A crisp wind swept through the stone corridors of the university, rattling loose glass panes and stirring the scent of old parchment and ink. The sun had barely risen, casting pale light through the narrow windows. The floor of the lecture hall was cold beneath the thin soles of the students' boots as they filed into the room, murmuring quietly among themselves.
At the front of the hall, a man stood behind the lectern — tall and angular, with dark hair pulled loosely behind his ears. His coat was pressed and formal, but the ink stains at his fingertips suggested someone who had spent more time with parchment than with people.
"Good morning," the man said, his voice clipped and even. His eyes scanned the room, sharp and calculating.
"My name is Niccolò Moretti. I will be instructing you in mathematics and natural philosophy."
The students quieted. Niccolò's gaze drifted over the wooden benches, briefly settling on the empty front row. There was an absence here — one that the other instructors spoke of in low tones, rarely naming the apprentice who had once occupied it.
Ignatus.
Niccolò's eyes darkened. He had heard the stories — a brilliant young apprentice condemned for heresy alongside the disgraced alchemist, Benedetto. Burned at the stake for blasphemy. A tragic end, the other instructors had called it. A cautionary tale.
But Niccolò had also heard whispers in the taverns — of unfinished work. Of heretical theories left incomplete. Of a quiet pattern of disappearances among those suspected of pursuing Benedetto's work.
Niccolò knew the risks. He had come anyway.
He cleared his throat. "Let us begin."
He turned toward the chalkboard and began sketching out the fundamental laws of geometry. His hand moved fluidly, the lines crisp and sharp. A student in the front row raised his hand.
"Yes?"
"What is the practical use of this?" the boy asked, arms crossed.
Niccolò's brow lifted. "What is the practical use of breathing?"
A ripple of laughter passed through the room. Niccolò's mouth twitched into a faint smile. "It's survival," he said. "Understanding how the world functions — how it fits together — is no different."
The bell rang overhead, signaling the end of the session. The students shuffled to their feet, gathering up their books.
Niccolò set the chalk down and rubbed the dust from his hands. His gaze drifted toward the far side of the room — toward a narrow, unmarked door.
The old workshop.
He had been given the key earlier that week — the headmaster's reluctant gesture of trust. The room had belonged to Benedetto and his apprentice before the trial. Most of the equipment had been confiscated, the room left untouched since the night of the arrest.
Niccolò hesitated.
Then he crossed the room and unlocked the door.
The workshop was cold and stale with the scent of old paper and rusted iron. Sunlight filtered through cracks in the shuttered windows, casting thin, pale beams across the dust-coated tables. Bookshelves lined the walls, their spines warped and split with age.
Niccolò crossed the room slowly, his fingertips tracing the rough edge of one of the wooden tables. Dust stirred beneath his hand. He crouched down, inspecting the worn floorboards beneath the central worktable.
A faint scrape of metal.
His foot caught on the edge of a loose wooden board.
Niccolò stumbled. His shoulder hit the side of the table, rattling the nearby shelves. A stack of books tipped forward.
Niccolò's hand shot out, catching the topmost volume — a battered, leather-bound copy of Principia Divina.
A slip of parchment fluttered from between the pages and drifted to the floor.
Niccolò froze.
He knelt and picked it up.
The parchment was thin and brittle with age. Its edges were curled and yellowed, but the ink was still sharp and dark.
A diagram — a series of precise, interlocking circles. Rays of light intersecting through glass prisms. Notes scribbled hastily along the margins in Latin.
Niccolò's breath quickened. His eyes darted toward the bottom corner of the page.
A small, curved symbol.
"B."
Benedetto's mark.
Niccolò's hand tightened around the paper. His mind raced. This was impossible. The Inquisition had destroyed everything. Every record. Every note.
Except this.
There was a sharp knock at the door.
Niccolò's head shot up.
"Professor?"
A student's voice.
Niccolò shoved the parchment beneath his sleeve. He forced his breath to steady before crossing the room and opening the door.
A boy of about fifteen stood on the threshold, clutching a notebook. His gaze shifted nervously. "You asked me to bring you the assignment?"
Niccolò's eyes sharpened. "Yes. Come in."
The student hesitated. His eyes drifted toward the battered copy of Principia Divina resting on the table.
Niccolò's hand brushed over the book's cover. His thumb pressed into the faded leather.
"That will be all," he said quietly.
The student's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he nodded and backed out of the room.
The door clicked shut.
Niccolò turned back toward the table. He drew the slip of parchment from his sleeve, smoothing it flat against the surface of the worktable.
His hands trembled as his eyes traced the lines of the diagram. He reached for a fresh piece of parchment and a quill.
He began to copy it.
Piece by piece.
Line by line.
Niccolò's heart thudded against his ribs as the full shape of the diagram emerged beneath his hand.
It was beautiful.
Niccolò smiled faintly.
It had survived.
The truth — Benedetto's truth — had endured.
And now, it would rise again.