The Council chamber was not built for comfort.
It was built for pressure.
Cold stone curved upward into a domed ceiling etched with laws older than some kingdoms. Light filtered in from narrow, warded apertures, never bright enough to be pleasant, never dim enough to hide in. Seven seats stood arranged in a shallow crescent, each occupied by a masked figure whose posture suggested authority rather than warmth.
Today, that authority was fraying.
"This has gone too far."
The bronze-masked Councillor struck the table with a gloved hand, the sound echoing like a verdict.
"He alters space," another voice snapped. "Inside a secured compound."
"He manufactures materials without mana."
"He has attached shadow-aspects to mundane textiles and produced a functional stealth garment in less than a day."
"And," the gold mask added sharply, "he did it without asking."
A murmur rippled through the chamber — not disagreement, but escalation.
The obsidian-masked Councillor leaned forward.
"We are no longer discussing talent. We are discussing risk."
Across the chamber, Aster stood with her hands folded behind her back, posture perfect, mask unreadable. She had not spoken yet. That alone was unusual enough to irritate several members.
The silver mask turned toward her.
"Prime-Three," they said. "You are responsible for this trainee. Explain why he continues to… innovate."
Aster inclined her head slightly.
"Because stopping him would require understanding him," she said calmly. "And understanding him would require abandoning several assumptions this Council relies upon."
The bronze mask scoffed.
"He is a boy."
"No," Aster replied. "He is an anomaly."
Silence followed — sharp, attentive.
She continued, voice measured.
"Elias Marlow does not operate within the frameworks we have developed for mana-users, artificers, or shadow operatives. Attempting to force him into those frameworks will not restrain him."
The gold mask crossed their arms.
"Then what do you propose? We let him continue unchecked?"
Aster lifted her head.
"I propose," she said, "that you acknowledge a simple truth."
She gestured lightly, as if outlining a diagram only she could see.
"You are not containing Elias Marlow. You are being tolerated by him."
That landed hard.
A Councillor hissed through their teeth. Another leaned back, displeased.
"That is speculation."
"It is projection," Aster corrected. "Based on observed capability."
She turned slightly, addressing the room as a whole now.
"He has already demonstrated the ability to operate without mana signatures. He alters reality in ways that do not trigger wards because he is not casting. He is reframing."
The obsidian mask spoke again, quieter now.
"And if he decided to leave."
Aster did not hesitate.
"If he decided to leave," she said, "you would not stop him."
A stir of alarm followed.
"We have trackers—"
"Mana-based," Aster interrupted.
"We have watchers—"
"Trained to sense disruption," she replied. "Not absence."
The silver mask leaned forward.
"You are suggesting he could vanish."
Aster tilted her head.
"I am suggesting," she said evenly, "that if he wished to disappear, he would not require more than a few nights to solve the problem."
The chamber grew very still.
"A cloak," Aster added, almost conversationally. "Not enchanted. Not warded. Simply… formed for a purpose."
She let that sit.
"Something that dampens presence rather than bends light. Something that convinces the world he is uninteresting."
The bronze mask snapped:
"You are hypothesizing treason."
"No," Aster said. "I am explaining inevitability."
She folded her hands more tightly behind her back.
"And I will remind the Council of something else: Elias Marlow has shown no inclination toward escape."
"He altered his room in secret," someone muttered.
"And yet," Aster countered, "he remains in Mirage. He follows assignments. He builds wagons instead of weapons. He hides his more dangerous discoveries rather than flaunting them." She said calmly
"Besides it's not that he made the modifications in secret, we were just incapable of detecting them and that's our hubris not his fault" she continued calmly then her voice sharpened slightly.
"Those are not the behaviors of a boy plotting rebellion."
The obsidian mask considered this.
"What are they, then?"
Aster answered without pause.
"The behavior of someone deciding whether this institution deserves his cooperation. If we are more hindrance, than a help. He's an orphan he has no real ties to our city except that he was born here"
That earned a long silence.
Finally, the silver mask spoke.
"If we attempt to bind him."
Aster met their gaze.
"You will teach him how to slip restraints."
"If we monitor him more closely."
"You will teach him how to vanish between observations."
"If we threaten him."
Her voice dropped, just a fraction.
"You will teach him that we are an enemy worth preparing for."
No one spoke for several heartbeats.
Then the gold mask said quietly:
"…What do you recommend, Prime-Three?"
Aster exhaled once — slow, controlled.
"You let him build wagons," she said.
"You let him trade."
"You let him believe he is being allowed a small, dull life."
She looked around the chamber.
"And you pray," she added, "that boredom keeps him kinder than fear ever would."
The Council sat in heavy, uneasy silence.
Far below them, in a shed that smelled of resin and wood dust, Elias Marlow was arguing with a merchant about hinges — blissfully unaware that an entire kingdom had just agreed, reluctantly, to stop trying to put him in a box to make sense of.
For now.
———————————————————————
Rellin lay flat on his back beneath the wagon, staring up at the undercarriage with the expression of a man who had been personally betrayed by wood, iron, and every road he had ever trusted.
"This," he said, voice echoing slightly off the shed floor, "is a crime."
Elias crouched nearby, sketch slate balanced on his knee, stylus tapping softly.
"A design flaw?" he offered.
"No," Rellin snapped. "A moral failing."
He jabbed a finger upward at a beam.
"Do you know how many wagons are built on the principle of 'good enough'? Do you know what 'good enough' feels like after twelve hours on rutted stone roads?"
Elias tilted his head. "Unpleasant?"
Rellin let out a bitter laugh.
"Unpleasant is a pebble in your boot. This is your spine being slowly convinced that existence was a mistake."
He scooted a little, the boards creaking beneath him.
"Every wagon builder in three kingdoms seems to think that if the wheels stay attached and the cargo doesn't spill, the person riding it is an optional consideration."
Elias made a small note. Structural priorities misaligned.
"You are aware," Elias said carefully, "that most wagons are designed to carry goods, not people."
"Yes," Rellin replied flatly. "And that is why most wagons are wrong."
He reached up and slapped the axle with his palm.
"No suspension. No give. No mercy. Just wood on iron on road, transmitted directly into your soul."
Elias frowned thoughtfully.
"That does seem inefficient."
"I once rode a merchant cart from Dawnridge to Pine Hollow," Rellin continued darkly. "Two days. I arrived feeling like my bones had been individually renegotiated."
Elias looked up from the slate.
"Did you continue trading after that?"
"Yes," Rellin said. "Because I am stubborn, poor, and deeply committed to bad decisions."
He rolled out from under the wagon with a grunt and sat up, rubbing his lower back.
"This one," he said, gesturing at the frame, "is not going to do that."
Elias studied the underside with renewed interest.
"What are you thinking?"
Rellin's eyes lit — just a little.
"Leaf springs," he said. "Layered steel, slightly curved. Let the frame flex instead of transferring every insult directly into the seat."
He gestured vaguely.
"Some dampening, too. Leather straps, maybe. Something to absorb the smaller impacts."
Elias's stylus paused.
"Absorption," he murmured.
Rellin squinted at him. "You're doing the thing again."
"I'm listening," Elias said quickly. "Just… mapping."
He leaned forward, peering at the axle.
"If the weight distribution is adjusted here," Elias said, tracing a line in the air without touching anything, "and the suspension is allowed to move independently of the cargo frame…"
Rellin's brows rose.
"…The jolts wouldn't carry straight through."
"Yes," Elias said. "They'd be… diffused."
Rellin stared at him.
"You're frightening when you get excited," he said. "But you're not wrong."
He pushed himself to his feet.
"We'll need steel strips. Good ones. Not the brittle stuff. And leather that's been treated properly."
"Oil-treated?" Elias asked.
"Oil-treated," Rellin confirmed. "And someone who won't sell us straps that snap the first time a pothole looks at them funny."
Elias made more notes.
Suspension:
– Flex
– Absorption
– Endurance
– Mercy
He paused.
"…Mercy?"
Rellin nodded solemnly.
"To my backside."
They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, sketching, measuring, arguing gently about angles and load limits.
At one point, Rellin glanced at Elias.
"You know," he said, "most apprentices I've had in the past lost interest the moment we got into this sort of detail."
Elias didn't look up.
"I find it grounding," he said. "There are rules here. Constraints."
"Wood doesn't suddenly decide it wants to be lightning," Rellin said.
"Exactly."
Rellin smiled, just a little.
Outside the shed, Mirage continued on — Councillors fretting, operatives scheming, treaties aging badly.
Inside, two men argued about suspension travel and whether comfort was a luxury or a necessity.
Elias added one final note to the slate, then closed it.
"If we do this properly," he said, "long routes will be… tolerable."
Rellin snorted.
"If we do this properly," he corrected, "long routes won't feel like the road is trying to kill you out of spite."
A pause.
"…Which is all I've ever wanted."
The wagon creaked softly as if, for the first time, it approved.
Rellin was midway through explaining the tolerances when Elias went very still.
Not tense.
Not dramatic.
Focused.
He stared at the underside of the wagon the way he stared at walls before they stopped being where they were supposed to be.
Rellin noticed immediately.
"Don't," he said.
Elias blinked. "Don't… what?"
"Don't do that thing," Rellin replied flatly. "Where your eyes go shiny and the air starts reconsidering its life choices."
"I wasn't—"
"You were," Rellin interrupted. "You had the look. The 'what if the problem simply stopped being a problem' look."
Elias hesitated, then admitted, "…I was thinking about distributing force through layered flex rather than fixed joints."
Rellin nodded. "That's fine."
"And if the layers were allowed to move independently—"
"Still fine."
"And if the movement were guided by—"
Rellin raised a finger. "Careful."
Elias stopped himself, lips pressing together.
"I wasn't going to use shadows," he said. "…Much."
Rellin stared at him.
"Elias," he said slowly, "this wagon is meant to go on roads. With guards. And taxes. If it starts gliding like a dignitary's sled or behaving like it knows where the potholes are before they happen, people will ask questions."
"I could make it subtle," Elias offered.
"That," Rellin said grimly, "is exactly what worries me."
Elias sighed and leaned back against the wagon frame, forcing his hands to stay still.
"You're right," he said. "No magic. No… solutions that don't look like solutions."
"Good," Rellin said. "Because if the Council doesn't notice it, the other merchants will. And merchants are worse."
He crouched again, tapping the axle thoughtfully.
"This has to look like good craftsmanship. Something other people might recognize, even if they can't afford it."
Elias tilted his head.
"Then I should ask," he said carefully, "where did you learn about leaf springs?"
Rellin paused.
That was… a good question.
"Huh," he muttered. "Didn't think you'd ask that."
Elias waited.
Rellin wiped his hands on his trousers and leaned back against the wagon wheel.
"Nobles," he said finally.
Elias blinked. "Nobles?"
"Carriages," Rellin clarified. "Not wagons. Big difference."
He gestured vaguely upward, as if pointing toward the upper city.
"You ever seen one of those ridiculous lacquered things glide through the streets without rattling the passengers' teeth loose?"
"I assumed it was… better roads."
Rellin snorted. "I wish. No, it's suspension. Layered steel, curved just so. Absorbs shock before it reaches the cabin."
Elias's eyes sharpened. "So this already exists."
"Of course it does," Rellin said. "Just not for people like us."
"Why not?" Elias asked.
Rellin shrugged. "Cost. Skill. And tradition. Wagons are built to last, not to be kind. Merchants are expected to suffer. Nobles complain if the ride spills their wine."
"That seems inefficient," Elias said.
"That," Rellin replied, "is class."
Elias considered that in silence.
"So if we used something similar," he said slowly, "but scaled for cargo… no one would question it."
"Exactly," Rellin said. "They'll assume we either got lucky, or overpaid a craftsman, or stole the idea poorly."
Elias nodded. "All acceptable conclusions."
Rellin eyed him. "You were about to invent something, weren't you."
"Yes," Elias admitted. "Something better."
Rellin smiled thinly. "Save 'better' for later. Right now we aim for believable."
Elias smiled back, just faintly.
"Believable," he agreed.
He glanced once more at the frame—without listening to it, without reaching—and returned to the slate.
"Then," he said, "we copy nobility."
Rellin chuckled. "Now you're thinking like a merchant."
They bent back over the design together.
And for once, the wagon stayed exactly where it was.
——————————————————————
Few hours later Rellin wiped sweat from his brow and leaned back against the wagon frame.
"You know," he said, squinting toward the academy walls in the distance, "I keep meaning to ask."
Elias glanced at him. "Ask what?"
Rellin gestured vaguely with a thumb.
"Where everyone else is."
Elias blinked. "Everyone else?"
"Students," Rellin clarified. "Apprentices. Shadow-whatevers. I see guards, instructors, scribes… but I never see people like you. Not in groups, anyway."
He frowned.
"For a place training spies, it's remarkably empty."
Elias considered that.
"I see people," he said slowly. "Just… never twice."
Rellin grimaced. "That's unsettling."
Aster, who had apparently decided gravity and doors were optional again, spoke from behind them.
"That is because," she said calmly, "they are not meant to share space."
Rellin jumped. Elias did not.
"People work better in groups," Rellin said. "Even merchants."
Aster tilted her head.
"Merchants sell goods," she said. "Shadow operatives become them."
She stepped closer, eyes on the wagon, not on either of them.
"These students are not trained as a cohort. They are trained as singular units."
Rellin folded his arms. "Sounds lonely."
"It is," Aster replied. "On purpose."
She continued, as if reciting something long-settled:
"Each is intended to operate alone, or as part of a network they do not fully perceive. At most, a Shadow Path initiate may know of one other like them."
Rellin frowned. "Why only one?"
"Because knowledge forms patterns," Aster said. "Patterns can be traced."
She glanced at Elias — not accusingly, not warmly.
"Before anyone is allowed to recognize another," she said, "they must first craft a mask. A role. A lie they can inhabit without bleeding through."
Elias understood immediately.
"Before trust," he murmured, "there is concealment."
Aster inclined her head. "Exactly."
Rellin looked between them.
"So you're all… ghosts in training."
"Yes," Aster said.
Rellin snorted. "That explains the decor."
She ignored him.
"By the time these students are permitted to interact," she added, "they will no longer recognize each other as students at all."
She clicked her finger against her own mask she always wore " this will be what most of us ever see of other of our fellow associates"
Elias felt a chill — not fear, but clarity.
"So the mask is like our identity inside the organization, also to keep our faces clean in the open."
Aster's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary.
"Correct."
She turned to leave.
"Be grateful, Elias," she said over her shoulder. "You are still visible enough to be bored, and in no real hurry to make your mask. Still you should think about it."
Then she was gone.
Rellin stared after her.
"…I'm starting to think this place is unhealthy."
Elias smiled faintly.
"I think," he said, "that's the point."