He walked toward Sela, coin in hand. "Shall we head back? I think I have had enough for one day." In truth, he felt he could continue, but an inexplicable restlessness nagged at him, as if someone were whispering just out of earshot.
Sela gave him a searching look, likely noting the tension in his shoulders. She nodded. "As you wish." She pushed off the pillar and gestured for him to precede her along the colonnade that encircled the courtyard.
They passed a series of carved stone benches where small clusters of exotic plants thrived in the sunbeams. Connor idly brushed a fingertip over the petals of a blue serapha lily in bloom, its fragrance sweet and calming. This inner sanctuary was one of the few truly peaceful places afforded to him in Asterholt. Only a handful of authorized personnel could enter, and at this hour they had it to themselves.
He should have felt at ease, and yet… that prickle at the nape of his neck persisted. Sela had drilled into him the importance of listening to intuition—aether sense could manifest as a lot of things. Right now his manifested as unease.
Midway to the exit, Connor paused. Something flickered at the corner of his vision. A shadow? A glint beyond the lattice? He turned his head, scanning the upper reaches of the enclosure.
"Is something wrong?" Sela asked quietly, her hand already drifting toward her sword hilt, alarm sharpening her features.
"I… not sure." Connor squinted. The sunlight was slanting differently now, casting moving patterns as clouds passed overhead. For an instant, he thought he saw a tiny point of reflected light amid the cross-hatched shadows near the roof. Like a blinking eye.
His pulse kicked. There—again. A subtle movement, as if a metal insect clung to the lattice.
Before he could open his mouth to warn Sela, a high-pitched whirring sound sliced through the quiet. It came from above and behind, near the courtyard's southeastern corner. Connor's eyes snapped to the source of the noise just in time to see a small metallic device dart out from behind a potted palm on the upper balcony.
It was no larger than a sparrow, all brass gleam and whirring wings: a drone, crystal-powered by the hum of it. And it was flying straight into the courtyard, lenses glinting in the light—lenses that were pointed directly at him.
Sela reacted instantly. "Stay behind me!" she barked, unsheathing her saber in one fluid motion. The steel caught the sunlight in a fierce arc. She moved to put herself between Connor and the incoming device.
But Connor didn't duck behind her. Instead, adrenaline surging, he thrust out his hand and focused on that glittering little machine. He felt the familiar tug in his chest as he seized at its momentum. A wild shove, not the measured push of moments ago.
"Down!" he hissed through clenched teeth.
The aether answered—too eagerly. The drone jolted in midair as if swatted by an invisible giant. It spun out of control, a spray of sparks trailing in its wake, and careened toward the courtyard wall. For a heartbeat, Connor thought he'd crushed it outright, and a fierce satisfaction bloomed—no unwanted intruder would spy on him so easily.
But the drone proved resilient. At the last second, it regained some stability, wobbling as its wings beat frantically. Instead of shattering against the wall, it skimmed along the stone with a screech of metal on rock. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, it shot upward, escaping through a narrow gap in the lattice canopy with an angry buzz. In a blink, it was gone—vanished into the bright sky beyond the citadel's wards.
A single brass feather, shorn from the contraption, spiraled down in lazy loops and landed at Sela's feet.
They stood frozen for a moment, the courtyard echoing with the aftermath of the brief chaos. Connor's heart thundered in his ears. He stared up at the gap where the drone had fled, mind racing. A drone, here—how? The wards should have prevented unregistered devices. Unless…
Unless someone found a way to mask it or slip it in during the short window when the gate opened for supply deliveries. However it managed, it had been watching. The idea made his skin crawl.
Sela's curse snapped him out of it. She sheathed her saber with a sharp hiss of steel. "Damn it. Are you hurt?" Her eyes scanned him swiftly for injury, for signs of magical attack—who knew what that drone carried.
"I am alright," Connor said quickly, though his voice wavered. "It didn't get near me."
Sela nodded curtly, then picked up the fallen brass piece. It looked like a tiny wing blade, with delicate filigree—definitely a crafted gadget, not a stray city maintenance sprite. Her jaw tightened. "That was a private recon drone. Possibly paparazzi, possibly worse. Either way, it should never have reached this far in."
He stepped beside her, frustration and lingering fear twisting in his gut. "It had a camera," he said. "I saw the lens. It was… it was taking pictures of me." Even saying it aloud felt surreal and violating. In Aurelia, no one would have dared photograph him without permission. But here, someone had.
Sela's expression darkened further. "Then it likely transmitted them before escaping. These modern crystal drones often relay data as they go. Light and quick." She turned on her heel. "We must inform the Council security at once. They need to track that thing and find out who sent it."
Connor followed at her side as they hurried out of the garden. His hands had begun to tremble with a delayed reaction. First a near-assassin in Aurelia, now mechanical spies in Asterholt—there was nowhere truly safe, was there? He closed his fist around the copper coin he still held, the edges biting into his palm.
"I should have been quicker," he muttered, anger creeping into his voice at his own performance. "I almost smashed it, I felt it… but I lost my grip."
Sela spared him a brief, fierce glance as they entered the corridor leading back to the residential wing. "You did enough, Connor. You deflected it from hitting either of us. That is not a small feat."
He wasn't so sure. If he'd crushed it entirely, they might have recovered its memory crystal intact—maybe prevented whatever image it took from leaving. But now...
They swept through a security checkpoint—startled guards straightening as Sela barked for an immediate lockdown of all male quarter approaches. Within minutes, they were in a secure antechamber outside Connor's suite, flanked by half a dozen anxious officials. Yara was among them, having rushed from her study the moment the alarm was raised. The stately guild-matron had a hand on her chest as if to steady a pounding heart.
"My boy," came Matron Yara's voice, warbling with concern as she approached Connor. "Are you unharmed? What happened?"
He nodded, managing a tight smile to calm the older woman. "I am alright, Matron. A drone of some kind infiltrated the garden."
Yara's eyes widened behind her spectacles. "Saints preserve us. In broad daylight?"
Sela answered, her tone clipped and professional. "It was stealth-class. Possibly guild-grade tech repurposed by a third party. Sir Connor responded with magic and I attempted to intercept, but it escaped." She lifted the tiny brass wing for Yara and the others to see. "This fell off in the scuffle."
One of the Council security officers stepped forward to take it gingerly. "We will run a tracing enchantment, Captain. If it has a maker's mark or guild signature, we will find it."
"See that you do," Sela said, eyes cold. The implication hung: someone on the inside might have facilitated this, or at least failed to prevent it. A grave lapse.
Connor only half listened to the flurry of activity that followed—messages being sent, search patrols dispatched around the perimeter, mages conjuring tracking wisps to chase the drone's aetheric trail. He felt oddly detached, as if watching all this from outside himself. Only when Yara gently guided him to sit on a velvet bench did he realize he'd been standing stiff and mute.
"Easy, dear," she soothed, patting his shoulder. "We will sort this. Just breathe."
He nodded and took a breath. It shuddered on the way out. One stray photo, one glimpse of him out in the world. That alone shouldn't terrify him so much—he wasn't hurt, after all. But the implications churned ominously. If whoever orchestrated this got what they wanted... what now?
The answer arrived within hours.
By evening, Asterholt's crystal-net was ablaze. The very news channels and gossip feeds that had been carefully kept away from Connor were now plastered with his image. The photo wasn't perfectly clear—the drone's tumble had blurred it slightly—but it was unmistakably him: a young man in a sunlit garden, arm outstretched, eyes fierce. The first male mage anyone had seen in generations, caught unawares on camera.
Sela insisted he remain in his quarters while the Council convened an emergency session. Connor paced like a caged lion across his sitting room, the offending image hovering mid-air before him via a projection crystal that Yara had reluctantly shared. The Council thought he had a right to see what was being circulated.
He almost wished he hadn't looked. The commentary scrolling beside the frozen image made his stomach turn:
Miracle Man or Myth? Leaked Photo of Alleged Male Mage Sparks Frenzy.
Bounty Soars: Zahir Cartel Offers King's Ransom for Male Mage Specimen.
Lady Vesna Demands Council Accountability for Male Ward's Exposure.
On and on it went, dozens of headlines, speculations. Some called him an angel returned, others insinuated he was a dangerous fake conjured by Asterholt to boost their political power. And the bounties… Connor sank into a chair as he read the figures. He had never imagined his life could be quantified in such cold, gleeful greed. Riches beyond imagining promised to anyone who could bring him out of Asterholt's protection, delivered into the hands of underground syndicates or rival guilds.
A knock on his chamber door drew him from his spiraling thoughts. Sela entered, her face drawn tight. She carried a small tray with a steaming pot of tea—likely Yara's idea to soothe him—and a stack of message scrolls clutched under one arm.
"Any news?" Connor asked quietly as she set the tray down. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear it, but the silence was worse.
Sela poured a cup with a steady hand. "The Council is in disarray, frankly. Half are livid that their ward was compromised, the others busy blaming each other for security lapses. They have sequestered the staff who had access to the garden schedule." She paused. "And one of the porters has gone missing."
"Missing?"
"Disappeared shortly after the incident. Possibly the mole who facilitated the drone's entry. We are still investigating." The way her fist clenched on the scrolls told Connor that if Sela got ahold of the culprit, it would not end gently.
He took the offered tea, not really wanting it, but the fragrant chamomile did steady him with each sip. "And... outside?" He gestured to the projection still hovering, though he had muted its scroll of commentary. "I can guess the general response, but I want to hear it from you."
Sela sat opposite him, caution in her stance. "Outrage. Awe. Fear. All swirling like a storm. Asterholt's citizenry are largely just curious or excited—some even cheering that they have a 'living myth' among them. But beyond our walls... chaos." She unfurled one of the scrolls. "We intercepted some communications. The Zahir cartel—those black market traffickers—issued an open bounty as you saw. Independent mercenaries are already boasting they will breach our walls."
Connor's mouth went dry. He'd known in theory that criminals coveted him, but seeing it laid out in gambling terms, with money on his head... it made him feel sick, and angry.
"Lady Vesna," Sela continued, "is publicly calling for you to be relocated to her custody 'for your own safety' since Asterholt has clearly failed to shield you. She is leveraging this politically, hard."
"Of course she is," Connor muttered, grip tightening on the porcelain cup. Lady Vesna—ever poised to snatch any advantage. If he hadn't despised the idea enough before, the thought of her using his image as a pawn in the public arena enraged him now.
"She has allies," Sela said grimly, scanning another letter. "Some guild matriarchs in other cities are echoing her sentiment, questioning if Asterholt is the right place for you."
As if he were a misplaced object. Connor felt heat rising to his face. "They talk about me like I'm not a person with my own will." His voice shook despite his attempt to sound composed. "As if I'm some valuable artifact they can move on a whim because of a photograph."
Sela met his gaze. "I know. It is infuriating. We are doing everything in our power to push back. Marisel—" she caught herself, "Matron Marisela from Aurelia—has sent a strongly worded testimony of Asterholt's care of you so far. It will help."
Connor's heart lifted a fraction at the mention of Marisela. So she knew what happened and was supporting him from afar. He should have expected nothing less from her.
Still, that small comfort did little to quell the swirl of emotions inside him: anger, violation, fear, and an odd guilt—like he had failed by allowing this to happen, by not being vigilant enough. Though logically, it wasn't his fault. He'd been promised safety under those wards.
He set down his tea before he shattered the cup by accident. A thought had been percolating in the back of his mind, and with each new headline and each new "demand" on his life from strangers, it grew bolder. He was tired of being spoken for. Tired of others shaping the narrative of his existence.
"Sela," he said slowly, "has anyone spoken to the press from our side? Given an official statement or something?"
She blinked. "Not yet. The Council's approach is to clamp down and starve the story. They issued a brief bulletin that Asterholt remains committed to your well-being and any intrusion will be met with force, but otherwise they are trying to keep you insulated."
Insulated. Hidden away to be protected, like always. Connor's jaw tightened. "It's not working," he said bluntly. "Hiding, saying nothing—it just lets everyone else fill in the blanks with whatever wild story they want. They are going to do that anyway, but right now I have no voice in it at all." He glanced aside and saw his face frozen in that projection, understood how powerless that image felt compared to the real him. "I have to do something. Say something."
Sela pressed her lips, caution in her eyes. "What do you propose? It is dangerous to draw more attention to yourself."
He almost laughed, gesturing to the holographic projection. "That cat is out of the bag. The attention is drawn, Sela. And it won't disappear just because I stay quiet." His grey eyes flashed with resolve. "If they see me, let them truly see me. Not some stolen snapshot, not rumors. Me."
She studied him, understanding dawning. "You want to give an interview."
"Or a public statement, at least. On my own terms." The idea solidified as he spoke it. Fear still coiled around his gut at the thought of stepping willingly into that spotlight, but it was tempered by a growing determination. "If I show them I'm not a prisoner, not a freak, but a person—perhaps it can lessen the frenzy. And it would take some wind out of Vesna's sails if I clearly say I choose to remain under Asterholt's protection."
Sela's lips pressed into a thin line; she looked simultaneously proud and worried. "That is very brave. And very risky. The Council will likely object. They prefer control."
Connor snorted. "They have already lost control of this narrative. At least this way, I get to tell my story, even a small piece of it." He was pacing now, agitation manifesting as restless energy. "If I cower, if I remain silent, they will still come. Vesna, the cartel, all of them. I would rather face them standing than hiding."
Sela's eyes glinted with something like admiration. "I see. You intend to control the narrative instead of letting it control you."
"Exactly."
Sela took a long breath. "I will support you in this. But I must warn you—once you step into that public space, you can never fully step back."
Connor nodded. He knew. But he'd felt that invisible brand on him since day one in this world. At least now he could choose its shape.
Before either could say more, another coded knock came at the door. Sela opened it to reveal Matron Yara, looking weary but carrying a crystal device in her hand that glowed with an active communication link. "Pardon the intrusion, dears," she said, stepping inside, "but we have a call incoming for Connor from Aurelia. From Marisela."
"Marisela?" Connor moved forward quickly. "She… she is on crystal now?" His heart leapt.
Yara smiled gently. "We thought speaking with a friendly voice might help just now. If you are up for it." She cast a glance at Sela, who gave an approving nod.
Connor needed no further encouragement. He took the palm-sized communication crystal from Yara's hand and held it up. "Marisela?" he said, voice trembling slightly.
At once, the crystal projected a soft blue, ghostly image of Marisela's face into the air. Her kind eyes, etched with worry, brightened as she saw him. "Oh, my dear boy," came her voice, warm as sunlight through winter glass. "Thank the stars. I see you… oh, look at you."
Connor's throat tightened. "Marisela." He didn't realize how badly he'd needed to see her until this moment. "I am okay," he managed. "A bit shaken, but alright."
She nodded, tears shining in the corners of her eyes. "I've been frantic since the news reached Aurelia this afternoon. We received that vile photograph through half a dozen channels—everyone is talking. I wrote to Matron Yara at once." She offered a watery smile at Yara, who hovered by the door politely. "It eases my heart to see you unharmed."
"I'm sorry," he said, surprising himself as the words spilled out. "I'm sorry that it happened, that you had to find out that way and worry—"
"Hush, hush now," Marisela chided softly. "No apologizing for things beyond your control. If anything, I am sorry. We promised you a measure of peace in this new life and it seems ever out of reach."
Connor swallowed the lump in his throat. Just hearing her voice grounded him. "I'm not giving up on peace just yet," he said quietly. "But I think the rules of how I find it are changing."
Marisela's image tilted her head. "Oh?"
He glanced at Sela, who had moved discreetly aside, then back to the crystal. "I was just telling Sela—I feel I should address this… this fervor. Speak for myself. I do not want the world's first real impression of me to be that stolen image and a heap of speculation."
A slow, proud smile spread over Marisela's face. "There's the brave young man I always knew was there." She sighed. "It is a daunting prospect, but you are right: silence can let others paint an untrue picture. Do you have an idea how you'd do it?"
He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it further. "Not fully. Perhaps a controlled interview with a reputable journalist—someone Asterholt trusts. Or an open letter released to the networks. Something personal, but measured."
Yara interjected gently, "The Council will need convincing. They mean well, Connor. They will fear that any exposure invites more danger."
Marisela nodded at that. "Wise Yara is correct. But perhaps… perhaps if you frame it not as self-exposure but as reassurance. Letting the world know you are safe, content, and not some captive or wild threat. It could help quiet the more hysterical voices."
Connor inhaled deeply. "Yes. That is exactly it. I want to reassure people. And show them I am more than some magical oddity."
Yara gently admonished him, "You are not an oddity at all, dear, but I do understand what you mean."
Sela stepped forward then. "Connor, if this is truly what you want, I will back you in Council. And I suspect Matron Yara might as well."
Yara's thin eyebrows rose. "I will, if that is his wish. The lad has a right to agency in this."
Warmth and gratitude flooded through Connor. "Thank you," he said, looking at each of them—Sela with her steadfast loyalty, Yara with her grandmotherly solidarity, and Marisela's flickering image full of unconditional support. "All of you. It means a great deal."
Marisela pressed a hand to her heart. "I am so proud of you, Connor. This courage to take control… you remind me of your mother just now."
He started, a pang of longing for a family long lost echoing within. She rarely mentioned his mother—perhaps not to stir grief—but hearing it filled him with a gentle light. "Thank you," he whispered.
They spoke a little longer about minor comforts—Marisela insisted he drink some chamomile and try to rest, Yara chimed in that she'd brew a calming tonic. Through it all, Connor felt a calm determination settling over him. Yes, the situation was dire and complicated, but he was no passive piece on the board. He would speak, and he would be heard, and he would shape what came next.
After farewells and promises to speak again soon, the crystal's glow dimmed, ending the call. Night had fully fallen outside the windows of black glass, the lights of Asterholt twinkling beyond like grounded stars.
Sela escorted Yara to the door, discussing arrangements for an early Council meeting at first light to consider Connor's proposal. Connor stood by the window, looking out at the city that now surely buzzed with talk of him. He placed a hand on the cool glass, seeing his reflection faintly overlay the world beyond.
The boy in that reflection was changing. He had arrived here frightened, grateful to be guarded at any cost. Now he felt something new kindling inside: a resolve to be more than a passive symbol shrouded and protected. If the world wanted to look at him, then he would look right back and speak his truth.
Behind him, Sela cleared her throat softly to announce her return. "Matron Yara will rally those in Council sympathetic to your plan. We have a long day tomorrow." She approached, stopping at a respectful distance as he gazed outward.
He turned to face her, hand still on the glass. "I am sure about this path, Sela."
She nodded slowly. "Then we will forge it."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Together."
Sela bowed her head slightly. "Together," she echoed.
Outside, the lights of Asterholt wavered in the night haze, but inside Connor's heart, a bright certainty took root. This time, he would not be merely the subject of the story. He would be the storyteller.
They did not wait long. The next morning, after brief but intense deliberation, the Council permitted Connor to issue a carefully crafted open letter to the public via official channels, accompanied by a single, sanctioned photograph of him (stiff but smiling gently, clad in formal robes).
He spent the day polishing every word of that letter with Yara's guidance, imbuing it with his own voice. He assured the people he was safe and eager to learn, that he bore them goodwill and asked for their patience and respect of his privacy. He described Asterholt as his chosen haven and politely declined any alternate custody suggestions. It was humble yet firm, a subtle rebuttal to speculation and a respectful nod to the awe his existence had awakened.
When it was released that evening, the effect was immediate. The feed he'd watched with dread now carried his own words, and the tone of coverage shifted. Not entirely positively—some cynics called it scripted fluff—but many readers and viewers responded with curiosity or admiration at his measured stance. Importantly, Lady Vesna's public push faltered; it is hard to argue someone is a helpless ward when he speaks eloquently for himself.
The immediate crisis quelled, Connor felt the weight on his chest lighten. There were still bounties and gawkers, to be sure, but they no longer filled his every thought. He had faced the world and it had not broken him. If anything, it had slightly empowered him.
Sela ruffled his hair after reading a hundred supportive comments beneath his letter. "Well done, young man," she said quietly. "You have tamed a storm."
He shook his head. "The storm is not over. But at least I am sailing it now."
She smiled at that. "Aye, Captain," she teased, sketching a playful salute.
Connor laughed freely—a sound that had been scarce in recent days.
Yet even as one storm calmed, another brewed unseen beyond the horizon. As he turned in that night, a flicker of restless energy danced in the aether at his fingertips, and he had the strangest sense—for just a breath—that someone far away had taken notice of his shining little letter.
Perhaps it was only the star-echo he had dreamed of, stirring faintly. Perhaps just nerves. But he paid it no mind.
He slept well that night, comforted by the knowledge that whatever came next, he would meet it on his feet and with open eyes, surrounded by allies and armed with truth.
And he was right. For soon enough, fresh trials would come, and Connor would face them not as a voiceless pawn but as a young man finding his strength and purpose. The echoes of his stand reverberated quietly through the black glass halls of Asterholt, promising that change—even one as small as a whisper among roars—could carry farther than anyone might expect.
Chapter 13: Inner Court, Outer Claws
The inner council chamber of Asterholt was a cathedral of authority. Incense-laced air hung heavy beneath a vaulted dome of smoked glass, through which midday light filtered in dim columns. Mahogany benches ringed the circular hall, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the flicker of a dozen bluish ward lanterns set along the walls. The stone floor was inlaid with the sigils of each guild, converging at a central mosaic of the city's crest: a mountain wrapped in thorny vines. And above all, silence—tense and expectant—like the hush before a thunderclap.
Connor sat on a raised chair at the chamber's periphery, an observer in this formal conclave about his fate. At his right stood Captain Sela, feet planted firmly, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword. To his left hovered Matron Yara, who had one reassuring hand on the back of his chair. Around them, the half-circle of guild-mothers and council representatives watched the unfolding scene with rapt attention.
At the center of the chamber, Lady Vesna's envoy made her case. Ambassador Celestine was a tall, ice-blonde woman draped in the green-and-gold robes of Aurelia's Alchemy Guild, a serpent emblem gleaming on her breast. She spoke with cool, practiced projection that carried to every corner of the hall.
"—a matter of grave concern," Celestine was saying as Connor forced himself to focus on her words and not the anxious pounding of his heart. "By the admission of Asterholt's own security, the male conduit has been exposed to public risk. An intrusion occurred on your watch, in broad daylight, leading to a citywide frenzy and, might I add, a lucrative criminal bounty. Such failures endanger not only the young man, but the stability of all our domains."
A low murmur swept through the assembly at that barb. Connor felt a flash of anger warm his cheeks. Failures, she calls them. Endanger stability. The envoy's words were carefully chosen to prick at Asterholt's pride and sow doubt.
Celestine pressed on, tone sympathetic but edged with condescension. "Lady Vesna extends her deepest regrets that this happened. She has authorized me to offer a solution. Transfer Sir Connor to Aurelia's care—temporarily, of course—where he can be better shielded under our specialized security wards and perhaps benefit from the Alchemy Guild's resources to understand his unique gift. We would return him once the… fervor has died down."
Her lips curved in a thin smile that did nothing to warm her ice-chip eyes. "Surely, esteemed councilors, you can agree that what matters is the boy's safety. Pride of jurisdiction should not cloud our judgment. We all want what is best for him."
The silence that followed was heavy. Connor's hands balled into fists atop his knees. He wanted to shout that Celestine spoke nonsense—that he felt far safer here among those he trusted than he ever would as Vesna's ward—but he held his tongue. This was exactly what Yara had prepared him for earlier that morning: Let them talk first. Listen. Show them a measured face.
Still, it took all his willpower not to leap up in protest. He glanced aside and caught Sela's gaze. The captain gave him the slightest shake of her head—a reminder to remain composed. On his other side, Yara responded to the envoy's speech with a polite, bland expression, concealing her strategic mind at work.
Finally, the High Councilor of Asterholt, an iron-haired woman named Saloma, cleared her throat. "A generous offer, Ambassador," she said, voice echoing. "But a delicate matter. Sir Connor was entrusted to Asterholt by Aurelia's own accord. We have upheld our duty—this incident notwithstanding."
"Notwithstanding?" Celestine repeated with a light laugh. "One breach is all it takes for tragedy. We must not tempt fate." Her eyes slid to Connor, assessing. "Surely the young man's opinion matters here as well. Tell me, Sir Connor—would you not feel safer under the direct protection of the renowned Alchemy Matriarch Vesna? She has guarded our realm's greatest treasures for decades."
All eyes turned to him. Connor's throat tightened. Yara had warned he might be addressed directly, and to be prepared. Speak calmly, from truth, she had said. He rose, legs a touch stiff, and offered a respectful incline of his head toward Celestine.
"I am honored by Lady Vesna's concern," he began carefully, choosing each word. The envoy watched him like a hawk. "But I must clarify: I do feel safe in Asterholt. This city has shown me nothing but dedication and care. Captain Sela—" he gestured lightly to his guardian "—has risked her life more than once to protect mine. I could ask for no finer shield."
Sela bowed her head slightly at the acknowledgment, her posture remaining stoic.
Connor continued, gaining a bit of confidence as he spoke his heart. "The incident was… frightening," he admitted. "But I do not believe it reflects a fundamental failure of Asterholt's hospitality or security. It reflects the lengths to which some will go to exploit me. Those lengths would follow me anywhere." His voice hardened unintentionally at the end, the memory of the drone's whine coloring his tone.
Celestine's smile thinned. "Exploitation is precisely our fear. Lady Vesna simply has more resources to deter such attempts. Asterholt is valiant, but smaller in reach."
A murmur of indignation rippled among the council at the slight. High Councilor Saloma's eyes flashed. "We may be but one city, Ambassador, but we are not feeble. Perhaps the ambassador forgets that it was Asterholt's interventions that foiled an earlier abduction attempt when Sir Connor traveled here."
Celestine's jaw tightened momentarily. Connor bit back a smile; yes, the convoy ambush by black market mercs had been thwarted thanks to Sela, Zara, Brynna and others. Lady Vesna's influence hadn't saved him there—Asterholt's people had.
Before Celestine could retort, another guild-mother spoke up—a woman in deep blue robes representing the Scholars Guild. "What of Sir Connor's own studies and wishes? He came to Asterholt partly for access to our knowledge archives and training, did he not? Uprooting him so soon might hamper his progress." She gave Connor a kind glance.
Connor remembered this prompt from Yara as well: an opening. He nodded earnestly. "It is true. I have barely begun to learn about this world and my abilities here. The continuity has been important. To move again, to start over in a new place with new faces—" he looked between Celestine and the council "—that would be… distressing to me."
Yara gently cleared her throat. "The boy has endured much upheaval already. Stability is key to nurturing his talents and trust. Surely we should heed his comfort in this matter."
Celestine's polite mask faltered just enough to reveal irritation. She likely hadn't expected the Council to let Connor speak for himself. Regaining her poise, she directed a more pointed tactic at Sela. "Captain Var, is it?" she addressed. "As his primary protector, you must be keenly aware of the dangers. Would you not sacrifice anything to keep him safe? If that meant yielding his custody to a fortress of greater means, would you not do so in a heartbeat? A true guardian should be willing."
Connor's nails bit into his palms. What a sly trap—the envoy challenged Sela's devotion, implying if she refused to send him away she was selfishly clinging to honor over safety. He looked to Sela, heart clenching. How would she answer?
Sela took one step forward, boots echoing on the marble. She straightened to her full height, expression composed but eyes blazing. "I am Captain Sela Var of the Asterholt Watch," she said evenly. "My oath is to protect Sir Connor, with my life if needed. In my judgment, his safety is best served by consistency and by surrounding him with those he trusts. He has fought beside my soldiers; he has saved lives among us just as we have saved his. We have built a rapport that no amount of iron gating elsewhere can replicate overnight."
A few council members nodded at her words. Celestine opened her mouth to interject, but Sela continued, voice gaining strength.
"You ask if I would sacrifice anything for his safety," Sela said. "The answer is yes. I would sacrifice comfort, glory, even my own reputation. But I will not lightly sacrifice his will or his peace of mind by sending him off like a pawn on a chessboard." Her tone sharpened. "A man—even a young one—is not an object to be shuffled between vaults. Not while I draw breath."
A stir of approval swept the room. Connor's chest swelled with gratitude and pride. Sela had spoken what he felt in his bones: that being passed to Vesna would strip him of what little agency he had clawed out.
Celestine's face darkened at the open challenge in Sela's words. "Captain Var, your dedication is noted," she said coolly. "But dedication does not equal capability. You say he fought beside your soldiers? A telling admission—he was put in harm's way under your watch."
Sela opened her mouth, a flash of anger on her face, but Celestine pressed, turning to the council. "This captain allowed him into battle, into a convoy that was attacked by monsters and mercenaries. And recently, under her nose, a spy device all but reached him. Dedication she has, yes, but perhaps not the means to truly protect such a unique individual."
Sela's fists clenched. "That is a gross mischaracterization—"
"Is it?" Celestine interjected with a raised brow. "Or is it simply an uncomfortable truth? Lady Vesna has commanded far more challenging security operations successfully for decades. Why not leverage her expertise?"
The chamber buzzed with uneasy murmurs. Celestine's strategy was shrewd—sow doubt in Sela, the linchpin of Connor's guardianship. Connor felt a spike of indignation. Sela's record was near spotless; she'd thrown herself into danger time and again for him. How dare this envoy, who knew nothing of those nights of fear and fire, cast aspersions?
Before he realized it, Connor was standing, stepping away from his chair. The murmurs quieted as attention swung to him once more.
"Ambassador Celestine," he said, voice clear and carrying in the acoustics of the dome, "I cannot let that claim go unanswered. Captain Var's actions have been the very reason I am alive to stand here. Without her and her team, I would have been lost to a lamia swarm on my journey, or abducted in Aurelia's outskirts by cartel agents." He took a deep breath to steady the quaver of emotion in his voice. "To imply she is incapable is not only unfair, it is untrue."
All eyes remained on him. He pressed on, adrenaline lending him courage. "I trust Sela with my life. I trust all of Asterholt's guardians who have kept me safe thus far. Lady Vesna has indeed great resources, but trust… trust is earned." He met Celestine's gaze unwaveringly. "With respect, trust cannot simply be bestowed by decree or reputation from afar. It grows from shared trials and loyalty proven in the field. Captain Var has earned mine a hundred times over."
The silence that fell was absolute. Then a few council members began to clap softly, the sound building as several others joined, not boisterously, but with dignified approval. Even High Councilor Saloma permitted a small smile.
Celestine's cheeks colored a faint pink. She hadn't expected the "boy" to intervene so passionately or sway the room. Connor felt Yara's gentle hand squeeze his shoulder in pride from behind.
The envoy's eyes narrowed slightly. If logical argument was slipping from her grasp, it seemed she might resort to a different avenue. "Such conviction," she said, voice silky with a hint of venom. "Sir Connor's loyalty to his guardian is admirable. As is yours to him, Captain Var." She folded her arms. "I wonder… would you stake more than words on it? If Asterholt's honor in protecting this young man were put to a direct test, how confident are you truly?"
Sela stepped forward immediately. "Name your test, Ambassador."
Connor's breath hitched. He sensed a shift—a more primal challenge about to surface.
Celestine paced slowly within the circle of councilors. "Old ways and traditions can guide us in impasses such as these. Trial by combat, perhaps. A champion of Asterholt against a champion of Lady Vesna's choosing. If Asterholt wins, we lay to rest any question of Sir Connor's custody—he remains here, and Vesna will publicly withdraw her petition." She paused, then added, "If our champion wins, it indicates that perhaps Asterholt's protection is… lacking. And Lady Vesna's proposal gains merit."
She presented it so politely, but everyone understood: a duel to decide Connor's fate, or at least to heavily influence the council's leanings.
Councilor Saloma stood, frowning. "Such trial by combat is highly irregular for resolving jurisdictional matters in this age."
"But not unprecedented," piped up another elder guild-mother. "We invoked it in the Ironrite dispute twenty years ago to avoid war. It can serve when politics reaches a stalemate."
A murmur of mixed agreement and concern spread around. Some Asterholt members looked uneasy, others grimly intrigued. It was a gamble, one with high stakes but a clear outcome. And Celestine had cleverly offered an enticing prize: forcing Vesna to back off if they won.
Connor's heart sunk, even as weariness threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. He dreaded giving Vesna any chance at all, but he also could sense the council's appetite for a decisive end to this argument. If they refused, it might look like doubt in their own strength, fueling Celestine's point about being "less capable."
Sela's voice cut through the chatter, firm and resolute. "I accept."
All eyes shifted to her. Connor turned in alarm. "Sela—"
She shot him a brief look of reassurance, then addressed the council. "As Sir Connor's sworn protector, I will stand as Asterholt's champion in this trial."
Celestine smiled coolly. "Naturally. And Lady Vesna's champion shall be…" She walked to the chamber doors and gestured. Two figures strode in: one was an Alchemy guild mage with a staff, and beside her—
A towering woman clad in ornate plate armor stepped forward, the floor trembling faintly with each heavy footfall. She removed her helmet, revealing a scarred face and cold, grey eyes. "Commander Laine of Vesna's honor guard, at your service," she announced. The woman was at least a head taller than Sela, broad-shouldered and exuding brute strength.
Connor's stomach dropped. Commander Laine was rumored to have felled a troll single-handedly in the Frostcap Mountains. He had never seen her until now, but the whispers of her prowess were known even in Aurelia.
Sela did not flinch. She gave the armored woman a crisp nod. "Captain Sela Var." They sized each other up in a heartbeat of silent tension.
High Councilor Saloma looked displeased at being sidelined by this arrangement, but realized the tide. "So be it," she intoned reluctantly. "A trial by combat, here and now, under the ancient accord. First blood or yield shall decide the victor. No deathblows permitted." She fixed both champions with a severe gaze. "This is an honorable arbitration, not a brawl."
Both women nodded. Celestine stepped back with a satisfied glint. Connor rose, panic and concern surging. "Captain Var… Sela… you do not have to do this," he whispered urgently as Sela removed her formal uniform jacket, handing it to a watch officer and flexing her gloved hands.
She gave him a thin smile. "Yes, I do. But do not fear—I have fought larger in sparring pits." Her eyes softened. "Trust me, as I trust you."
Connor's mouth went dry. He realized in that moment that Sela was as determined to prove Asterholt's worthiness—and perhaps her own—as Celestine was to undermine it. Nothing he could say would dissuade her. And truthfully, had not he just publicly declared his unwavering faith in her? He couldn't back down now.
He nodded, stepping away to give them space in the chamber's center, which council attendants hurriedly cleared of benches. Yara gently pulled Connor aside to where she and a few others would observe at a safe distance. Connor's pulse raced, blood roaring in his ears.
Laine drew a massive two-handed sword from her back with a metallic ring. Sela unsheathed her own saber, a slender blade by comparison. The size mismatch was almost comical—David versus Goliath, Connor thought anxiously. But Sela had speed and precision; he had seen her slice arrows out of the air in training.
They faced each other, saluted with their blades, and at Saloma's nod, the duel commenced.
Laine lunged first, belying her bulk with frightening agility. The greatsword cleaved downward in a blur of steel. Sela sidestepped, the blade whistling past her and striking sparks from the floor. She riposted with a quick slash toward Laine's armored gauntlet, but the commander twisted, letting the saber skitter harmlessly off plate.
Back and forth they went, the ring of steel on steel echoing through the dome. Sela was a flurry of motion, deftly avoiding the brunt of Laine's heavy swings and retaliating with lightning thrusts at gaps in armor. Laine absorbed or parried most with brute strength, but a few times Sela's saber found flesh—a nick at Laine's thigh joint, a shallow slice along her bicep. The commander grunted but pressed on, seemingly unfazed by the minor wounds.
The council watched in rapt silence. Connor stood at the edge of the circle, fists clenched so hard his nails bit skin. Every time Laine's sword smashed down, he had to bite his tongue not to cry out. He knew interfering was forbidden, but it took all his restraint not to fling his power to trip Laine or shove an obstacle in her way. The only thing stopping him was knowing Sela's honor—and Asterholt's—rode on this being a fair fight.
Sela ducked under a horizontal sweep that would have taken her head off, then surprised everyone by darting inside Laine's guard instead of away. It was a risky move; she ended up chest-to-chest with the bigger woman, too close for the greatsword to be effective. With a kiai shout, Sela delivered an armored elbow strike to Laine's face.
The commander stumbled back, momentarily dazed. A cheer almost rose from the Asterholt side of the room, quickly stifled into polite coughs. Connor's heart leapt. Sela pressed the advantage, slashing across Laine's thigh—drawing a line of blood—and then pivoting around to strike at the back of her knee.
But Laine recovered swiftly. With a snarl, she swung one gauntleted fist backward, catching Sela in the ribs with a bone-jarring impact. Even from yards away, Connor heard the thud of metal against flesh. Sela gasped and staggered, her guard faltering for the first time.
Laine seized upon it. Rather than attempt another sword strike, she surged forward and slammed her shoulder into Sela, bulldozing the smaller woman off her feet. Sela hit the ground hard, her saber sliding from her grip across the polished floor.
A collective gasp rose. Connor unconsciously stepped forward as Laine leveled the tip of her greatsword at Sela's throat. Sela, winded, managed to raise herself on one forearm, the other arm clutching her side where the gauntlet had struck. Blood trickled from a cut on her temple where her head had met stone.
High Councilor Saloma stood abruptly, about to declare the outcome. First blood had been drawn on both sides, but Sela was disarmed and down. Technically a clear advantage.
Celestine's smile was triumphant. Connor felt despair claw at him. No… not like this. Sela can't lose. He wouldn't let this victory slip away on a technicality if Sela still had fight left.
Before Saloma could speak, Connor shouted, "Captain, your weapon!" and darted forward. The protocol of the duel danced on a knife's edge—he couldn't interfere directly in the combat without forfeiting, but returning a dropped weapon was a grey area historically allowed to even the field once, in some traditions.
Perhaps it was bending the rules, but at that moment Connor cared not. He snatched Sela's saber from the floor and tossed it in a spinning arc toward her.
All eyes widened. Sela's hand shot up and caught the hilt cleanly. In the same fluid motion, she twisted aside from Laine's blade tip, which nicked her collar but missed fatal contact, and with a surge of grit Sela rolled to her feet.
Laine's expression flashed with irritation at the renewed fight. She barreled at Sela, sword raised high to end this. But Sela was ready. Instead of retreating, she stepped inside again, narrowly evading the downward chop—this time by inches—and drove her saber point into the gap under Laine's armpit with a cry.
Laine bellowed in pain as the blade bit deep into flesh between armor plates. Her sword clattered from her hands as her arm spasmed. Sela withdrew her saber and immediately brought it up to press against Laine's neck, just at the seam where helmet met gorget.
It was over. The great Commander Laine stood panting, one arm limp and bloodied at her side, Sela's blade keen on her throat. Sela herself was breathing hard, bruised and battered, but victorious fire blazed in her eyes.
Asterholt's side of the room erupted in cheers before decorum gently hushed it. Councilor Saloma stepped forward, raising a hand. "The trial is decided! Asterholt's champion stands triumphant."
Connor's heart soared. He rushed to Sela's side as she lowered her blade and stumbled back a step, exhaustion and pain catching up now that the adrenaline was fading. Laine was quickly pulled aside by Celestine's mage aide, who began healing her wound with a shimmering salve.
Sela managed a tight smile as Connor reached her, and she went down on one knee with a wince, whether out of depletion or reflex he wasn't sure. He immediately moved to support her. "Sela! You… you did it."
She chuckled weakly. "Told you… trust me." Up close, he saw her left side already bruising, blood trickling from beneath her cuirass where Laine's blade had grazed. She had taken damage for him once again.
Without thinking, Connor placed a steady hand on her shoulder. A nearby attendant offered a cloth and he pressed it gently to the cut on Sela's temple. Relief and admiration swelled in his chest so intensely that tears pricked his eyes.
The chamber bustled as some council members attended to Sela and Laine, while others approached Celestine to formalize the outcome. Yara hovered near, smiling at Connor and Sela. "Well fought, my dear," she praised Sela kindly, "and well spoken, Connor."
Celestine, for her part, maintained a facade of grace despite her evident displeasure. "Lady Vesna will abide by the accord," she said to Saloma through a taut jaw. "Congratulations."
She strode over to where Connor still knelt by Sela. The ambassador inclined her head. "Sir Connor, Asterholt has proven its point this day. Lady Vesna will not pursue the custody petition further at this time. We only wish for your safety, wherever that may be."
Connor saw a flicker of genuine regret in her eyes—perhaps she truly believed her cause, if not her tactics. "Thank you, Ambassador," he replied softly. "I know you and Lady Vesna act out of concern. But please carry my message back: I am where I choose to be."
Celestine nodded, as if acknowledging a worthy adversary. "May fortune favor you, then." She turned to go, her wounded champion following stiffly after being bandaged.
As the envoy's party departed the chamber, Councilor Saloma and the others breathed audible sighs of relief. A crisis averted, pride upheld. The mood among Asterholt's side was triumphant, yet tempered by the knowledge of how close a thing it had been.
Connor helped Sela stand. She grimaced, pressing a hand to her ribs. "No worse than training bouts," she tried to joke, though her voice was strained.
"You were incredible," Connor said, sincerity dripping from every word. He felt lightheaded with pride and the ebb of fear. "I am so sorry I… you had to do that because of me—"
"Shush," Sela cut him off gently. "I did what was needed. And you… you did well. You spoke strongly." Her eyes gleamed with fondness and pain in equal measure. "And tossing me my saber—risky, but clever. Technically not against the rules, though some might squawk."
Despite the situation, Connor cracked a tiny grin. "Perhaps next time they should write that loophole out."
Sela gave a breathless laugh that turned into a cough. "Let's not plan for next time, hmm?"
They locked eyes, an entire conversation passing silently. She pulled him into a brief, fierce embrace, then released him with a wince—her own injuries reminding her to be gentle.
All around, the Watch and technicians scrambled to get the reactor functional. By some miracle, the sabotage hadn't completely destroyed it—likely the assassins intended to finish the job if they'd won. Already, a faint steady whine indicated the backup crystals coming online. The ward lights might hold after all.
High Councilor Saloma arrived with additional guards, surveying the scene with grim gratitude that catastrophe was averted. She took in Connor's state and Sela's and shook her head. "This cannot continue," she said in a low, troubled voice to Sela as medics began tending the wounded. "The boy's presence paints a target on all of us. We saved the city tonight, but at what cost tomorrow?"
Connor heard her, and in his exhausted state, the words stung because they rang true. He'd fought to stay, to be free, to be part of this world's fabric. But if every enemy from the shadows would stop at nothing to seize or kill him, how many more could suffer? How many times could they nearly tear down a whole city just to get to him?
Sela squared her jaw. "We will find the perpetrators—"
Saloma raised a hand. "Yes, of course, and they shall pay. But it will not end with them." She sighed deeply and looked at Connor, her eyes heavy with the weight of leadership. "At first light, the Council must discuss a… new strategy regarding Sir Connor's placement. For his safety, and ours."
Connor's heart sunk, even as weariness threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. A new strategy—he knew what that implied. He would be sent away from Asterholt. Somewhere remote, perhaps, out of reach of major civilizations, so attacks wouldn't endanger thousands.
Exile, essentially, disguised as a mission or lesson.
He opened his mouth to protest weakly, but Sela placed a gentle hand on his back. "Easy," she whispered. "Rest now. We will work this out after."
Zara and Thea stayed close, their faces reflecting the same mixture of sorrow and understanding. They all realized the truth: after tonight, things could not simply go back to how they were. The cost was too high.
Connor closed his eyes, swaying slightly as adrenaline seeped away. He felt Sela's arm steady him, heard Thea murmuring to a medic to tend to his likely concussion. But beyond and beneath it all, he felt the cracking of something inside him—like one of the reactor's broken rings. The protective walls of Asterholt, the sanctuary he had begun to call home, were closing, not out of malice, but necessity.
Shattered oaths. He recalled the title of an old poem—how appropriate it seemed now. The unspoken oath that Asterholt would keep him forever safe, intact. The oath he had made to himself to avoid being a burden. Both lay in pieces on this smoky floor.
As consciousness slipped from him, Connor found himself murmuring something—a promise, or a plea, he was not sure: "I will make this right… somehow."
Sela's voice answered softly, "I know you will."
And with that, he surrendered to the darkness, trusting that when he woke, he would face whatever new dawn had in store—for himself, and for those he had chosen to care for.
The Clockwork Catacomb
Midnight draped the undercity in a shroud of stifling stillness. The air was markedly cooler here below Asterholt's streets, with a mineral damp that clung to the skin. The only light came from dimly glowing strips of runic script inset along the vaulted brick ceiling, their blue luminescence casting long shadows between rows of ancient machinery. Gears taller than a person loomed against the walls, frozen in time and rust, like the skeletal remains of some long-dead colossus. The quiet was broken only by the occasional drip of condensation and the faint ticking of a still-functioning automaton somewhere distant—mechanical heartbeats in the dark.
Connor crept forward, boots whispering over the mossy stone floor. Each step he took felt precariously loud in the subterranean hush. Ahead of him, Thea lifted a hand, signaling a halt. He froze, pulse quickening, and listened. To his right, Zara pressed up against a pillar of pipes, one hand on the hilt of her dagger, the other carrying a small ether-lantern shuttered to a mere pinprick of light.
Somewhere in the maze of corridors beyond, metal clanged against metal—a loose grate nudged by a draft, perhaps. Connor held his breath, straining to distinguish ambient noise from threat. After a few heartbeats, nothing but silence followed.
He let out a slow exhale and met Thea's eyes. She nodded and beckoned them onward. They were deep beneath Asterholt's bustling avenues, in the so-called Clockwork Catacomb—a forgotten sublevel archive rumored to house artifacts and schematics deemed too dangerous or precious for common knowledge. Here, if the whispers were true, lay the records of that fateful falling star, the very cosmic event that had somehow bridged Connor's world and this one.
The corridor opened into a round chamber lined with shelves carved into the stone. Dust motes hung thick in the air, and the scent of old parchment, machine oil, and mold was overwhelming. In the center, a massive orrery-like contraption dominated the space: interlocking rings of copper and brass, studded with crystal nodes, all mounted on a geared pedestal. It looked like an astrolabe merged with a clock—a device perhaps once used to model celestial movements or magical cycles.
Thea's eyes shone in the faint light as she surveyed the machine. "The central indexing cog," she whispered. "It should guide us to the star archives if I can activate it." She was already moving, careful to step only on the stone sections of floor rather than the metal plates (the group had learned that lesson earlier when a misstep by Zara on a plate triggered a sudden steam vent release as a deterrent).
Connor and Zara kept watch, scanning the three arched doorways branching off this chamber. Each threshold was marked by engraved plaques in High Asteric script. Connor's limited translation abilities picked out words: "ASTRONOMICA" on one, "ETHERIC ENGINEERIA" on another, and the third plaque was too eroded to decipher fully, but he could make out "RUNE—" something. Runeology, perhaps.
His heart thumped. Likely that third arch led to what they sought: records of the rune schematics derived from the falling star, that mysterious celestial event some decades past. The star that—if his suspicions were right—had flung open a door between worlds and pulled him through.
Zara shifted beside him, adjusting the strap of a satchel slung across her back. Within it, padded carefully, were pieces of a broken automaton guardian they had encountered earlier—a necessary casualty after it nearly impaled Thea with a spring-loaded lance. Dismantling it had been loud and nerve-wracking, but fortunately it seemed to patrol alone. Still, Connor knew they might have limited time before a remote sensor noted its absence.
With a soft whirr, the rings of the orrery device in the center began to turn. Thea had pried open a panel at its base and coaxed life into it using a portable aether battery she had smuggled in her cloak. One by one, the crystal nodes on the rings glowed, projecting thin beams of light that coalesced into a rotating diagram mid-air: a great spoked wheel, each spoke labeled with more High Asteric glyphs.
"The archive index," Thea breathed, eyes darting over the floating symbols. She reached up and touched one glowing label. "Here—'Runic Echo Patterns'. This is it."
At her touch, the orrery's gears shifted, clanking in slow procession. One of the archways—the eroded plaque—lit up at the same time, a soft golden glow outlining its frame.
Connor felt a thrill of anticipation. "Door number three," he murmured to Zara, who flashed a tense grin.
They regrouped at the threshold. Beyond lay a descending staircase, curving into darkness. The glow from the arch faintly illuminated the initial steps, but beyond that it was a black maw.
Zara unshuttered the lantern just a bit more, enough for them to see their way without (hopefully) alerting distant guardians. Connor took the lead this time—his ability to sense ambient aetheric fields made him a decent scout for magical traps. The stair walls were carved with bas-reliefs of constellations and strange creatures: serpents entwined with stars, a woman pouring water from an urn into an endless void, and symbols that made his skin prickle to look at.
He ran his fingers lightly along the wall as he went, feeling for any vibration or warmth that might hint at active enchantments. Each footstep echoed down into the depths, the acoustics oddly magnifying small sounds. At one point, Connor paused as a series of rhythmic clicks resonated up to them—machinery in motion far below. When it subsided, they continued.
The staircase ended at a tall iron door set with a complex lock of interlocking rotating disks. Thea stepped forward, studying it intently. She produced from her pocket a slim tool that looked like a cross between a screwdriver and a wand. Inlaid runes glimmered on its tip—a skeleton key of sorts, likely procured through her guild contacts.
"Keep an ear out," she whispered as she began probing the lock, gently turning disks one way then the other, listening for tumblers.
Connor pressed his ear to the cool iron of the door. Beyond, he could just make out a faint humming drone. Not machinery exactly—more like an energized field of some kind. A ward? Or perhaps a containment spell. Whatever it was, the hairs on his arm stirred in response.
A soft click sounded. Thea held up her tool with a small triumphant smile. The final disk rotated into place and the iron door creaked open a sliver, stale air wafting out.
Zara stepped ahead, lantern raised. "Allow me," she whispered. Her dagger was already drawn in her other hand. She nudged the door further, peering in cautiously.
Inside was a vault-like chamber whose far end disappeared in darkness. Rows of shelves made of brass and stone lined the walls, holding metal cylinders, scroll cases, and glass tablets neatly arranged. At the center of the floor was inlaid a large seven-pointed star rune in silver, perhaps five paces across. It pulsed with faint light, confirming Connor's sense of an active enchantment. The humming noise definitely came from it.
They slipped inside and shut the door carefully behind them. Thea cast her eyes over the collection, practically vibrating with scholarly excitement despite the danger. "Star schematics… these are likely the compiled research notes of the first mages who studied the falling star," she whispered.
Connor felt drawn to the large rune on the floor. The pattern called to him in a strange way. It was unlike typical sigils—more complex, lines overlapping in symmetrical interplays that made his eyes want to trace them endlessly. He realized he was holding his breath. The rune's light tugged at his mind, an echo of something familiar yet not.
Zara placed a grounding hand on his shoulder. "Stay with us, Connor," she murmured. He blinked and nodded, stepping back. The rune's gentle thrum faded from his immediate focus.
Thea had already moved to a shelf and carefully slid out a large scroll bound in copper fittings. "This one is labeled with the date corresponding to the starfall," she said, barely containing her excitement. "Help me with the desk."
They carried the scroll to a central pedestal desk near the rune's edge. It unfurled stiffly to reveal dense diagrams and writing in multiple inks. Connor recognized star charts interposed with rune sketches, notes in margins, arrays of numbers. His heart pounded as he scanned it. Here a sketch of the crater; there an angular pattern with annotations— "Amplification effect 3x, echo distortion observed at edges…" he read under his breath.
Zara leaned over his shoulder, brow furrowed. "Any of that make sense to you two?"
Thea traced a finger along a segment. "They attempted to channel the energy of the fallen star using an array of runes—this seven-pointed formation, it looks like. They note it amplified their spells dramatically." She moved to a paragraph further down. "But… an echo effect… repeated emanations after the initial spell… that could be dangerous."
Connor felt a chill, recalling the wording from the outline. "Amplifies but also echoes effects," he said quietly, fingertips brushing the parchment. "Meaning if one were to, say, create a kinetic push using such an array, it might not only be stronger, but potentially reverberate—a push that repeats or bounces unpredictably."
"Like an aftershock following an earthquake," Zara offered.
"Exactly." Thea nodded. "In battle, that could be devastating or disastrous, depending on control." She pointed to a notation: "Test 4: minor success, followed by uncontrolled discharge – site devastation noted." Her eyes widened. "They nearly destroyed their test site."
Connor's imagination conjured the scenario: mages around the crater, weaving a great star rune to tap its power—initial triumph as their spells magnified beyond expectation, then sudden horror as echoes of that power cascaded beyond their command, perhaps leveling their encampment. No wonder these notes were locked down here.
He gently rolled the scroll further, looking for any mention of something… else. Something alive or conscious. His gut told him the star had not just been an inert rock of power. Had something come with it? The scribbles grew frantic in later sections, the handwriting changing as if multiple researchers contributed.
"There's mention of a resonance… "malevolent echo pattern identified, origin uncertain,"" Connor muttered, squinting at a cramped line near the bottom. Before he could parse it further, a familiar whir-click came from the door's direction.
Zara spun, lantern raised. "Someone's at the lock," she hissed.
Thea quickly and carefully rolled the scroll back up. Connor felt a surge of adrenaline. Had an alarm been tripped? Or perhaps the absent automaton had a linked guardian checking on things? Either way, they had to go, now.
Thea shoved the copper-bound scroll into Zara's satchel; it barely fit but Zara secured the flap. Connor grabbed a few loose parchment sheets that had been tucked into the scroll case—supplementary notes, perhaps—and folded them into his jacket. Footsteps and muffled voices seeped through the iron door. Two people at least.
They retreated from the center of the room. Connor's mind raced for options. There was no other exit he could see. The shelves? Perhaps a hiding spot or second door? The humming star rune on the floor continued its pulse, oblivious.
Zara motioned them to the far corner behind a tall shelf. They crouched low as the door handle rattled. It was still unlocked, courtesy of Thea's earlier efforts. Connor silently cursed; they'd been too engrossed to reset the lock.
The door creaked open. Light from a bright crystal lamp flooded the chamber. Connor peeked through a gap in the shelving.
Two archivists stepped in—one older woman in a heavy robe, carrying the lamp, and behind her a younger man with a ledger. They both wore the insignia of the Scholar's Guild. Their faces went from confusion at seeing the active rune to outright alarm at noticing the unfurled scroll on the pedestal and the missing contents from shelves.
"Intruders," the older archivist hissed, hastily handing the lamp to her assistant and moving toward the central rune. She began murmuring an incantation, passing her hands over the glowing pattern as if to query it. The younger man fumbled with a whistle on a chain around his neck.
A warning whistle—to call guards. If he blew that, they were done.