“Let them try,” Auryn whispered under her breath.
When she spoke next, her voice was steady, clear. “Whatever the reason may be, these gowns were ordered for Us by Our Resh’Agar. To sabotage them means to dishonor him, and We will not stand for it.”
Lu’ma started to sign something, but Auryn stopped her with a look.
“Stand aside,” she commanded, and Lu’ma retreated behind her in haste. Auryn glanced at the two Reskala. “Move behind Us. Now.”
The warriors blinked, their eyes devoid of emotion. Then complied.
Auryn raised both hands again. Silver and emerald magic rose to her fingertips, slipping into the seams and crevices of the ward like flowing water through a riverbed. This web was ancient. It remembered days when the Shields were larger and the Daesa Major wilder.
She traced its ley lines, her hands glowing with the silver of sovereign Weave. The first thread shifted. Then another. With every pull, the ward flinched, like a harp string plucked too hard. Each pushback singed her fingertips.
But Auryn did not pry—did not force or break. Sheunwove. She spoke to it through her presence, her intention.
You were not made for me.
For thieves. Intruders. Zealots.
But notme.
Still, it fought her, so she pressed deeper, teeth clenched as mana sparked from her palm to her wrist, burning lines up her arm. Pain licked through her ribs like a blade warming in fire. She ignored it.
Bit by bit, the seal gave way—light bleeding from the edges as the ward melted against Auryn’s will. The drain was noticeable, but manageable. The floor tilted, but she did not fall.
With a creak that echoed through the halls, the doors shifted and opened. Auryn didn’t miss a beat. She pushed it out of her way and walked into the Lustrate, chin held high, spine straight, and steps measured for control. Her heels clicked on the marble with each step.
Rows upon rows of crafting tables filled the ornate room beyond the runed threshold, all of them occupied. The Crafters looked up, their eyes flying wide, faces draining of color as the Sokâr and her Reskala stepped into their midst.
Nobody moved.
None dared.
“We have come to claim what is Ours,” Auryn announced. “Bring the package that was scheduled for delivery to the Jade Lattice for the Sokâr. Now. Or face a reckoning.”
A pause. The silence was not shock, butdread.
A middle-aged man stepped forward, greying hair tied back in a bun. He wore dark green Crafter robes lined with gold tassels, the symbol of his Role stitched into his sleeves. The neckline of his clothes opened to reveal a tattooed number on his neck—the Batcher identification that marked every citizen of Krystopolis.
His hands shook against the folds of his apron as he signed, 'Your Radiance the Lustrate was placed under direct lockdown this morning. The Resh’Agar himself cast that ward.'
Auryn blinked.
For one heartbeat, she said nothing.
Then, quietly, “The Resh’Agar?”
The man nodded, swallowing hard.
Kailorien…is going to be upset with me. But right now, I can’t afford to misstep. Think of Shu’Khan. He would never show remorse, even if he made a mistake.
The Crafter continued his explanation with signs,'There was report of an intruder. Solutus in disguise. Instruction was given to remain. To await investigation. No one was to enter.'
He bowed his head low, words failing.
'Not even the Sokâr,'he signed.
Auryn’s gut twisted, not just from the guilt of interfering with Kailorien’s duties, but somethingelse. Something waswrong. The mana in the room coiled like a snake about to strike.
