Binah moves ahead of me, silent as ever, her pale figure barely visible in the dim glow that seems to emanate from the walls themselves.
The path narrows, the smooth stone giving way to jagged edges carved with shifting glyphs. I reach out instinctively, letting my fingertips brush the surface, and immediately regret it. The glyphs ripple at my touch, their shapes writhing like living things before settling into patterns that feel like a language I should understand but do not.
"Where are you taking me?" My voice sounds too loud in the oppressive silence, but I cannot stop myself from asking.
Binah does not respond. Yet her head tilts slightly, as though acknowledging my question, but she does not slow. The sound of her steps—soft and measured—is the only answer I receive.
The passage ends abruptly at a smooth, unmarked wall. For a moment, I think we have reached a dead end, but Binah steps forward, placing her hand flat against the stone. The air shifts, carrying with it a faint vibration that hums through my bones. The wall ripples like water, the stone dissolving to reveal a door-shaped void of perfect blackness.
Binah turns her head slightly, her violet eyes catching the faint light of the corridor. No words are exchanged, yet her meaning is clear. Follow.
I take a deep breath and step through.
The air beyond the door is warmer, richer, and it carries with it the faint scent of human presence. I emerge into a narrow corridor, its walls carved with intricate patterns that seem to glow faintly, though no light source is visible. Binah moves ahead, her pace quickening, and I hurry to keep up.
The corridor opens into a wide chamber, and I freeze as my eyes take it in.
Below me lies the Stratarchy.
It is vast and imposing, an amphitheater carved from black stone that gleams faintly in the low light. Rows of elevated platforms encircle a central dais, where Titus stands. The insignia of House Azure—the Qilin—looms behind him, etched into the back wall in intricate detail. The air hums faintly, a subtle vibration that seems to come from the stone itself.
I step closer to the edge of the chamber, peering through a lattice screen that conceals me from view. Officials stand below, each draped in dark robes, their torqs catching the faint light as they move. Titus stands at the center, his presence commanding, his voice carrying through the chamber with a calm authority that makes my chest tighten.
"Something is rotten in Malkiel."
Titus's voice rings out, commanding silence. The faint hum of the Stratarchy seems to pause with him, the stone walls absorbing the sound as if they too are listening. Below the dais, the gathered officials stiffen, their faces shadowed by the faint glow of their torqs. A flicker of unease passes through the assembly, glances exchanged like whispers in the dark. No one speaks.
"The attack at the Festival of Retrospection should have been unthinkable," Titus continues, his tone sharper than a drawn blade. "An Eidolon gone mad. Do you comprehend the weight of those words? Kynar, forged in the fires of discipline, tempered by the Zarath and the Collegium, shattered like fragile glass. And yet, do you think that was the disease?"
He steps forward, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His gaze sweeps the room, cold and assessing. "No. It was the symptom."
The silence is shattered by faint murmurs, hesitant whispers that ripple through the assembly like a gathering storm. One of the officials, their head bowed low, takes a tentative step forward. "My Qilin, are you suggesting that—"
"I am suggesting nothing." Titus's voice slices through the air, cutting off the question before it can fully form. He straightens, his shoulders squared, his presence filling the vast chamber. "I am stating what you all already know but refuse to face. The rot is here. Within our walls. It festers in our institutions, our traditions, and yes, even in us."
The officials' discomfort becomes palpable, the weight of his words pressing down on them as they avert their gazes. Titus's voice hardens, the edge of command laced with something more—disdain.
"Kynar was not a lone aberration. He was proof that something in Malkiel has faltered. Proof that we have allowed weakness to creep into the very heart of our power."
My breath catches. Titus's words seem to carry a weight beyond the moment, beyond the walls of this chamber. My grip on the lattice tightens, my knuckles whitening as I watch him. There is something terrifying in the clarity of his voice, in the undeniable truth of what he says.
One of the officials, a woman with silver streaks in her hair, raises her head. Her voice trembles slightly, though she tries to keep it steady. "My Qilin, the Mere and the Collegium's methods remain the most rigorous—"
The Mere. The mention of it sends a jolt through me. Tomorrow, I will leave for that place.
"Lies!" Titus shouts, cutting her off. "You speak to me of rigor? Our forebears would laugh at what we have become."
He pauses, letting the silence stretch, the weight of his words settling over them like a shroud. Then, with a short, bitter laugh, he continues, "Today alone, I have had half a dozen mothers come weeping to me about deaths during the First Baptism. Deaths during the First Baptism! Imagine it." He lets the words hang in the air, his voice dripping with disdain. "What is this if not proof of how far we have fallen?"
The officials stir uneasily, their unease bleeding into the room like a rising tide. Titus steps forward, his shadow stretching across the chamber, and his voice drops to a dangerous calm.
"We have seen what happens when weakness is allowed to grow and fester. Madness. Destruction. A single crack, and the entire foundation begins to crumble."
Another official bows deeply, their voice careful. "What would you have us do, my Qilin?"
The question lingers in the air, the words fragile against the rising tension. Titus lets it hang, his gaze sweeping across the room as if weighing each of them in turn. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, but it carries no less authority.
"We will go back to the old ways." His words fall like stones into a still pool, rippling through the chamber. "We excise the rot. No longer will our young be protected. No longer will weakness find shelter within our walls."
His gaze sharpens, and he raises his hand, pointing toward the assembled officials. "Wherever we find it. In our enemies. In our allies. In ourselves. It will be purged."
The silence is deafening, the air in the chamber heavy with unspoken fear and resolve. Titus lowers his hand, his tone softening, though it remains unyielding. "Ambition without discipline is dangerous, yes—but so is fear disguised as caution."
He takes a breath, his expression unreadable, and his voice rises again, carrying the weight of a command that cannot be refused. "We act. We rise. Or we fall."
The words echo through the Stratarchy, resonating in the stone itself, and for a moment, no one moves.
From my vantage point, I cannot breathe. The lattice feels like a lifeline beneath my fingers, the pressure of my grip the only thing keeping me tethered. Titus's words ring in my ears, undeniable in their clarity, and the weight of them settles over me like a mantle I am not sure I am ready to bear.
Below, the officials bow in unison, their voices murmuring an oath I cannot hear. One by one, they retreat, their robes whispering against the stone as they vanish into shadowed corridors.
And then, the chamber is empty.
Titus remains on the dais, unmoving. The silence stretches, a heavy thing that seems to press against the stone itself. Slowly, his tired eyes lift, scanning the shadows, and come to rest exactly where I hide.
Shock jolts through me, sharp and electric. For an instant, I cannot breathe, my hand frozen on the lattice. Can he see me? The question burns through my mind, absurd and impossible, but the weight of his gaze does not falter.
I stumble back, away from the peephole, my pulse hammering in my ears. The air seems to crackle around me, as though the very stones hum with awareness. Then a shadow moves behind me, and before I can turn—
A thick palm grips my shoulder.
It is not a pull, but a forceful shove, spinning me around. I stagger, my boots skidding against the smooth stone, disoriented as a towering figure looms before me. Titus. Here, in the narrow corridor. My chest tightens, my breath catching.
How?
He says nothing at first, his face unreadable. His hand still rests on my shoulder, impossibly steady, holding me in place with ease. His gaze is sharp, heavy, and the weight of it freezes me.
"Eavesdropping?" His voice is low, almost calm, but there is no mistaking the edge beneath it. "Bold, even for you."
"I—" My voice falters, my throat dry. "I was not—"
"Spare me." He cuts me off with a gesture, his tone clipped. "If you wanted to know what I am planning, perhaps you should have asked."
The Codicil on his forehead begins to glow. The silvery-white mark, usually faint against his skin, blazes to life with a cool blue radiance, the light pulsing subtly in time with each breath. The intricate geometric patterns surrounding the almond-shaped third eye illuminate, revealing designs that seem to shift and rearrange, mirroring the shifting architecture of Malkiel itself. It is a sight both mesmerizing and terrifying, a tangible manifestation of his authority.
Titus's lips part, and words spill forth—not words, not truly, but sounds ancient and incomprehensible. Each syllable reverberates through the air, the Codicil's glow intensifying with every utterance.
The corridor groans, and space fractures behind him. The air splits, tearing apart with a screech that reverberates deep in my bones. The portal that forms is not a clean thing; its edges burn and twist, curling like the edges of scorched parchment. Through it, I glimpse another world: a vast, frostbitten plain under a bleeding sky of amber and gold.
The portal pulses, its edges alive, rippling as if eager to devour. Without warning, Titus grips my arm, his fingers unyielding as stone. The stones beneath us crack as the power surges through him, raw and terrifying.
With a single motion, he pulls me forward, and the portal devours us. The last thing I see is the Codicil on his forehead, its patterns blazing with impossible complexity, before we are swallowed whole.