Chapter 13: Inner Court, Outer Claws
The inner council chamber of Asterholt was a cathedral of authority. Incense-laced air hung heavy beneath a vaulted dome of smoked glass, through which midday light filtered in dim columns. Mahogany benches ringed the circular hall, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the flicker of a dozen bluish ward lanterns set along the walls. The stone floor was inlaid with the sigils of each guild, converging at a central mosaic of the city's crest: a mountain wrapped in thorny vines. And above all, silence—tense and expectant—like the hush before a thunderclap.
Connor sat on a raised chair at the chamber's periphery, an observer in this formal conclave about his fate. At his right stood Captain Sela, feet planted firmly, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword. To his left hovered Matron Yara, who had one reassuring hand on the back of his chair. Around them, the half-circle of guild-mothers and council representatives watched the unfolding scene with rapt attention.
At the center of the chamber, Lady Vesna's envoy made her case. Ambassador Celestine was a tall, ice-blonde woman draped in the green-and-gold robes of Aurelia's Alchemy Guild, a serpent emblem gleaming on her breast. She spoke with cool, practiced projection that carried to every corner of the hall.
"—a matter of grave concern," Celestine was saying as Connor forced himself to focus on her words and not the anxious pounding of his heart. "By the admission of Asterholt's own security, the male conduit has been exposed to public risk. An intrusion occurred on your watch, in broad daylight, leading to a citywide frenzy and, might I add, a lucrative criminal bounty. Such failures endanger not only the young man, but the stability of all our domains."
A low murmur swept through the assembly at that barb. Connor felt a flash of anger warm his cheeks. Failures, she calls them. Endanger stability. The envoy's words were carefully chosen to prick at Asterholt's pride and sow doubt.
Celestine pressed on, tone sympathetic but edged with condescension. "Lady Vesna extends her deepest regrets that this happened. She has authorized me to offer a solution. Transfer Sir Connor to Aurelia's care—temporarily, of course—where he can be better shielded under our specialized security wards and perhaps benefit from the Alchemy Guild's resources to understand his unique gift. We would return him once the… fervor has died down."
Her lips curved in a thin smile that did nothing to warm her ice-chip eyes. "Surely, esteemed councilors, you can agree that what matters is the boy's safety. Pride of jurisdiction should not cloud our judgment. We all want what is best for him."
The silence that followed was heavy. Connor's hands balled into fists atop his knees. He wanted to shout that Celestine spoke nonsense—that he felt far safer here among those he trusted than he ever would as Vesna's ward—but he held his tongue. This was exactly what Yara had prepared him for earlier that morning: Let them talk first. Listen. Show them a measured face.
Still, it took all his willpower not to leap up in protest. He glanced aside and caught Sela's gaze. The captain gave him the slightest shake of her head—a reminder to remain composed. On his other side, Yara responded to the envoy's speech with a polite, bland expression, concealing her strategic mind at work.
Finally, the High Councilor of Asterholt, an iron-haired woman named Saloma, cleared her throat. "A generous offer, Ambassador," she said, voice echoing. "But a delicate matter. Sir Connor was entrusted to Asterholt by Aurelia's own accord. We have upheld our duty—this incident notwithstanding."
"Notwithstanding?" Celestine repeated with a light laugh. "One breach is all it takes for tragedy. We must not tempt fate." Her eyes slid to Connor, assessing. "Surely the young man's opinion matters here as well. Tell me, Sir Connor—would you not feel safer under the direct protection of the renowned Alchemy Matriarch Vesna? She has guarded our realm's greatest treasures for decades."
All eyes turned to him. Connor's throat tightened. Yara had warned he might be addressed directly, and to be prepared. Speak calmly, from truth, she had said. He rose, legs a touch stiff, and offered a respectful incline of his head toward Celestine.
"I am honored by Lady Vesna's concern," he began carefully, choosing each word. The envoy watched him like a hawk. "But I must clarify: I do feel safe in Asterholt. This city has shown me nothing but dedication and care. Captain Sela—" he gestured lightly to his guardian "—has risked her life more than once to protect mine. I could ask for no finer shield."
Sela bowed her head slightly at the acknowledgment, her posture remaining stoic.
Connor continued, gaining a bit of confidence as he spoke his heart. "The incident was… frightening," he admitted. "But I do not believe it reflects a fundamental failure of Asterholt's hospitality or security. It reflects the lengths to which some will go to exploit me. Those lengths would follow me anywhere." His voice hardened unintentionally at the end, the memory of the drone's whine coloring his tone.
Celestine's smile thinned. "Exploitation is precisely our fear. Lady Vesna simply has more resources to deter such attempts. Asterholt is valiant, but smaller in reach."
A murmur of indignation rippled among the council at the slight. High Councilor Saloma's eyes flashed. "We may be but one city, Ambassador, but we are not feeble. Perhaps the ambassador forgets that it was Asterholt's interventions that foiled an earlier abduction attempt when Sir Connor traveled here."
Celestine's jaw tightened momentarily. Connor bit back a smile; yes, the convoy ambush by black market mercs had been thwarted thanks to Sela, Zara, Brynna and others. Lady Vesna's influence hadn't saved him there—Asterholt's people had.
Before Celestine could retort, another guild-mother spoke up—a woman in deep blue robes representing the Scholars Guild. "What of Sir Connor's own studies and wishes? He came to Asterholt partly for access to our knowledge archives and training, did he not? Uprooting him so soon might hamper his progress." She gave Connor a kind glance.
Connor remembered this prompt from Yara as well: an opening. He nodded earnestly. "It is true. I have barely begun to learn about this world and my abilities here. The continuity has been important. To move again, to start over in a new place with new faces—" he looked between Celestine and the council "—that would be… distressing to me."
Yara gently cleared her throat. "The boy has endured much upheaval already. Stability is key to nurturing his talents and trust. Surely we should heed his comfort in this matter."
Celestine's polite mask faltered just enough to reveal irritation. She likely hadn't expected the Council to let Connor speak for himself. Regaining her poise, she directed a more pointed tactic at Sela. "Captain Var, is it?" she addressed. "As his primary protector, you must be keenly aware of the dangers. Would you not sacrifice anything to keep him safe? If that meant yielding his custody to a fortress of greater means, would you not do so in a heartbeat? A true guardian should be willing."
Connor's nails bit into his palms. What a sly trap—the envoy challenged Sela's devotion, implying if she refused to send him away she was selfishly clinging to honor over safety. He looked to Sela, heart clenching. How would she answer?
Sela took one step forward, boots echoing on the marble. She straightened to her full height, expression composed but eyes blazing. "I am Captain Sela Var of the Asterholt Watch," she said evenly. "My oath is to protect Sir Connor, with my life if needed. In my judgment, his safety is best served by consistency and by surrounding him with those he trusts. He has fought beside my soldiers; he has saved lives among us just as we have saved his. We have built a rapport that no amount of iron gating elsewhere can replicate overnight."
A few council members nodded at her words. Celestine opened her mouth to interject, but Sela continued, voice gaining strength.
"You ask if I would sacrifice anything for his safety," Sela said. "The answer is yes. I would sacrifice comfort, glory, even my own reputation. But I will not lightly sacrifice his will or his peace of mind by sending him off like a pawn on a chessboard." Her tone sharpened. "A man—even a young one—is not an object to be shuffled between vaults. Not while I draw breath."
A stir of approval swept the room. Connor's chest swelled with gratitude and pride. Sela had spoken what he felt in his bones: that being passed to Vesna would strip him of what little agency he had clawed out.
Celestine's face darkened at the open challenge in Sela's words. "Captain Var, your dedication is noted," she said coolly. "But dedication does not equal capability. You say he fought beside your soldiers? A telling admission—he was put in harm's way under your watch."
Sela opened her mouth, a flash of anger on her face, but Celestine pressed, turning to the council. "This captain allowed him into battle, into a convoy that was attacked by monsters and mercenaries. And recently, under her nose, a spy device all but reached him. Dedication she has, yes, but perhaps not the means to truly protect such a unique individual."
Sela's fists clenched. "That is a gross mischaracterization—"
"Is it?" Celestine interjected with a raised brow. "Or is it simply an uncomfortable truth? Lady Vesna has commanded far more challenging security operations successfully for decades. Why not leverage her expertise?"
The chamber buzzed with uneasy murmurs. Celestine's strategy was shrewd—sow doubt in Sela, the linchpin of Connor's guardianship. Connor felt a spike of indignation. Sela's record was near spotless; she'd thrown herself into danger time and again for him. How dare this envoy, who knew nothing of those nights of fear and fire, cast aspersions?
Before he realized it, Connor was standing, stepping away from his chair. The murmurs quieted as attention swung to him once more.
"Ambassador Celestine," he said, voice clear and carrying in the acoustics of the dome, "I cannot let that claim go unanswered. Captain Var's actions have been the very reason I am alive to stand here. Without her and her team, I would have been lost to a lamia swarm on my journey, or abducted in Aurelia's outskirts by cartel agents." He took a deep breath to steady the quaver of emotion in his voice. "To imply she is incapable is not only unfair, it is untrue."
All eyes remained on him. He pressed on, adrenaline lending him courage. "I trust Sela with my life. I trust all of Asterholt's guardians who have kept me safe thus far. Lady Vesna has indeed great resources, but trust… trust is earned." He met Celestine's gaze unwaveringly. "With respect, trust cannot simply be bestowed by decree or reputation from afar. It grows from shared trials and loyalty proven in the field. Captain Var has earned mine a hundred times over."
The silence that fell was absolute. Then a few council members began to clap softly, the sound building as several others joined, not boisterously, but with dignified approval. Even High Councilor Saloma permitted a small smile.
Celestine's cheeks colored a faint pink. She hadn't expected the "boy" to intervene so passionately or sway the room. Connor felt Yara's gentle hand squeeze his shoulder in pride from behind.
The envoy's eyes narrowed slightly. If logical argument was slipping from her grasp, it seemed she might resort to a different avenue. "Such conviction," she said, voice silky with a hint of venom. "Sir Connor's loyalty to his guardian is admirable. As is yours to him, Captain Var." She folded her arms. "I wonder… would you stake more than words on it? If Asterholt's honor in protecting this young man were put to a direct test, how confident are you truly?"
Sela stepped forward immediately. "Name your test, Ambassador."
Connor's breath hitched. He sensed a shift—a more primal challenge about to surface.
Celestine paced slowly within the circle of councilors. "Old ways and traditions can guide us in impasses such as these. Trial by combat, perhaps. A champion of Asterholt against a champion of Lady Vesna's choosing. If Asterholt wins, we lay to rest any question of Sir Connor's custody—he remains here, and Vesna will publicly withdraw her petition." She paused, then added, "If our champion wins, it indicates that perhaps Asterholt's protection is… lacking. And Lady Vesna's proposal gains merit."
She presented it so politely, but everyone understood: a duel to decide Connor's fate, or at least to heavily influence the council's leanings.
Councilor Saloma stood, frowning. "Such trial by combat is highly irregular for resolving jurisdictional matters in this age."
"But not unprecedented," piped up another elder guild-mother. "We invoked it in the Ironrite dispute twenty years ago to avoid war. It can serve when politics reaches a stalemate."
A murmur of mixed agreement and concern spread around. Some Asterholt members looked uneasy, others grimly intrigued. It was a gamble, one with high stakes but a clear outcome. And Celestine had cleverly offered an enticing prize: forcing Vesna to back off if they won.
Connor's heart sunk, even as weariness threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. He dreaded giving Vesna any chance at all, but he also could sense the council's appetite for a decisive end to this argument. If they refused, it might look like doubt in their own strength, fueling Celestine's point about being "less capable."
Sela's voice cut through the chatter, firm and resolute. "I accept."
All eyes shifted to her. Connor turned in alarm. "Sela—"
She shot him a brief look of reassurance, then addressed the council. "As Sir Connor's sworn protector, I will stand as Asterholt's champion in this trial."
Celestine smiled coolly. "Naturally. And Lady Vesna's champion shall be…" She walked to the chamber doors and gestured. Two figures strode in: one was an Alchemy guild mage with a staff, and beside her—
A towering woman clad in ornate plate armor stepped forward, the floor trembling faintly with each heavy footfall. She removed her helmet, revealing a scarred face and cold, grey eyes. "Commander Laine of Vesna's honor guard, at your service," she announced. The woman was at least a head taller than Sela, broad-shouldered and exuding brute strength.
Connor's stomach dropped. Commander Laine was rumored to have felled a troll single-handedly in the Frostcap Mountains. He had never seen her until now, but the whispers of her prowess were known even in Aurelia.
Sela did not flinch. She gave the armored woman a crisp nod. "Captain Sela Var." They sized each other up in a heartbeat of silent tension.
High Councilor Saloma looked displeased at being sidelined by this arrangement, but realized the tide. "So be it," she intoned reluctantly. "A trial by combat, here and now, under the ancient accord. First blood or yield shall decide the victor. No deathblows permitted." She fixed both champions with a severe gaze. "This is an honorable arbitration, not a brawl."
Both women nodded. Celestine stepped back with a satisfied glint. Connor rose, panic and concern surging. "Captain Var… Sela… you do not have to do this," he whispered urgently as Sela removed her formal uniform jacket, handing it to a watch officer and flexing her gloved hands.
She gave him a thin smile. "Yes, I do. But do not fear—I have fought larger in sparring pits." Her eyes softened. "Trust me, as I trust you."
Connor's mouth went dry. He realized in that moment that Sela was as determined to prove Asterholt's worthiness—and perhaps her own—as Celestine was to undermine it. Nothing he could say would dissuade her. And truthfully, had not he just publicly declared his unwavering faith in her? He couldn't back down now.
He nodded, stepping away to give them space in the chamber's center, which council attendants hurriedly cleared of benches. Yara gently pulled Connor aside to where she and a few others would observe at a safe distance. Connor's pulse raced, blood roaring in his ears.
Laine drew a massive two-handed sword from her back with a metallic ring. Sela unsheathed her own saber, a slender blade by comparison. The size mismatch was almost comical—David versus Goliath, Connor thought anxiously. But Sela had speed and precision; he had seen her slice arrows out of the air in training.
They faced each other, saluted with their blades, and at Saloma's nod, the duel commenced.
Laine lunged first, belying her bulk with frightening agility. The greatsword cleaved downward in a blur of steel. Sela sidestepped, the blade whistling past her and striking sparks from the floor. She riposted with a quick slash toward Laine's armored gauntlet, but the commander twisted, letting the saber skitter harmlessly off plate.
Back and forth they went, the ring of steel on steel echoing through the dome. Sela was a flurry of motion, deftly avoiding the brunt of Laine's heavy swings and retaliating with lightning thrusts at gaps in armor. Laine absorbed or parried most with brute strength, but a few times Sela's saber found flesh—a nick at Laine's thigh joint, a shallow slice along her bicep. The commander grunted but pressed on, seemingly unfazed by the minor wounds.
The council watched in rapt silence. Connor stood at the edge of the circle, fists clenched so hard his nails bit skin. Every time Laine's sword smashed down, he had to bite his tongue not to cry out. He knew interfering was forbidden, but it took all his restraint not to fling his power to trip Laine or shove an obstacle in her way. The only thing stopping him was knowing Sela's honor—and Asterholt's—rode on this being a fair fight.
Sela ducked under a horizontal sweep that would have taken her head off, then surprised everyone by darting inside Laine's guard instead of away. It was a risky move; she ended up chest-to-chest with the bigger woman, too close for the greatsword to be effective. With a kiai shout, Sela delivered an armored elbow strike to Laine's face.
The commander stumbled back, momentarily dazed. A cheer almost rose from the Asterholt side of the room, quickly stifled into polite coughs. Connor's heart leapt. Sela pressed the advantage, slashing across Laine's thigh—drawing a line of blood—and then pivoting around to strike at the back of her knee.
But Laine recovered swiftly. With a snarl, she swung one gauntleted fist backward, catching Sela in the ribs with a bone-jarring impact. Even from yards away, Connor heard the thud of metal against flesh. Sela gasped and staggered, her guard faltering for the first time.
Laine seized upon it. Rather than attempt another sword strike, she surged forward and slammed her shoulder into Sela, bulldozing the smaller woman off her feet. Sela hit the ground hard, her saber sliding from her grip across the polished floor.
A collective gasp rose. Connor unconsciously stepped forward as Laine leveled the tip of her greatsword at Sela's throat. Sela, winded, managed to raise herself on one forearm, the other arm clutching her side where the gauntlet had struck. Blood trickled from a cut on her temple where her head had met stone.
High Councilor Saloma stood abruptly, about to declare the outcome. First blood had been drawn on both sides, but Sela was disarmed and down. Technically a clear advantage.
Celestine's smile was triumphant. Connor felt despair claw at him. No… not like this. Sela can't lose. He wouldn't let this victory slip away on a technicality if Sela still had fight left.
Before Saloma could speak, Connor shouted, "Captain, your weapon!" and darted forward. The protocol of the duel danced on a knife's edge—he couldn't interfere directly in the combat without forfeiting, but returning a dropped weapon was a grey area historically allowed to even the field once, in some traditions.
Perhaps it was bending the rules, but at that moment Connor cared not. He snatched Sela's saber from the floor and tossed it in a spinning arc toward her.
All eyes widened. Sela's hand shot up and caught the hilt cleanly. In the same fluid motion, she twisted aside from Laine's blade tip, which nicked her collar but missed fatal contact, and with a surge of grit Sela rolled to her feet.
Laine's expression flashed with irritation at the renewed fight. She barreled at Sela, sword raised high to end this. But Sela was ready. Instead of retreating, she stepped inside again, narrowly evading the downward chop—this time by inches—and drove her saber point into the gap under Laine's armpit with a cry.
Laine bellowed in pain as the blade bit deep into flesh between armor plates. Her sword clattered from her hands as her arm spasmed. Sela withdrew her saber and immediately brought it up to press against Laine's neck, just at the seam where helmet met gorget.
It was over. The great Commander Laine stood panting, one arm limp and bloodied at her side, Sela's blade keen on her throat. Sela herself was breathing hard, bruised and battered, but victorious fire blazed in her eyes.
Asterholt's side of the room erupted in cheers before decorum gently hushed it. Councilor Saloma stepped forward, raising a hand. "The trial is decided! Asterholt's champion stands triumphant."
Connor's heart soared. He rushed to Sela's side as she lowered her blade and stumbled back a step, exhaustion and pain catching up now that the adrenaline was fading. Laine was quickly pulled aside by Celestine's mage aide, who began healing her wound with a shimmering salve.
Sela managed a tight smile as Connor reached her, and she went down on one knee with a wince, whether out of depletion or reflex he wasn't sure. He immediately moved to support her. "Sela! You… you did it."
She chuckled weakly. "Told you… trust me." Up close, he saw her left side already bruising, blood trickling from beneath her cuirass where Laine's blade had grazed. She had taken damage for him once again.
Without thinking, Connor placed a steady hand on her shoulder. A nearby attendant offered a cloth and he pressed it gently to the cut on Sela's temple. Relief and admiration swelled in his chest so intensely that tears pricked his eyes.
The chamber bustled as some council members attended to Sela and Laine, while others approached Celestine to formalize the outcome. Yara hovered near, smiling at Connor and Sela. "Well fought, my dear," she praised Sela kindly, "and well spoken, Connor."
Celestine, for her part, maintained a facade of grace despite her evident displeasure. "Lady Vesna will abide by the accord," she said to Saloma through a taut jaw. "Congratulations."
She strode over to where Connor still knelt by Sela. The ambassador inclined her head. "Sir Connor, Asterholt has proven its point this day. Lady Vesna will not pursue the custody petition further at this time. We only wish for your safety, wherever that may be."
Connor saw a flicker of genuine regret in her eyes—perhaps she truly believed her cause, if not her tactics. "Thank you, Ambassador," he replied softly. "I know you and Lady Vesna act out of concern. But please carry my message back: I am where I choose to be."
Celestine nodded, as if acknowledging a worthy adversary. "May fortune favor you, then." She turned to go, her wounded champion following stiffly after being bandaged.
As the envoy's party departed the chamber, Councilor Saloma and the others breathed audible sighs of relief. A crisis averted, pride upheld. The mood among Asterholt's side was triumphant, yet tempered by the knowledge of how close a thing it had been.
Connor helped Sela stand. She grimaced, pressing a hand to her ribs. "No worse than training bouts," she tried to joke, though her voice was strained.
"You were incredible," Connor said, sincerity dripping from every word. He felt lightheaded with pride and the ebb of fear. "I am so sorry I… you had to do that because of me—"
"Shush," Sela cut him off gently. "I did what was needed. And you… you did well. You spoke strongly." Her eyes gleamed with fondness and pain in equal measure. "And tossing me my saber—risky, but clever. Technically not against the rules, though some might squawk."
Despite the situation, Connor cracked a tiny grin. "Perhaps next time they should write that loophole out."
Sela gave a breathless laugh that turned into a cough. "Let's not plan for next time, hmm?"
They locked eyes, an entire conversation passing silently. She pulled him into a brief, fierce embrace, then released him with a wince—her own injuries reminding her to be gentle.
All around, the Watch and technicians scrambled to get the reactor functional. By some miracle, the sabotage hadn't completely destroyed it—likely the assassins intended to finish the job if they'd won. Already, a faint steady whine indicated the backup crystals coming online. The ward lights might hold after all.
High Councilor Saloma arrived with additional guards, surveying the scene with grim gratitude that catastrophe was averted. She took in Connor's state and Sela's and shook her head. "This cannot continue," she said in a low, troubled voice to Sela as medics began tending the wounded. "The boy's presence paints a target on all of us. We saved the city tonight, but at what cost tomorrow?"
Connor heard her, and in his exhausted state, the words stung because they rang true. He'd fought to stay, to be free, to be part of this world's fabric. But if every enemy from the shadows would stop at nothing to seize or kill him, how many more could suffer? How many times could they nearly tear down a whole city just to get to him?
Sela squared her jaw. "We will find the perpetrators—"
Saloma raised a hand. "Yes, of course, and they shall pay. But it will not end with them." She sighed deeply and looked at Connor, her eyes heavy with the weight of leadership. "At first light, the Council must discuss a… new strategy regarding Sir Connor's placement. For his safety, and ours."
Connor's heart sunk, even as weariness threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. A new strategy—he knew what that implied. He would be sent away from Asterholt. Somewhere remote, perhaps, out of reach of major civilizations, so attacks wouldn't endanger thousands.
Exile, essentially, disguised as a mission or lesson.
He opened his mouth to protest weakly, but Sela placed a gentle hand on his back. "Easy," she whispered. "Rest now. We will work this out after."
Zara and Thea stayed close, their faces reflecting the same mixture of sorrow and understanding. They all realized the truth: after tonight, things could not simply go back to how they were. The cost was too high.
Connor closed his eyes, swaying slightly as adrenaline seeped away. He felt Sela's arm steady him, heard Thea murmuring to a medic to tend to his likely concussion. But beyond and beneath it all, he felt the cracking of something inside him—like one of the reactor's broken rings. The protective walls of Asterholt, the sanctuary he had begun to call home, were closing, not out of malice, but necessity.
Shattered oaths. He recalled the title of an old poem—how appropriate it seemed now. The unspoken oath that Asterholt would keep him forever safe, intact. The oath he had made to himself to avoid being a burden. Both lay in pieces on this smoky floor.
As consciousness slipped from him, Connor found himself murmuring something—a promise, or a plea, he was not sure: "I will make this right… somehow."
Sela's voice answered softly, "I know you will."
And with that, he surrendered to the darkness, trusting that when he woke, he would face whatever new dawn had in store—for himself, and for those he had chosen to care for.
The Clockwork Catacomb
Midnight draped the undercity in a shroud of stifling stillness. The air was markedly cooler here below Asterholt's streets, with a mineral damp that clung to the skin. The only light came from dimly glowing strips of runic script inset along the vaulted brick ceiling, their blue luminescence casting long shadows between rows of ancient machinery. Gears taller than a person loomed against the walls, frozen in time and rust, like the skeletal remains of some long-dead colossus. The quiet was broken only by the occasional drip of condensation and the faint ticking of a still-functioning automaton somewhere distant—mechanical heartbeats in the dark.
Connor crept forward, boots whispering over the mossy stone floor. Each step he took felt precariously loud in the subterranean hush. Ahead of him, Thea lifted a hand, signaling a halt. He froze, pulse quickening, and listened. To his right, Zara pressed up against a pillar of pipes, one hand on the hilt of her dagger, the other carrying a small ether-lantern shuttered to a mere pinprick of light.
Somewhere in the maze of corridors beyond, metal clanged against metal—a loose grate nudged by a draft, perhaps. Connor held his breath, straining to distinguish ambient noise from threat. After a few heartbeats, nothing but silence followed.
He let out a slow exhale and met Thea's eyes. She nodded and beckoned them onward. They were deep beneath Asterholt's bustling avenues, in the so-called Clockwork Catacomb—a forgotten sublevel archive rumored to house artifacts and schematics deemed too dangerous or precious for common knowledge. Here, if the whispers were true, lay the records of that fateful falling star, the very cosmic event that had somehow bridged Connor's world and this one.
The corridor opened into a round chamber lined with shelves carved into the stone. Dust motes hung thick in the air, and the scent of old parchment, machine oil, and mold was overwhelming. In the center, a massive orrery-like contraption dominated the space: interlocking rings of copper and brass, studded with crystal nodes, all mounted on a geared pedestal. It looked like an astrolabe merged with a clock—a device perhaps once used to model celestial movements or magical cycles.
Thea's eyes shone in the faint light as she surveyed the machine. "The central indexing cog," she whispered. "It should guide us to the star archives if I can activate it." She was already moving, careful to step only on the stone sections of floor rather than the metal plates (the group had learned that lesson earlier when a misstep by Zara on a plate triggered a sudden steam vent release as a deterrent).
Connor and Zara kept watch, scanning the three arched doorways branching off this chamber. Each threshold was marked by engraved plaques in High Asteric script. Connor's limited translation abilities picked out words: "ASTRONOMICA" on one, "ETHERIC ENGINEERIA" on another, and the third plaque was too eroded to decipher fully, but he could make out "RUNE—" something. Runeology, perhaps.
His heart thumped. Likely that third arch led to what they sought: records of the rune schematics derived from the falling star, that mysterious celestial event some decades past. The star that—if his suspicions were right—had flung open a door between worlds and pulled him through.
Zara shifted beside him, adjusting the strap of a satchel slung across her back. Within it, padded carefully, were pieces of a broken automaton guardian they had encountered earlier—a necessary casualty after it nearly impaled Thea with a spring-loaded lance. Dismantling it had been loud and nerve-wracking, but fortunately it seemed to patrol alone. Still, Connor knew they might have limited time before a remote sensor noted its absence.
With a soft whirr, the rings of the orrery device in the center began to turn. Thea had pried open a panel at its base and coaxed life into it using a portable aether battery she had smuggled in her cloak. One by one, the crystal nodes on the rings glowed, projecting thin beams of light that coalesced into a rotating diagram mid-air: a great spoked wheel, each spoke labeled with more High Asteric glyphs.
"The archive index," Thea breathed, eyes darting over the floating symbols. She reached up and touched one glowing label. "Here—'Runic Echo Patterns'. This is it."
At her touch, the orrery's gears shifted, clanking in slow procession. One of the archways—the eroded plaque—lit up at the same time, a soft golden glow outlining its frame.
Connor felt a thrill of anticipation. "Door number three," he murmured to Zara, who flashed a tense grin.
They regrouped at the threshold. Beyond lay a descending staircase, curving into darkness. The glow from the arch faintly illuminated the initial steps, but beyond that it was a black maw.
Zara unshuttered the lantern just a bit more, enough for them to see their way without (hopefully) alerting distant guardians. Connor took the lead this time—his ability to sense ambient aetheric fields made him a decent scout for magical traps. The stair walls were carved with bas-reliefs of constellations and strange creatures: serpents entwined with stars, a woman pouring water from an urn into an endless void, and symbols that made his skin prickle to look at.
He ran his fingers lightly along the wall as he went, feeling for any vibration or warmth that might hint at active enchantments. Each footstep echoed down into the depths, the acoustics oddly magnifying small sounds. At one point, Connor paused as a series of rhythmic clicks resonated up to them—machinery in motion far below. When it subsided, they continued.
The staircase ended at a tall iron door set with a complex lock of interlocking rotating disks. Thea stepped forward, studying it intently. She produced from her pocket a slim tool that looked like a cross between a screwdriver and a wand. Inlaid runes glimmered on its tip—a skeleton key of sorts, likely procured through her guild contacts.
"Keep an ear out," she whispered as she began probing the lock, gently turning disks one way then the other, listening for tumblers.
Connor pressed his ear to the cool iron of the door. Beyond, he could just make out a faint humming drone. Not machinery exactly—more like an energized field of some kind. A ward? Or perhaps a containment spell. Whatever it was, the hairs on his arm stirred in response.
A soft click sounded. Thea held up her tool with a small triumphant smile. The final disk rotated into place and the iron door creaked open a sliver, stale air wafting out.
Zara stepped ahead, lantern raised. "Allow me," she whispered. Her dagger was already drawn in her other hand. She nudged the door further, peering in cautiously.
Inside was a vault-like chamber whose far end disappeared in darkness. Rows of shelves made of brass and stone lined the walls, holding metal cylinders, scroll cases, and glass tablets neatly arranged. At the center of the floor was inlaid a large seven-pointed star rune in silver, perhaps five paces across. It pulsed with faint light, confirming Connor's sense of an active enchantment. The humming noise definitely came from it.
They slipped inside and shut the door carefully behind them. Thea cast her eyes over the collection, practically vibrating with scholarly excitement despite the danger. "Star schematics… these are likely the compiled research notes of the first mages who studied the falling star," she whispered.
Connor felt drawn to the large rune on the floor. The pattern called to him in a strange way. It was unlike typical sigils—more complex, lines overlapping in symmetrical interplays that made his eyes want to trace them endlessly. He realized he was holding his breath. The rune's light tugged at his mind, an echo of something familiar yet not.
Zara placed a grounding hand on his shoulder. "Stay with us, Connor," she murmured. He blinked and nodded, stepping back. The rune's gentle thrum faded from his immediate focus.
Thea had already moved to a shelf and carefully slid out a large scroll bound in copper fittings. "This one is labeled with the date corresponding to the starfall," she said, barely containing her excitement. "Help me with the desk."
They carried the scroll to a central pedestal desk near the rune's edge. It unfurled stiffly to reveal dense diagrams and writing in multiple inks. Connor recognized star charts interposed with rune sketches, notes in margins, arrays of numbers. His heart pounded as he scanned it. Here a sketch of the crater; there an angular pattern with annotations— "Amplification effect 3x, echo distortion observed at edges…" he read under his breath.
Zara leaned over his shoulder, brow furrowed. "Any of that make sense to you two?"
Thea traced a finger along a segment. "They attempted to channel the energy of the fallen star using an array of runes—this seven-pointed formation, it looks like. They note it amplified their spells dramatically." She moved to a paragraph further down. "But… an echo effect… repeated emanations after the initial spell… that could be dangerous."
Connor felt a chill, recalling the wording from the outline. "Amplifies but also echoes effects," he said quietly, fingertips brushing the parchment. "Meaning if one were to, say, create a kinetic push using such an array, it might not only be stronger, but potentially reverberate—a push that repeats or bounces unpredictably."
"Like an aftershock following an earthquake," Zara offered.
"Exactly." Thea nodded. "In battle, that could be devastating or disastrous, depending on control." She pointed to a notation: "Test 4: minor success, followed by uncontrolled discharge – site devastation noted." Her eyes widened. "They nearly destroyed their test site."
Connor's imagination conjured the scenario: mages around the crater, weaving a great star rune to tap its power—initial triumph as their spells magnified beyond expectation, then sudden horror as echoes of that power cascaded beyond their command, perhaps leveling their encampment. No wonder these notes were locked down here.
He gently rolled the scroll further, looking for any mention of something… else. Something alive or conscious. His gut told him the star had not just been an inert rock of power. Had something come with it? The scribbles grew frantic in later sections, the handwriting changing as if multiple researchers contributed.
"There's mention of a resonance… "malevolent echo pattern identified, origin uncertain,"" Connor muttered, squinting at a cramped line near the bottom. Before he could parse it further, a familiar whir-click came from the door's direction.
Zara spun, lantern raised. "Someone's at the lock," she hissed.
Thea quickly and carefully rolled the scroll back up. Connor felt a surge of adrenaline. Had an alarm been tripped? Or perhaps the absent automaton had a linked guardian checking on things? Either way, they had to go, now.
Thea shoved the copper-bound scroll into Zara's satchel; it barely fit but Zara secured the flap. Connor grabbed a few loose parchment sheets that had been tucked into the scroll case—supplementary notes, perhaps—and folded them into his jacket. Footsteps and muffled voices seeped through the iron door. Two people at least.
They retreated from the center of the room. Connor's mind raced for options. There was no other exit he could see. The shelves? Perhaps a hiding spot or second door? The humming star rune on the floor continued its pulse, oblivious.
Zara motioned them to the far corner behind a tall shelf. They crouched low as the door handle rattled. It was still unlocked, courtesy of Thea's earlier efforts. Connor silently cursed; they'd been too engrossed to reset the lock.
The door creaked open. Light from a bright crystal lamp flooded the chamber. Connor peeked through a gap in the shelving.
Two archivists stepped in—one older woman in a heavy robe, carrying the lamp, and behind her a younger man with a ledger. They both wore the insignia of the Scholar's Guild. Their faces went from confusion at seeing the active rune to outright alarm at noticing the unfurled scroll on the pedestal and the missing contents from shelves.
"Intruders," the older archivist hissed, hastily handing the lamp to her assistant and moving toward the central rune. She began murmuring an incantation, passing her hands over the glowing pattern as if to query it. The younger man fumbled with a whistle on a chain around his neck.
A warning whistle—to call guards. If he blew that, they were done.
Connor felt a cold spike of panic. He acted on pure instinct. From his crouch, he thrust a hand out toward the man and concentrated. A narrow, precise push—like flicking a single playing card off a deck, he imagined.
The whistle was knocked clean from the man's grasp, skittering across the floor and plunking into a far shadow. He yelped in surprise.
Zara seized the opportunity. With cat-like grace she sprang from hiding, closing the distance to the archivists in seconds. The young man barely had time to turn before the pommel of Zara's dagger struck the base of his skull. He crumpled silently to the floor.
The older archivist gasped, stumbling back from the rune. She raised a hand crackling with gathering energy—some defensive spell—but Thea emerged behind Zara and hurled a small object at the woman's feet. A cloud of fine powder exploded upward, and the archivist inhaled sharply by mistake. She coughed, arcane words dissolving on her tongue as the inhalant took hold—Thea's personal concoction, no doubt, maybe a sleep or stun powder.
Connor left the hiding spot to assist. The archivist lurched toward the door, perhaps to flee or sound an alarm herself. Connor concentrated and a gentle force pressed her back just enough for Zara to catch up and subdue the woman with an arm around her middle and dagger poised at her side.
To her credit, Zara did not harm the archivist further. She just held her firmly until the powder worked; within moments, the woman's eyelids fluttered and she slumped, unconscious. Zara eased her down next to her assistant, retrieving a coil of thin rope from her pack to bind their wrists.
Thea, coughing slightly from the residual powder, rushed to the door and shut it once more. "That will not hold them long if others come looking," she warned. Her eyes darted to the central rune, still glowing placidly. "We should deactivate that if we can—it might be some alarm or monitor."
Connor nodded and knelt by the rune. Up close, its pulsing patterns were mesmerizing. He dug deep into his memory of Asterholt's ward runes and general sigil knowledge. If this was similar to a standing ward, there would be a keystone glyph to temporarily disable it.
His gaze followed the lines until he found a small concentric circle at one star point, etched with a symbol for "rest" or "pause." That could be it. Carefully, he pressed two fingers into the circle and channeled a small thread of will, like turning a key.
The rune's glow flickered, then faded to a low steady gleam, the hum quieting. Connor felt a subtle shift in the air—as if a subtle observer had closed its eyes.
"Hells, Connor, that did it," Zara said, impressed, as darkness enveloped them apart from their own lantern. "Remind me to take you along next time I raid an archive," she added with a wink.
Despite the complexity of the situation, Connor cracked a little grin. "We make a good team."
Thea quickly rearranged the shelves to try to hide obvious gaps, though any thorough check would reveal the missing scroll. They could do little about the unconscious archivists except leave them safely bound and hope the sleep powder kept them out for a while.
With as much evidence erased as time allowed, the trio slipped back out the iron door, sealing it and engaging the lock again with Thea's tool. Then they hurried up the spiral stairs, Connor leading as he attuned for any approaching aetheric signatures.
The orrery chamber above was empty—no new guardians arrived yet, though distant clanking suggested the search might be expanding. The orrery still whirred faintly, its index projection rotating lazily. Thea took a second to withdraw her aether battery device, and the rings gradually ground to a halt, plunging the space into near-darkness again.
Zara guided them back through the corridors they had come, each of them now painfully aware of time and the weight of what they carried. Connor's heart hammered not just from fear of capture, but from exhilaration. They had done it. They had the star-run schematics—knowledge long hidden, now in their hands.
His mind buzzed with what they'd read. Amplification, echoes, resonance patterns. The hint of something malevolent stirring in that echo. He knew they had only pieces of the puzzle, but it was more than he had this morning. And it would help him understand the forces at play in his own arrival and abilities.
They retraced their path past the silent giant gears and into the old maintenance tunnels. Connor winced when they passed the spot where they'd fought the automaton earlier—its metal carcass lay strewn, and he sensed an aetheric beacon on it now, likely activated upon its destruction. But by now, it was too late for pursuers to catch them if they kept moving.
At last, a thin sliver of moonlight greeted them as they climbed a final ladder up to a disused culvert near the outer citadel wall. One by one, they emerged into the night air, gasping softly in relief.
Asterholt's skyline glittered around them, unaware of the trespass and theft that had just occurred in its underbelly. Connor helped Thea replace the heavy grate they'd slipped through and pile a bit of debris to obscure it further.
Then they ran. Through shadowed alleys and across silent courtyards, they made their way back toward the residential wing where their escapade had begun. A few patrolling guards were about, but they evaded detection using a mixture of Thea's knowledge of blind spots and Zara's keen senses.
At the low window they had jimmied open near Connor's suite, they slipped back inside the citadel proper. Only once they had closed the window behind and felt the familiar territory of the north wing halls did they stop to catch breath.
All three looked at one another in the dim corridor, sweaty, dusty, and victorious. Thea clutched the satchel to her chest, her grin wide despite a scratch on her cheek. Zara gave a low laugh of disbelief and triumph. Connor ran a hand through his hair, heart gradually slowing. We did it.
He knew the gravity of what they'd done. If caught, it could have meant severe punishment, straining Asterholt's trust in him. But as he remembered Sela's bruised form after the duel, and thought of the dangers swirling around him, he couldn't bring himself to regret it. This knowledge could be their edge, their way to keep him safe by empowering him.
They parted ways quietly in the corridor with whispered promises to reconvene soon and study their prize. Zara would hide the scroll in a safe nook in the barracks for now; Thea would inventory their notes and begin deciphering fully. Connor would rest and prepare an explanation should any alarm be raised by morning—though with any luck, they left no trail leading to them.
As Connor crept back into his suite and gently shut the door, he felt a trickle of something warm on his upper lip. He touched it—blood. A familiar nosebleed. The exertion of fine telekinesis and adrenaline had finally caught up. He grabbed a handkerchief and sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for the bleeding to stop.
His body trembled with exhaustion and the after-effects of fear, but his mind hummed with the quiet triumph of discovery. From under his jacket, he retrieved the folded extra notes he'd taken. A quick glance showed a sketch of the seven-pointed star rune and some equations. So much to dig into. But not now.
Now, he needed sleep. If tomorrow was as eventful as the past few days, he would need every bit of strength.
Before lying down, Connor allowed himself one last look at the notes by lamplight. His eyes lingered on that phrase he'd caught: "malevolent echo pattern identified, origin uncertain." A shiver traced his spine, but he set the worry aside. Knowledge was power; they would figure it out in time.
He extinguished the lamp and slid into bed, the stolen pages tucked securely under his mattress for now. His muscles ached, and new bruises from earlier scrapes made themselves known. But none of that stopped a smile from curling his lips in the darkness.
They had defied the limits placed on them and emerged with exactly what they sought. A taste of rebellion indeed—and it tasted sweet.
With that thought, Connor closed his eyes. The echoes of his bold venture seemed to reverberate softly in the night around him. Not dangerous echoes, not yet—just the promise that, through wit and daring, he and his friends could shape their destiny rather than be confined by it.
In the silence, a faint thrum sounded in his ears, like a distant star singing. Connor drifted to sleep with the sensation that he had taken one step closer to understanding the mystery that tied him to this world—and to whatever waited out there in the darkness beyond the black glass.
Chapter 14: Shattered Oaths
A blaring alarm shattered the midnight calm—two rising notes repeating urgently throughout Asterholt's corridors. Red warning crystals pulsed in the walls, painting everything in panicked crimson. Connor sprinted down a gallery of stained-glass windows, heart in his throat. Each alarm wail reverberated like a hammer in his chest. He had never heard this particular alarm before. Few had, he suspected, because it signaled the unthinkable: the city's protective wards were failing.
He skidded around a corner nearly colliding with a squad of watchwomen rushing the opposite way. One recognized him and shouted, "Sir Connor, this way! We must get you to a secure room—"
"My guardian—Captain Var?" Connor gasped, struggling to catch his breath as he jogged alongside them.
"She's at the west reactor site already," the watchwoman replied over the din. "It's sabotage. There are intruders—"
A thunderous boom rattled the floor beneath their feet. Dust rained from the ceiling. The squad leader cursed. "They've breached the reactor chamber!"
At that, Connor's blood ran cold. The western aether-reactor was one of three that powered Asterholt's great wards. If it was breached… The flickering ward lights and keening alarms told the story. Two reactors might hold the barrier for a time, but instability would spread like a crack in glass.
He had to get there—Sela was there. But the watchwomen were all but dragging him toward a side passage, intent on tucking him away in some bunker.
They rounded into an atrium near the western wing. Chaos reigned; couriers darted to and fro bearing messages, a wounded guard slumped against a pillar receiving bandage wraps from a medic, and every few seconds the building shook from distant impacts. Connor glimpsed, through a tall window, the night sky beyond the city flickering with a faint blue glow—the weakening ward membrane, visible as it ebbed.
A vice of fear clamped around his heart. If the wards fell completely, nothing would stop every lurking foe beyond the walls from pouring in—monsters, mercenaries, or worse. They had to be stabilized, and that meant securing the reactor now.
Just then, a familiar voice rang out: "Connor!" Thea emerged from a side door, hair disheveled, clutching a leather satchel and flanked by Zara, whose sword was drawn. Relief and worry warred on their faces as they rushed to him.
The watchwomen moved to block them, but Connor quickly said, "They're with me," and the guards let them through.
Zara's normally keen eyes were wild. "Sela and Brynna and a team went below to the reactor. There was an explosion—Brynna sent me to find you."
Thea pressed something into Connor's hands—his notebook and the folded star schematics they'd taken earlier that night. He realized with a start he'd left them under his mattress, and she must have fetched them en route. "If things get worse…" Thea said breathlessly, "we cannot risk losing these to fire or enemy hands."
Connor nodded, swallowing hard and tucking the precious papers inside his jacket. A profound gratitude welled that even in crisis, Thea had thought to safeguard their hard-won knowledge.
The squad leader, looking harried, interrupted. "Sir Connor, we need to move you to—"
An earthshaking crash interrupted her. The floor lurched, knocking several of them off balance. Connor grabbed a column to steady himself as a deep, bellowing roar echoed up through the stone underfoot. It sounded like metal tearing and something alive snarling all at once. Dust cascaded from a chandelier overhead and one of the stained windows cracked from the concussion.
Screams and shouts erupted down the hall. A pair of panicked civilian clerks ran by, babbling about shadowy figures breaching the barracks door. The squad of watchwomen exchanged uncertain looks; their orders were to secure Connor, but their comrades were clearly under attack.
Connor made the decision for them. He gently shrugged off the protective grip of the guard at his elbow. "Captain Var ordered me to trust in Asterholt's strength," he said to the squad leader, voice surprisingly steady. "That strength is you. Go. Help defend the barracks or the reactor or wherever you are needed. I will go with my friends here to a safe location."
The squad leader hesitated—duty to protect him warring with duty to follow the broader battle. Another distant explosion made up her mind. "May the Goddess shield you, Sir," she barked, then motioned her team to follow as she charged toward the barracks wing where clashing steel could be heard.
Just like that, Connor, Zara, and Thea stood alone in the trembling atrium. The alarms still wailed, though one sputtered and died—perhaps damaged circuits.
Zara's jaw was clenched. "The reactor is in the sub-level through there," she said, pointing to a stairwell access partially blocked by fallen plaster. "We have to reach Sela. They might be trapped."
Connor agreed, fear for Sela a persistent drumbeat in his mind. He also knew that if the reactor wasn't stabilized, all might be lost. "Let's go."
They clambered over debris and flew down the spiral stairs. Thea illuminated a small mage-light to guide them in the shaking gloom. As they descended, the air grew hot and acrid with the scent of ozone and smoke.
At the base of the stairs, a massive door of reinforced steel stood dented and partially ajar. Beyond it stretched the reactor chamber—a large cylindrical hall housing the humming, glowing core that fed the city's wards. Or rather, once hummed and glowed. Now it sputtered fitfully, its usual blue aura flickering dark.
The scene was a nightmare. The reactor core—a towering apparatus of spinning rings and crystal arrays—was cracked and listing to one side. Sparks rained from severed cables. Two of the three stabilizing pylons had been sheared clean off and lay smoking on the floor. And scattered around were the bodies of both Watch soldiers and intruders dressed in dark combat gear.
Sela was in the midst of the chamber with Brynna and Nima at her sides, facing off against a hulking figure draped in a cloak of midnight. The intruder wielded a bizarre double-bladed polearm that crackled with stolen aether energy. Even as Connor's eyes adjusted, he saw this foe swing the weapon, unleashing a crescent of crackling force at Sela's group. They dove apart as the energy blast slammed into a wall, blowing apart stone.
Assassins. Saboteurs. Connor counted two others engaging Watch soldiers near the ruined pylons. One delivered a blast of flame from some gauntlet device, keeping a cluster of Asterholt guards pinned behind a fallen slab. Another assailant was trying to pry open access panels on the reactor core itself, presumably to finish the destruction.
For a heartbeat, Connor was paralyzed by the tableau of chaos. Then he saw Sela. She was bleeding from a gash on her forehead, her left arm hanging oddly—perhaps dislocated—yet she gripped her sword one-handed, circling the cloaked attacker with calm ferocity.
Without thinking, Connor stepped forward, raising a hand toward the foe near the reactor panel. "Hey!" he shouted.
It was enough to draw the saboteur's attention. The woman turned, brandishing a pistol-like device that whined with charging energy and pointed it straight at Connor.
He reacted on instinct and training. With a thrust of his will, he created a kinetic barrier—an invisible shield—just as a bolt of green energy lanced from the pistol. The bolt struck his hastily formed shield and splashed, dissipating in a shower of sparks that singed his sleeves but left him unharmed.
Zara was already moving, darting around Connor and hurling a throwing knife at the shooter. The blade embedded in the woman's shoulder, causing her to cry out and drop the pistol.
Thea stayed slightly back, hastily drawing a chalk rune on the floor and whispering an incantation. A gust of wind—her limited mage talent—whipped forward, fanning thick smoke from a smoldering control console into the faces of the assassins.
Under this cover, Connor, Zara, and Thea pushed fully into the chamber, joining the embattled Asterholt soldiers. A nearby guard recognized Connor and shouted in alarm, "Sir, no, get back!"
But Connor had no intention of retreating. Not this time. He spotted Sela's eyes flick toward him in shock and concern. In that brief distraction, the hulking cloaked leader swung his crackling polearm at her torso. Sela barely parried with her sword, the force of it knocking her to one knee.
No more. Connor would not watch from the sidelines as those he loved bled for him.
He thrust out both hands and summoned all the focus he could muster. He remembered the star-sigil diagrams, the interlocking flows of force. Push and pull, together, directed as one.
The massive metal gate by which they had entered was partially off its track, hanging precariously. Connor seized it with his mind—its weight was immense, but anger and adrenaline lent him strength. With a guttural yell, he wrenched the gate off its remaining hinge.
The chamber shook as the steel door screeched and flew, not in one direction but two—Connor's power both pulling and pushing in a controlled arc. The door slammed down between Sela's group and the polearm assassin, forcing him back, and simultaneously slid to block the corridor from which two more enemy reinforcements were just appearing. An improvised wall and battering ram in one move.
The exertion made Connor's vision swim. He felt hot liquid trickle from his nostrils—blood, again. But it worked. The reinforcements on the far side of the fallen gate banged on it in frustration, temporarily shut out. The cloaked leader stumbled from the impact, his polearm's energy discharge skittering wild and harmless.
Seizing the moment, Brynna lunged from hiding and drove her spear into the leg of the cloaked assassin. He roared in pain. Sela, rising once more, yelled "Yield!" even as she pressed her sword to his back.
Perhaps realizing the tide had turned, the leader snarled something in a foreign tongue and depressed a switch on his belt. A sphere on his hip began to emit smoke and sparks—clearly some emergency escape device or last resort.
"Down!" Sela shouted, tackling Brynna away as the sphere exploded into a blinding flash of light and billowing smoke.
When Connor blinked his eyes open, the cloaked assassin was gone—retreated back through the smoke towards the jammed gate where his allies pulled it open enough to drag him out. The other saboteurs, seeing their leader's withdrawal and the arrival of more Watch reinforcements from behind Connor, likewise fell back. One threw a final charge at the reactor core—it exploded against the already damaged machinery, causing the lights to flicker, but the core still hummed faintly. Not quite dead.
Then they were gone, melting into the maintenance corridors, with only groans of the injured and the crackle of small fires remaining.
Connor sagged against a shattered pylon, suddenly aware of how much his entire body hurt. Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt. His head throbbed. But they had repelled the attack.
Sela was on her feet, issuing orders between coughs. "Secure the chamber! Get coolant on that core now!" Technicians rushed to obey, spraying foam and stabilizing sigils on the reactor to keep it from meltdown. Nima and others hurried to hoist the heavy gate fully back and pursue the fleeing saboteurs.
Brynna was at Sela's side, holding her upright by the uninjured arm. Sela's gaze searched through the haze until it found Connor. It was a mix of relief, fury, and pride that flashed in her eyes.
Connor managed a weak smile and raised a trembling hand in a little wave of reassurance. His ears rang and the room pitched slightly—he realized belatedly he might collapse.
Thea appeared, supporting him from one side, Zara from the other. "Easy," Thea murmured, guiding him to sit on a fallen beam. "Deep breaths."
He leaned his head back, focusing on inhaling the sooty air slowly. The bleeding from his nose was slowing, at least.
Footsteps approached and Sela knelt in front of him. Her face was bruised and streaked with grime, and anger radiated from her. Yet her touch was feather-light as she placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You… reckless… infuriating boy," she rasped, voice thick with emotion. "Are you alright?"
Connor let out a breathy laugh that turned into a cough. "I will be."
They locked eyes, an entire conversation passing silently. She pulled him into a brief, fierce hug, then released him as he hissed—he hadn't realized until that moment that his ribs were bruised from earlier.
They exchanged a glance of understanding, and she went to speak with Saloma while medics swarmed the room. Connor watched her go, vision a little blurry, and allowed his eyes to drift closed.
The last thing he heard before fainting was Sela's voice calling his name, half-panicked, half-relieved that they had all survived.
He carried that voice into the darkness, clinging to it like a lifeline.