Then they snapped apart.
The water split.
Three new lines shot through the basin at once, bright enough to throw light against the faces around the room.
One went cold and bright toward Caspian.
One burned green-gold and pulled away from the room entirely.
The third went dark as rain on stone, thick enough to make my breath catch.
And they were not only mine to see.
They were in the water.
Visible.
A girl stumbled back from the rim.
Someone swore under their breath.
One of the boys made a warding in the air before remembering where he was and dropping his hand.
Cosima wrote.
The pen scratched loudly enough to make my teeth meet.
“Unstable branching response,” Caswell said.
The words were already trying to become a record.
Caspian stepped forward.
Cosima glared at him.
Whatever passed between them had the shape of an old command.
Stay. Do not intervene.
For half a breath, he did.
Then he came forward anyway.
“That’s enough.”
Caswell turned to him.
“Ashford?”
“The instruction was supplied by the senior observer. No one else received such instruction. The test is invalid.”
The room went silent.
Cosima’s pen stopped moving.
Caswell glanced at her.
Then at me.
