King Borin Stonehand's words hung in the air, heavier than the mountain above them. The accusation was a trap, laid with the blunt precision of a master statesman. He had not just identified Elara; he had framed their entire presence as an insult.
Elara did not flinch. She rose from her bow, meeting the King's gaze with a composure that made Kaelen's heart swell with admiration.
"Your Majesty," she began, her voice clear and resonant in the vast hall. "I am not here as my father's commodity. I am here as a scholar, to speak of a threat to your kingdom that transcends the petty politics of marriage alliances. The tremors in your Deep-Ways are not the mountain's anger. They are a sickness in the world's foundation."
A low murmur rippled through the unseen courtiers and guards in the shadowed hall. The King's expression did not change, but his grip on his warhammer tightened slightly.
"A bold diagnosis, girl," he boomed. "My best engineers, who have carved lives from stone for three centuries, say it is unstable rock and dying enchantments. You, who have never set foot in a Deep-Way, claim to know better?"
"I claim to have a different lens," Elara countered, gracefully sidestepping the challenge to her experience. "The old texts speak of a time when the earth was firm, when the very concept of 'collapse' was held at bay by more than just well-laid stone and strong Glyphs. That fundamental stability is fraying. Not just here, but everywhere. And we believe we can prove it."
She gestured to Kaelen. "My associate, Kaelen, possesses a unique sensitivity. He cannot explain it, but he can feel the stresses in the world, the places where reality itself… strains. He is like a dowser, but for metaphysical fractures. With your permission, he can demonstrate. Let him read the song of your mountain, here in this secure hall. Let him find a flaw in your own, impeccable stonework—a flaw your masons cannot see, because it is not in the stone, but in the Aether that binds it."
It was a breathtaking gamble. To suggest that the dwarves' masterwork, the very Hall of Ancestors, could be imperfect was near blasphemy.
The King's flinty eyes shifted to Kaelen. The weight of that gaze was physical, a pressure that made the Echo in Kaelen's soul flutter. He felt like a specimen under a lens.
"A 'sensitive'?" the King rumbled, skepticism dripping from the word. "Very well, boy. Perform your trick. Show me a crack in the foundation of my power. But know this," he leaned forward slightly, and the Aether around him seemed to harden. "If you insult this hall with lies, the mountain will be your tomb."
Lyra, standing rigidly beside him, gave a nearly imperceptible nod. It was all the encouragement he would get.
Kaelen took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, shutting out the intimidating grandeur of the hall, the pressure of the King's stare, and his own terror. He found the foundational C-sharp of the Echo and aligned himself with it, slipping fully into Aether-Sight.
The hall erupted into a cathedral of light. The pillars were rivers of solidified, structured Aether. The throne was a vortex of immense, calm power. The King himself was a sun of deep, earthy energy. It was almost too much to bear. He forced himself to focus, not on the overwhelming whole, but on the details. He listened past the grand symphony, searching for a single, discordant note.
He turned slowly, his senses stretching through the stone. He could feel the perfect, interlocking web of enchantments that held the mountain at bay, the incredibly complex Scriptology that made the carved stone stronger than adamantine. It was flawless.
Panic began to creep in. What if there was no flaw? What if Elara was wrong?
Then, he felt it. Not a crack, not a break. A faint, persistent weariness. It was in the far western wall, near the ceiling. A section of the Aetheric matrix, a Glyph of Binding laid millennia ago, was… tired. The flow of power through it was thin, anemic. It wasn't failing, not yet. But it was like an old, frayed rope in a network of steel cables, holding on through sheer habit. It was a note that was ever so slightly flat, a vibration that had lost its full resonance.
He opened his eyes, the world snapping back to mundane reality. He pointed a trembling finger towards the spot, high up on the western wall where the shadows were deep.
"There," he said, his voice hoarse. "Not a crack. A… fading. A Glyph of Binding, the third from the left in the seventh row from the floor. Its heart is weak. The Aether flows around it, not through it. It's been that way for a long time, maybe a century. It hasn't failed only because the spells around it are so strong they carry its weight."
A profound silence filled the hall. The King stared at him, his expression unreadable. He made a subtle gesture with his free hand.
From the shadows, an ancient dwarf with a long white beard and robes covered in chalk-dust emerged. He was followed by two younger apprentices carrying a complex device of brass lenses and crystal rods. Without a word, the old dwarf—clearly the Royal Artificer—set up the device, peering through it at the spot Kaelen had indicated. He adjusted dials, and the crystals glowed, projecting a complex, shimmering pattern of Aetheric flow onto the wall.
The Artificer studied the projection for a long, tense minute. He then turned to the King, his face a mask of astonishment.
"The boy… is correct, Your Majesty," the old dwarf said, his voice full of wonder. "The Primary Binding Glyph in that sector has been operating at less than five percent efficiency for decades. We never detected it because the secondary and tertiary enchantments have compensated perfectly. But it is a point of failure. A slow leak in a mighty dam."
The silence that followed was different. The hostility was gone, replaced by a shocked, calculating quiet.
King Borin Stonehand leaned back on his throne, his flinty eyes fixed on Kaelen with a new, intense interest. The suspicion was still there, but it was now mingled with a grudging, formidable respect.
"A 'sensitive'," the King repeated, the word now laden with new meaning. He turned his gaze to Elara. "You offer to find such… weariness… in my Deep-Ways?"
"We offer to map them," Elara said, her voice confident with vindication. "To find every frayed thread in the tapestry of your kingdom's stability. And I offer my knowledge of Scriptology to help your Artificers devise a way to re-weave them."
The King was silent for a long time, his fingers stroking his white beard. The fate of their mission, and possibly their lives, hung in the balance.
Finally, he spoke, his voice echoing through the hall.
"Very well. You have my attention. And my conditional trust. Thrain!" he barked.
The Gate-Thane stepped forward and bowed. "Your Majesty."
"Take them to the Hall of Records. Give them access to the maps of the compromised Deep-Ways. You will have one week," he said, his eyes boring into Elara and then Kaelen. "One week to prove your value is greater than your trouble. Do not make me regret the mercy of the mountain."
The audience was over. They had passed the first, impossible test. But as they were led from the hall, Kaelen knew the real trial was just beginning. They had to venture into the dark, unstable places where the Earth-Anchor's power was failing, and he would have to listen for the sound of a world coming undone.