Before Penelope could respond, Camille was already shouting for someone to fetch the good emerald silk, which apparently was too sacred for ordinary clients. Penelope offered something between a nod and a bow and let Mingxi guide her toward the door.
The moment it closed behind them, Penelope let out a breath that fogged slightly in the cold morning air. “I survived.”
“You did,” Mingxi said, opening the carriage door for her. “Impressively.”
She settled into the plush interior. “Is surviving a modiste really that impressive?”
“Surviving Camille DuVallon is,” he replied. “Several aristocratic households maintain formal commendations for enduring her fittings.”
Penelope let out a faint laugh, the sound edged by exhaustion. The carriage rumbled forward, weaving through narrow streets before gliding into the quiet archway behind a shuttered apothecary. Then the descent began—surface noises fading and the light dimming, replaced by the cold, humming glow of sigils.
Chapter 21
The Ossuaire air greeted them like an exhale from the stone itself—cool, dry, ancient.
Mingxi stepped out first and offered his hand. It wasn’t necessary, but she took it anyway. His touch was steady, grounding her through the subtle sense of disorientation that always came with returning to the underground.
A steward approached before she could fully release Mingxi’s hand.
“Lady Penelope. The Council requests your presence in the lower training hall.”
Penelope straightened. “Now?”
“Yes, my lady. Preparations for your magical evaluation are already underway.”
She nodded, though the tiredness tugged at her bones. The day above had drained her. Being measured, examined, studied by someone as intense as Camille had left Penelope feeling flayed open in a different way.
Mingxi’s voice was evenly measured. “It is customary before major public appearances.”
Penelope drew a slow breath. “Very well.”
He led her down the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly. The deeper they moved, the thicker the air felt—not oppressive, but charged, as if the Ossuaire itself leaned closer, curious. The limestone walls, threaded with old enchantments, faintly pulsed with arcane light.
When they entered the training hall, Penelope slowed. The chamber was vast and ringed with layered sigils that throbbed like the heartbeat of something asleep beneath the city. Three figures waited.
Rowan stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Seraphine watched with soft but discerning eyes. Commander Jorren looked carved from stone, gaze clinical, as though evaluating whether Penelope was worth the effort of sharpening.
“Lady Penelope,” Rowan said, inclining his head, “thank you for coming. We’ll begin with a resonance assessment.”
Seraphine added, more gently, “Nothing taxing. Only a measure of your current control.”
Penelope nodded once. She felt Mingxi beside her—not close enough to touch, but close enough that she could sense the steadiness of his presence. Like a tether she didn’t want to acknowledge.
Rowan gestured toward the sigil ring carved into the center of the floor. Its lines glowed faintly, breathing in slow pulses. “When you’re ready.”
Penelope stepped toward it. The circle brightened the instant her foot crossed its boundary. Not gradually, not politely, but as if someone had struck a chord.
The sigils flared in sharp, synchronized light.
Seraphine’s eyes widened.
Jorren shifted, weight redistributing in surprise.
Rowan’s gaze flicked immediately to Mingxi.
Mingxi didn’t move.
The air around Penelope hummed—steady, contained, potent. Not unstable. Not dangerous. Just unmistakably different.
