Dawn has barely finished soaking the treetops when the rotunda doors thunder open and swallow us whole. Inside, the air tastes of rosemary smoke and old promises—stone floor veined with onyx, ceiling a living lattice of silverwood leaves that filter morning light into pale emerald. Seven galleries spiral upward, each reserved for a realm or guild, and every one murmurs like a restless hive. Word of the Boundary Pool fissure traveled fast.
Carmilla walks beside me, face unreadable, lattice hidden under a fresh silk scarf Isabelle insisted she wear. At her other flank strides Everest, expression hard enough to notch granite. Remi and Zale follow his six, carrying something swaddled in velvet that leaks faint electrical charge into the air. The coil fragment—they have come armed with evidence.
My boots click across marble toward the stone-leaf dais in the chamber’s heart. Eight thrones of petrified root form a crescent behind it, emptier than I would like. Half the councilors cling to galleries, whispering with aides rather than claim seats. Fear makes them hover like moths afraid of candle they lit themselves.
Arbiters stand on dais center, hoods down now because protocol demands faces in legal session. I count the four: Serivon of the Ember, Arta Mossborn, Vail Raventhread, and the one whose aura Carmilla marked last night—Sethis Ashwine. He looks worse in daylight. Black veins map the pale skin beneath his eyes, spreading down neck before vanishing beneath robe collar. Yet his smile blooms ready for conflict.
Horns blare three sustained notes, demanding hush. The echoes climb galleries, smothering whispers until silence sharpens. I take my place behind an engraved wolf marker on floor, a symbolic square no larger than shield but heavy with meaning. Carmilla claims oracle disc beside me. Remi and Zale stand at lightning fork symbol. Everest holds Terrastria sign behind old runic tree.
Serivon raises a quartz rod. “This session convenes under codex twelve. Topics: Boundary breach, Convergence mitigation, and resolution proposals.” His voice carries unnatural calm—the sound of a man hoping words alone stop avalanches.
Before he can invite reports, Zale steps forward, sweeping sable cloak aside to reveal the velvet bundle. “With council leave.” Lightning dances along his gauntlet seams; few risk denying him. Rod dips—permission.
Zale unwraps bundle. A coil sliver as long as my forearm lies inside, metal braided from copper, silver, and dragon-bone filaments. The break scar glows, still smoking though weeks passed. Tiny strokes of draconic script shimmer between wires—notes on buffer protocols Carmilla once deciphered.
Remi’s voice rings, rich as bonfire. “In Umbramere, this fragment detonated when Convergence spike aligned two surviving vortex pylons. Blast razed forty hectares of forest in heartbeat and unseamed ley for three days. Without ourabsorption ritual, the rent would have traveled into Ironbound Hills and cracked dwarven forges.”
Gasps ripple through galleries. Papers rustle, quills freeze.
Arta Mossborn, green-robed Arbiter known for calm, inclines head. “We studied your witness scrolls. Impressive containment.”
“Temporary,” Remi answers. “Another spike will tear open raw.”
Sethis steps forward, robe rustling. “Yet the coil device and those pylons preceded first Sundering. One could argue they themselves are structural flaws, relics that must be excised. A Second Sundering—calibrated—could remove such weak links altogether.”
The words hang, heavy. My hackles rise. Across dais I feel Carmilla tense, but she waits. This is my realm—politics I despise yet must fight inside today.
I step onto central circle. Floor sigils flare amber beneath boots, recognizing alpha presence. “Calibrated?” I echo, letting contempt slice syllables. “You propose cleaving worlds like gardener pruning dead branch, ignoring nests in bough.”
Sethis offers slim smile. “Anatomy teaches amputation saves body when gangrene spreads.”
“False equivalence,” Carmilla speaks now, voice low yet resonant. “Convergence strain is pressure, not infection. Release valves exist.” She taps scroll tube at belt. “We mapped them.”
A ripple of curiosity travels chamber. Sethis’s smile falters. “Your patch held night, seer, but fracture seeds remain. Cutting infected limb cleaner than repeated stitches.”
My patience frays. Memories flash: ghost-wolf ash, coughing cubs. I let growl edge voice. “You slice because you fear sewing.”
Sethis opens mouth; I raise palm. “My pack buried two more since raven last night. We grapple plague forged by shard poison—spawn of the same rupture you promise to solve by widening tear. Your counsel would murder more than it saves.”
Murmurs swell: some supportive, others nervous. Time to drive wedge.
I pace line before thrones. “Alpha authority rests on protection. Arbiter authority rests on wisdom. Prove wisdom: present cost ledger. How many villages vanish when you sunder? Which timberlands drown, which oceans boil? Publish numbers, not metaphors, and then we weigh blade.”
Vail Raventhread—violet aura—leans on staff, face creased. “Arbiters lack data to answer.”
“Exactly.” I stab finger skyward. “You brandish hammer before measuring nail.”
Sethis’s eyes flare ocher. “We measure through prophecy, Alpha. Shadows whisper deeper than charts.”
Carmilla steps beside me, every inch living star. “Prophecy demands nuance. Sundering is blunt. The shrine texts reveal weave theory—detailed methodology for pressure diffusion using linked anchors. We can complete it in thirty days.”
Galleries explode with voices—some praising, some doubtful: “Thirty days? Convergence peaks inside twenty!” “Anchors where?” “Who bleeds?”
Serivon bangs quartz rod twice. “Order.” Silence creeps back.
Arta addresses Carmilla. “Explain anchor strategy succinctly.”
She does—precision crafted in sleepless hours: eight sites aligned to elemental poles, each stabilizing ley lines by channeling excess into topaz reservoirs. Sacrificial blood only to catalyze, not sustain. If anchored simultaneously, Convergence pressure curves into spiral rather than spike.
