He placed the foot not where the light invited but where the draft forgot to exist. The question in the floor remembered it was timber and order. He crossed.
The pane bowed, punctilious as a clerk who likes a neat column.
[SEQ] Trial — Clear.
[SEQ] Reward: Confluence — Umbral — Black (Grade II).
[SEQ] Bonus: Gate preview — Shadow Jump (I) [Locked: Hidden Quest].
Power did not slam him. He didn't trust slamming. It arrived as recalibration: pool deeper by a ladle; regen losing its shyness; Authority ready to obey if he spoke softly enough; Umbra Bind's threshold shifting a hair in his favor. Night Veil lay on him like a coat adjusted by someone who had watched him leave a room and decided his shoulders were honest.
In the corner of the room-that-wasn't, two shadows agreed for a heartbeat—the sense of a short door opening where there wasn't one. The preview winked and tucked itself away.
He let the trial fold itself back into floorboards and air. Bed: convinced of its job. Window: remembering rain. Chair: loyal in its squeak. He climbed back into his life as neatly as you fold a map.
Sequana noticed without speaking. Rivers are good at that.
—
Morning hired the ordinary. Patricia leaned on the kettle with the serenity of a woman who had forgiven boiling. Christian tapped a lamp cage and pretended tapping lamps was a philosophy. Thibault unfolded a paper into a map of errands and into a stage for narration at once.
Grade II felt like the same arithmetic with a better pencil.
They set out early for the open market, baskets and blameless faces in tow. The market made a sound like knives doing the right work. Stalls exhaled onions and leather and soap that lied about regret. The sky tried for blue and achieved intention.
The relic seller had chosen a corner where foot traffic agreed to complicate itself. His table promised miracles the way theater promises honesty. From wire hooks hung a rosary that had definitely witnessed weeping, a spoon that wanted to be called Roman, a brass key proud of never finding its lock. A framed card read REGISTRE OFFICIEL — RELIQUES & EFFETS in letters that had borrowed authority from the wrong desk.
Michelle materialized with ink-fingered hands and pamphlets arrayed like knives. "That card isn't sanctioned," she said conversationally. "It's a face trying on a better life."
The man smiled the way men smile at the idea of girls with knives. "It's for customer comfort," he said, and pressed a seal-stamp onto a scrap: SYNDIC. His left hand palmed a second seal—PRÉFECTURE—less practiced, ink still wet. Multiplication: Syndic times Prefecture equals legitimacy.
"Watch the left," Thomas said, too quiet for anyone but Michelle to hear.
She breathed a tidy hah. "Rules with two fathers," she murmured. "How modern."
A disturbance rolled in from the lane: someone shouted Poche!; a woman lurched; a barrow of blood oranges seized the chance to prophesy and chose random. The barrow began a bright disaster.
Thomas moved before the market could bruise. Not at people—he mistrusted that—but at objects that had signed contracts with balance. He pressed a stay into the right wheel, a pivot into the left, a shallow-arc into the handle's moment, patience into the oranges.
The barrow wheeled an unwilling semicircle and collided with nothing important. Oranges practiced containment. One rebel orange flew at eye-level, a bright opinion disrespecting optics. He stepped through what the corridor had taught—Breath-Then-Step—and gave it a new sentence with his palm. The orange landed with dignity.
A pane arrived like a clerk who enjoys good paperwork.
[SEQ] Ledger — Collateral prevented: + 1 Credit (minor).
[SEQ] Authority (I) — Progress (3/3) → Authority (I) Unlocked.
Unlocked felt like permission rather than power. He preferred it that way.
The Prefecture inspector assigned to the market—a woman with boots that respected puddles—drifted toward the relic stall just as the seller tried to bless himself with both seals at once. Michelle chose a route that left dignity intact. "Madame Inspectrice," she said, respectful, "this vendor's registre is enthusiastic. Perhaps he would relish the certainty of a proper inspection?"
"Perhaps he would," the inspector agreed, lifting the card by one corner to watch the wet ink blush.
They left before administrative gravity increased. Christian peeled toward metalwork; Patricia purchased vegetables on a philosophy; Thibault collected jokes like receipts. Michelle walked beside Thomas with her head tilted the tiny degree that meant you did a thing I noticed. She flipped the brass key and caught it. "Keys open doors," she said. "Sometimes where doors will be." She dropped it into his palm. "Hold this until I'm smarter."
They didn't get far before a Syndic clerk found a crate and climbed it for height. "Citizens," he called, vowels very sure of themselves, "a cooperative order is being drafted for the regulation of unusual abilities. Licenses will—"
The license speech was losing efficacy in a city that had heard versions since kings practiced weather. The clerk chose a family—too neat, too polite—to demonstrate voluntary enthusiasm. They had not agreed. The crowd's math tilted.
Thomas squeezed Thibault's sleeve twice: Stop. He pressed not at the clerk but at the crate's loud knot—remember soft—and at a slat beneath the left heel—warp—and at the stack of forms—weight to the wrong side. The clerk folded gently into himself and his papers. A child laughed. The family vanished down an aisle that did not exist until they needed it.
The inspector, arriving with perfect timing, said, "Careful. There are edges under the feet of anyone who stands on a crate." The clerk's dignity began to consider co-ops.
Michelle touched Thomas's wrist once, not thanks so much as acknowledgement. "You opened the right door," she said. "Keep doing that."
Thomas palmed the key. It weighed more than brass—like a promissory note in metal.
He would discover where it fit soon enough.
—
They took the long way home because you should. Streets collect what you allow them. Thomas let the day arrange itself into a ledger line he could live with.
Back at the apartment, he stood between lamp and wall and found the place where two shadows agreed. The gate preview in his bones hummed. Not yet, he told it. Good tricks are not currency; they are savings.
Sequana moved under the floorboards like a current under a map. The pane waited until his hands were clean and his breath had nothing to prove.
[SEQ] Confluence — Umbral — Black (Grade II) [stable].
[SEQ] Hint: Two shadows in agreement + witness → Hidden Quest advances.
"Witness?" he asked the air.
"Try me," Thibault said from the doorway, proving that brothers hear questions you don't say aloud.
"Soon," Thomas said. He meant it. Doors should be opened in good company.
Outside, the river thought about rain. Inside, the house decided it would suit them all to last a long time. He counted the corners that never caused trouble and slept as if kept promises made better pillows.