaned closer to the pool of water, looking somewhat displeased.

"The Spell Formula you used this past February, when you took a single book and crossed out that entire Nordic table."

Mortimer set his cup down on the armrest.

"Your glorious track record has been spreading through our circles for months."

"Speaking of which, you've had this habit since you were young."

"What habit?"

"Walking out the door without a blade, carrying a book instead."

A low chuckle emanated from the water.

Mortimer tapped his finger lightly against the rim of the copper basin.

"You gave this Spell Formula to me back then so I could add it to the archives.

So I need to get your permission tonight. Can I teach it to him?"

"That kid is smart," MacFie said.

"What good is being smart? Smart is only good for hiding, and you can't hide forever."

The half-lit lamp in the office buzzed with static once more.

"...These old bones of mine can't shield him for much longer."

"I've tallied up what he has in his hands right now. He lacks nothing when it comes to defending, concealing, or escaping."

"He hoards anything that might buy him another day of life."

The old professor folded his hands over the edge of the copper basin resting on his lap.

"But he doesn't hold a single thing that makes others terrified to touch him."

From the water, the wind blowing across the slope came through in fitful gusts.

"Old Mo," MacFie finally spoke.

"The exact same Spell Formula yields entirely different results when wielded by different traditions."

"When you use it, you must first read your target thoroughly. You don't dare make the first stroke until every single load-bearing point stands perfectly clear in your mind.

And once that stroke falls, the very fact that the target ever existed vanishes with it."

"In our Moon-Hunting tradition, we call it Striking the Name."

"It is fast. A single stroke of the blade."

"It requires you to lock on first."

"The prey must already be inside your hunting ground."

"Otherwise, it's just an empty swing."

Mortimer listened to all of this, then picked up the thread himself.

"Right now, Richard is highly compatible with the Mirror Tradition."

"I've been watching his progress with this advanced breathing method over the last six months, and even from the sidelines, I can vaguely sense it."

"The Mirror's reflection is remarkably similar to Moon-Hunting's lock-on."

He took off his reading glasses and held them firmly in his hand.

"So, I believe he would be a perfect fit for this Spell Formula."