The chamber was quiet—always too quiet.
Twelve seats. Twelve unseen faces behind frosted glass, each backlit with a dim hue representing their domain: Law, Time, War, Archive, Silence, Flame, and five others, unspoken, unknown.
At the center of the round table sat Magister Hal Vire.
Older than the system, or so the rumors said. His body was pale, skin drawn tight, but his eyes were alive with dangerous clarity. His hands—gloved in memory-silk—tapped slowly on the table.
"Vault Nine failed," came the voice from Seat Two.
"No," said Hal Vire calmly. "Juno failed. To die."
Another silence.
"She's reactivated the journal," murmured Seat Six. "She remembers something."
Hal stood.
His coat was long, clockwork woven into the lining. His left eye, artificial—tick-ticking like a mechanical iris. He looked up at the frosted panels.
"We trained them to forget. Trained them to run in circles. But something's gone wrong in the Loop."
Seat Three hissed: "It was your brother's idea to spare her."
A flicker of something passed across Hal's face. Not grief. Something sharper. Regret laced with fury.
"I wanted to see if she would choose differently," he said.
"And she did," Seat Ten said, a female voice. "She chose to survive."
Hal turned away from the table, stepping to the edge of the chamber where a massive screen showed Vault Nine collapsing. The feed cut—static, then black.
"She'll run to Vault Ten," he said. "The key is already resonating."
Seat Five asked the question they were all thinking: "Do we stop her?"
"No," Hal said. "We send someone she remembers."
He pulled up a file.
A single face. Male. Sharp-eyed. Familiar.
But the name was what mattered.
> Seth Vire
Status: Presumed Deceased
Clearance: Prime-Class
Role: Catalyst Contingency
"Activate the phantom protocol," Hal ordered.
"If Juno wants the truth—"
He smiled coldly.
"—then let her choke on it."