The crackling energy leaped from Elara's fingertips, not as a focused lance, but as a wild, uncontrolled whip of blue-white lightning. It struck the stone floor just to the left of the kneeling boy, scorching a black fissure into the marble. The concussion of sound and force threw the boy sideways. He curled into a ball, sobbing.
Silence, heavy and stunned, filled the Hall of Judgment.
Elara stood panting, her hand still outstretched, the residual energy dancing over her skin like dying embers. She hadn't aimed at him. At the last, impossible second, she had wrenched her will sideways. The anger had been real, but the target had been the floor, the impersonal stone of Orion's tyranny.
Orion watched her, his expression unreadable. General Rigel's smirk had vanished, replaced by a scowl of disapproval. Captain Lyra, standing guard at the door, had her hand on her weapon, her silver eyes wide.
The prisoner, realizing he wasn't dead or mind-shattered, peeked through his fingers.
Orion descended the final step until he stood over the scorch mark, then looked up at Elara. "A miss," he stated, his voice devoid of its earlier predatory coaxing. It was flat, analytical.
"I… couldn't," Elara whispered, her arm dropping limply to her side. The backlash of redirecting such volatile power left her feeling hollow and nauseous.
"You chose not to," Orion corrected. He walked to the boy and crouched, his movements fluid and unnerving. "The power was there. You directed it away. An act of mercy, or of weakness?" He didn't touch the boy, but his presence was a weight. "Who were you signaling in Lyria?"
The boy, emboldened by survival or broken beyond fear, spat a name—a young woman's name, a baker's daughter. A plausible, mundane love story. It could be a lie, but it was perfectly crafted for the cover he'd claimed.
Orion studied him for a long moment, then stood. "Take him to the reclamation cells. One week of sensory deprivation. Then reassign him to the forges. His resilience may be of use." The sentence was grim, but it wasn't execution. The boy was dragged away, still trembling.
Orion turned his full attention back to Elara. "You failed the lesson."
"You asked me to torture an innocent boy!"
"I asked you to uncover truth. The method was irrelevant. You allowed sentiment to override purpose." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "That sentiment leaves a stain, Elara. Not on the marble. On you. When you summon power, you must commit to its use. Hesitation creates feedback. It weakens you. It leaves you vulnerable." His eyes seemed to see the shaking in her limbs, the sickly pallor of her skin. "You have damaged yourself tonight. Not with the power, but with the refusal."
He was right. A strange, cold numbness was spreading from her core, a bone-deep fatigue that felt more spiritual than physical. It was as if the aborted act had poisoned her from the inside.
"Return to your spire," Orion commanded, not unkindly, but with finality. "Rest. You will need your strength. The moon-cycle's turn is in two nights. There will be a celestial alignment. I intend for you to attempt to harness its energy. It will require clarity of will, not conflict."
He knew about the moon-cycle's turn. Of course he did. It was a major astronomical event. But his mention of it sent a jolt of terror through her. Was it a coincidence, or a warning?
Captain Lyra escorted her back. In the silent transit tube, the guard spoke, her voice barely audible. "You defied a direct order from the Star-King. In front of his General. That was either very brave or very stupid."
"What will he do?" Elara asked, her own voice thin.
"He will teach you a harder lesson," Lyra said, her silver gaze fixed ahead. "He always does."
Back in the Spire, Elara collapsed. The "stain" Orion mentioned felt real—a greasy, cold shadow clinging to her spirit. She tried to summon the familiar coil of anger, but it felt distant, blunted. She tried to focus on the love for her family, for Kaelen, to activate her other magic, but the memory of the terrified boy's face intruded, tainting the emotion with guilt.
She was adrift, her connection to both magics fouled.
Sleep, when it came, was haunted. She dreamed of the forge worker burning, his scream merging with the sobs of the young custodian. She dreamed of Orion's hand on her shoulder, not as ice, but as a brand.
She woke to a grey, listless dawn. Nissa brought food and a medicinal tonic. "From the King's own apothecary," the maid said. "For magical strain."
The tonic helped the physical fatigue, but the spiritual stain remained. As the day wore on, Elara fought through the numbness. She had to. The moon-cycle's turn was tomorrow night. Kaelen and Gryffin were risking everything. She had to be able to use her magic, at least her secret love-magic, to listen, to help, maybe even to reach them.
Focusing was agony. Every time she tried to tap into an emotion, the memory of her failure in the Hall flashed, severing the connection. Despair began to set in.
That afternoon, an unexpected visitor was permitted: High Scholar Sirius. The elderly Celestial-born entered her spire, leaning on a staff of polished nebula-wood. His kind eyes took in her state.
"The King is concerned," Sirius said gently, seating himself on a floating disc. "Your… setback."
"I'm fine," Elara lied, her voice dull.
"The interaction of will and magic is a delicate thing," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "Especially for a nascent talent. To command a power, you must first understand its source. Your anger. It comes from a sense of injustice, yes? Of violation."
She nodded, wary.
"A powerful source. But also a chaotic one. To shape it, you must find the still point within the storm. The core of the injustice, not just the heat of it." He studied her. "The boy in the Hall. The injustice was his treatment, yes? But the core was the King's demand that you become the instrument. Your anger was at your own subjugation as much as his. You tried to wield a tool meant to break your chains against another prisoner, and it rebelled. The magic knew it was being turned against its own purpose."
His words were like a key turning in a rusty lock. He understood. More than Orion's cold calculus or Solarius's utilitarian view, this old scholar saw the conflict within the power itself.
"How do I fix it?" she asked, a sliver of hope piercing the numbness.
"You must reconcile the purpose. Your anger-magic is a weapon of defense, of defiance. It will not be a tool of oppression. You must accept that limitation, or you will break it—and yourself." He stood, his joints creaking. "The other power… the one that reacts to softer things. Nurture it. It is less likely to turn on you." He gave her a long, deep look that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom. "The moon will turn tomorrow. Alignments offer clarity. Seek yours."
He left, his words a lifeline. Your anger-magic is a weapon of defense, of defiance. He had given her permission, in a way, for what she had done. And he had implicitly acknowledged her second magic.
Following his advice, she abandoned trying to force the anger. Instead, she sat by the crystal wall and focused on the softest, purest memory she could find: her mother singing a star-song lullaby, her father's hand, rough and warm, holding hers as a child. The love for them, uncomplicated by recent pain.
Slowly, like a flower pushing through frozen ground, the connection returned. The crystal clouded. She saw her mother, not in the present, but in that memory, smiling down at her. The love washed through her, clean and warm, scouring away some of the greasy stain of the failed interrogation.
Her magic was healing. But it was changed. The love-key still worked, but it now carried a faint, sorrowful echo, a reminder of what it had cost to preserve it.
---
The day of the moon-cycle's turn arrived. The palace was abuzz with a different energy. Celestial-born nobles discussed the best viewing points; the aesthetic beauty of the eclipse was a major social event. For Elara, it was a day of silent, frantic preparation.
She had to get to Vent Shaft G-Seven. But how? Her evening movements were restricted. Orion expected her to join him at the Grand Observatory for the alignment, to "harness its energy." That was her only sanctioned reason to be out.
She needed a diversion.
As dusk fell, Nissa helped her into a gown suitable for the observatory—dark blue, scattered with tiny, luminous pearls that mimicked the pre-eclipse sky. Elara's mind raced. She had no allies, no tools. Only her two magics, one wounded and defensive, the other melancholic but functional.
Orion came for her himself. He seemed in a contemplative mood. "The alignment will focus celestial energy like a lens," he explained as they walked through the now-familiar grand corridors. "I want you to try and draw from it, not from your own emotions. To channel ambient power. It is the next step."
They reached the Grand Observatory, a dome of clear crystal at the highest point of the palace. Many of the Conclave were already there, sipping starwine and chatting. Lady Vega smiled poisonously at her. Lord Solarius nodded, his forge-fire eyes thoughtful. High Scholar Sirius offered a gentle smile.
The two moons were already visible in the darkening sky—the large, silvery orb of Luna Major and the smaller, reddish disk of Luna Minor, creeping slowly toward their celestial kiss.
Orion led Elara to a clear spot in the center of the observatory floor. "When the eclipse is total, the energy will peak. Be ready."
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. The eclipse would last ten minutes. The G-Seven meeting was scheduled for the moment of totality, when attention would be focused skyward. She had to be gone before then.
Think. Think.
She looked around, her love-magic subtly active, seeking connections, weaknesses. She felt the strong, cold cord of energy that was Orion beside her. She felt the various brilliant, often hostile, auras of the nobles. And then, she felt something small, warm, and familiar—a flicker of fear and determination, moving through the lower levels. Kaelen. He was on the move.
The moons inched closer. The tension in the observatory was a palpable hum of anticipation.
Elara had an idea. A desperate, dangerous idea.
As the first sliver of Luna Major began to vanish behind Luna Minor, she turned to Orion. "I feel… dizzy. The energy is already so strong." She let her legs wobble, putting a hand to her forehead.
Orion caught her arm, his grip firm. "It is expected. Breathe through it."
"I need a moment. Some air. Not here, with everyone…" She gestured weakly toward a small, side balcony used for instrument calibration.
He studied her face. She poured all her genuine anxiety about the coming meeting, her fear of him, into her expression. It wasn't hard.
"Very well. Captain Lyra, accompany her. Two minutes."
Perfect. One guard was easier than a room full of nobles.
Lyra followed her onto the narrow, deserted balcony. The wind was stronger here, whipping Elara's hair. Below, the palace fell away in a dizzying cliff of crystal and metal.
"What are you doing?" Lyra asked, her voice low and suspicious.
Elara turned to her, the despair and determination real in her eyes. "I can't do what he wants. Not again. Not after the Hall." She was playing on the guard's earlier, almost-imperceptible hint of… not sympathy, but recognition of defiance.
Lyra's silver eyes narrowed. "You have no choice."
"There's always a choice," Elara whispered, echoing Orion's own words back in the training chamber. Then, she acted.
She didn't use her anger-magic. She used her love-magic, but not to see or to manipulate matter. She focused it on Lyra, not as an attack, but as an impression. She pushed the memory of the terrified custodian boy, the feeling of her own shame and violation, the cold stain of it—not as a weapon, but as a shared experience. A moment of understood humanity between a prisoner and her jailer.
Lyra stiffened. A flicker of something—pain? memory?—crossed her impassive face. Her hand went to her temple. "What… what was that?"
"The truth," Elara breathed. "That's what he really wants to crush."
In that moment of Lyra's disorientation, Elara did the unthinkable. She grabbed the guard's wrist and, with all her strength, pulled herself over the balcony railing.
Lyra gasped, lurching forward to grab her. But Elara wasn't falling. She had one foot on a tiny decorative ledge, her fingers clinging to the railing's underside. She was hanging off the observatory, hidden from view from inside.
"Are you insane?!" Lyra hissed, leaning over.
"Cover for me. Five minutes. Say I was sick, that you took me to a fresher room. Please." Elara's eyes locked with hers, pleading, the shared impression of violation still hanging between them. "For the boy in the Hall."
Lyra stared at her, a war raging behind her silver eyes. Duty versus a spark of something else. The moons slid closer to totality.
With a sharp, frustrated curse, Lyra straightened. "If you fall, you were never here," she muttered, and turned, walking back into the observatory. Elara heard her voice, cool and steady, report, "The energy surge was too much. She became ill. I've taken her to an antechamber to recover."
No one questioned the Captain of the Guard.
Heart in her throat, Elara began to move, spider-like, along the narrow ledge. She had memorized the palace exterior from her spire. She knew the ventilation intake for the lower sectors was a hundred feet down and over. A sheer, impossible climb.
But she wasn't relying on strength. She placed her palm against the cold crystal wall, focusing on the love for Kaelen, for her family, for the hope of escape. She poured the emotion into the palace structure, not to thin it, but to ask it.
Show me the way. Help me.
The crystal under her palm grew warm. A faint, phosphorescent path, visible only to her magically-attuned sight, shimmered into existence on the wall—a tracery of ancient stress fractures, minute ledges, and magnetic conduit lines she could use as handholds. It was a secret map, laid bare by her need and her magic.
With tears of relief and terror freezing on her cheeks, Elara began the descent, following the ghostly path down the sheer face of Astralis, under the cold light of the eclipsing moons.