It worked. For exactly ninety seconds, it worked beautifully.
Corruption burned away under our combined assault. The wellspring’s consciousness surfaced—grateful, relieved, healing. Clean power surged through ancient channels.
Extraction in ninety seconds, Keane said, monitoring ward pressure. Compound security is responding.
We had time. We’d executed flawlessly.
Marigold broke contact with the wellspring, breathing hard. It’s clean. Stable. Should hold…
The corruption signature reappeared—not a new infection but a continuation. Like we’d been performing to an empty theater while the real show happened elsewhere.
What… Cyrus started.
Secondary anchor point, I said, my illusions revealing the connection threading through stone we’d just cleansed. Another corrupted node is feeding this one. We cleansed the wellspring but not the source.
Sparks of color pulsed across Echo’s scales—scarlet flashes under a sheen of sickly green. She hissed once but didn’t move.
Marigold’s face went pale. How long until it re-corrupts?
I traced the corruption flow, my stomach sinking. Hours. The wellspring start degrading again tonight.
Hours. Not days. Not the slow creep we’d anticipated but rapid restoration. Like the network knew we’d touched it and was rushing to repair what we’d damaged, to close the wound we’d opened, to prove that our tactical brilliance and flawless execution were nothing but theater.
I stopped myself. Spiraling wouldn’t help.
Then we find the anchor and destroy it, Cyrus said.
Budapest, Keane said, already tracking the connection. But Budapest’s fed by multiple nodes. Probably five. And those are fed by more. It’s not a chain we can follow. It’s a web.
Understanding settled like lead.
We’d hit every mark. Delivered the perfect act. And the curtain had already started to fall.
But the victory was temporary.
Sixty seconds, Keane said. We need to go.
Wait! Marigold pressed her hand back to the wellspring. Let me mark it. Track when it degrades…
Her necromancy flared. Then she gasped, pulling back like she’d been burned.
Mari? I moved immediately, steadying her.
I’m fine. But her hand was shaking. The wellspring showed me something. The master knows we’re here. He’s adjusting the network in real-time, reinforcing other nodes to compensate.
Adaptive defense, Keane said grimly. He’s not trying to stop us. He’s making us irrelevant.
Thirty seconds. Portal’s destabilizing.
We dove through dimensional space. Keane’s portal collapsed behind us with more force than it should have—silver edges flickering, his magic straining against the compound’s countermeasures.
We tumbled out into the royal common room.
Home. The familiar scent of old books and cold fireplace ash. Safe. But the taste of victory was already souring.
The fireplace had gone cold hours ago. Maps still covered the table from the morning’s planning, now rendered obsolete by what we’d just learned. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust motes drifting lazily and obliviously.
Keane collapsed into his usual chair, tablet already in hand despite the tremor in his fingers. Portal strain was showing in ways he’d never admit aloud. Wisp pressed against his leg, grounding him.
