Behind us, Boundary Pool seal still glimmers. If it holds until dawn, our argument gains backbone. If it fractures overnight, Sethis tightens jaws. I pray to nameless stars the turquoise membrane survives.
Entering Umbramere suite, midnight-blue torches flare, painting lightning shadows across walls. Carmilla sinks into padded chair, exhale ragged. I kneel, loosen scarf, inspect lattice. The lines pulse but have not advanced. Relief.
“Rest,” I order. “I study talking scrolls with Remi and scribes.”
She eyes me wearily. “And you?”
“Political gauntlet demands rested claws.” I stand. “I’ll steal two hours’ sleep after planning.”
She catches my wrist. “Don’t fight alone.”
“I have packmates.” I squeeze her hand.
Her smile curves—small, unbreakable. “Then win.”
I nod, stride toward balcony where Remi unfurls star maps. Night falls outside, thunder rumbling far off. I inhale lightning-scented wind, square shoulders.
Tomorrow, I play their game. And I intend to leave claw marks on every polished rule until they follow reason—or bleed debate floor silver with ink.
17
CARMILLA
Asecond horn—not the mellow dusk call but a sharp, triple-toned summons—rips me from the shallow doze I’ve been pretending is sleep. I sit upright on the chaise in Umbramere’s guest suite, the quilt sliding to the floor in a hush of linen. My skin sings with ache; the lattice has crawled past the curve of my right shoulder, crawling for the hollow at my throat like frost conquering a windowpane. Each heartbeat feels as though it strikes crystal instead of flesh.
Kylan, hunched over a low table strewn with star maps and strategy charts, lifts his head. The yellow-white lamplight paints severe angles across his cheekbones, but his eyes glow wolf-gold—alert, already hunting. “Emergency convocation,” he says, gathering the maps. “Horns rang too soon for scheduled session.”
My first thought is the Boundary Pool. I push to my feet, a swirl of vertigo tilting the floor. Kylan appears at my side in a blink, palm anchoring my elbow. The heat of him steadies the world. I manage a nod, and we stride from the chamber.
Umbramere’s corridor scrolls in shades of onyx and cobalt, torches burning violet where Zale’s lightning enchantments lickthe wicks. A tremor skitters along root walls—nervous system of the citadel bristling. As we pass a latticework window I glance out. Convergence ring still crowns the night sky, but a ruffle of crimson now stains the pearl rim, like blood seeping through parchment. Time thins faster than skin.
We reach rotunda archway. Guards stand tense, armor humming with built-in wards. They nod us through—no one questions an oracle and an alpha at an hour like this. Inside, the vast chamber no longer murmurs; it pulses. Delegates pack galleries, voices clashing in ricochets of panic. The eight thrones remain abandoned, as though the leaders fear sitting in them would invite lightning.
In the center, the Arbiters cluster on the stone-leaf dais. Blue, green, and violet auras flicker unsteadily, but the red aura—Sethis Ashwine—burns brighter, hotter, veins of ember-black flicking like sparks off his robe edges. He projects poise, yet tension knots his shoulders, and his pupils, when my gaze catches his, contract to feral pinpoints. Madness spider-walks beneath that stare.
A small part of me mourns the young archivist he once was—brilliant, curious, eager to chart new ley lines. The greater part recognizes a threat consumed by something older than ambition.
Serivon raises the quartz rod again; the sound it makes striking slate cuts conversation. “The Boundary seal weakens,” he announces, voice raw. “Hairline fracture reopened, water fuming. We reconvene to discuss immediate stabilization vote.”
Eyes swing to me; I feel their desperate weight settle like stones on collarbones already stiff with lattice. I step forward, hush spreading across benches. My voice emerges steady despite throat’s ache.
“The fracture rises because the weave senses a parasite feeding through it.” I let words float, then lock gaze with Sethis. “Nibbling sustenance from our realm’s marrow.”
A hiss ripples. Sethis lifts brow with elegant disdain. “Oracle’s metaphors again. Parasites are metaphors too?”
I answer by extending my hand. Crystal veins glimmer under lanterns. “Parasites enjoy hosts. Some wear their hosts’ skins while draining their light. Some call themselves Arbiters.”
Gasps. Sethis laughs, a brittle crack. “Baseless accusation.”
I close eyes, summon internal lens. The world shifts: color washes away, replaced by shimmering filaments of ley energy threading every living and unliving thing. Three Arbiters glow pale, lines tidy. Sethis’s aura snarls—red core strangled by coils of oily obsidian, the same filament I saw in corrupted shard and ghost-wolf echo.
I open eyes. “Remove your left glove, Sethis.”
Silence thickens. He straightens. “I answer to council, not an oracle who bleeds quartz.”
Everest’s granite voice booms from Terrastria gallery. “Humor her.” His arms fold, making no secret of the blade strapped across back.
Pressure builds. Sethis’s lips peel in tight smile. Perhaps he believes he can bluff. He tugs glove fingertips. Leather sticks. When he peels it free, the rotunda breathes in collective horror.
