The sunlight filters through the small window, casting a golden glow across the simple but comfortable chamber that has become my gilded cage. I lie on the bed, fingers absently tracing the unfamiliar embroidery along the collar of my new tunic—an elegant pattern of interlocking geometric shapes that likely marks me as an imperial channeler-in-training. The fabric is finer than anything I’ve worn since arriving in this world, soft against my skin and perfectly fitted, as if someone measured me while I slept. In another life, I might have appreciated such luxury.

  Instead, my thoughts race in desperate circles, searching for some way to delay my impending transfer to the capital. The old man’s enthusiasm for my abilities—his certainty that the Imperial Academy would want me immediately—hangs over me like an executioner’s axe. Every hour that passes is an hour further from finding Mairi and the others, an hour in which they might be captured, or worse, might come to believe I’ve abandoned them. The thought of them searching for me through the dangerous streets while I’m whisked away to some distant city makes my stomach clench with a sickening combination of guilt and fear.

  I roll onto my side, staring at the bland stone wall as I mentally catalog and discard possible arguments that might convince my captors to delay my transfer. Pleading ignorance of my own abilities would ring false after my display in the testing chamber. Claiming homesickness for the League seems equally absurd given my obvious foreign origins and their awareness of my less than ideal life here. Mentioning the children directly would only endanger them further, potentially sending imperial soldiers hunting through the streets for the very ones I’m desperate to protect.

  Or maybe I could feign illness, though I feel they would likely see through such a ruse immediately. Each potential strategy collapses under scrutiny, revealing the fundamental truth of my situation: I am a prisoner, regardless of the comfortable bed and fine clothes, and prisoners rarely dictate the terms of their confinement.

  I roll onto my back again, staring at the ceiling as frustration builds behind my eyes. The irony is bitter—my extraordinary abilities, the very thing that might have helped me protect the children, have now become the chains binding me to this place and threatening to drag me even further from them. I clench my fists in the soft fabric of my new tunic, silently promising Mairi and the others that I haven’t forgotten them, that I’ll find a way back to them somehow, even as my rational mind whispers that such promises might be impossible to keep.

  I climb onto the single wooden chair beneath the window, its legs creaking slightly under my weight as I strain to peer out at the world beyond these stone walls. I’ve done the same thing several times of the course of the past hour, but I still can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. I recognize the familiar shopping street below—the same cobblestone thoroughfare I’ve walked countless times with Mairi and the others, its winding path lined with fruit stands and craftsmen’s stalls. But something is terribly wrong with this picture. The massive stone structure I’m currently imprisoned in simply doesn’t exist alongside that humble market street. In fact, in all my explorations of the city, aside from the bastion maybe, I’ve never encountered any building this substantial.

  My fingers press against the cool glass as I desperately try to make sense of what I’m seeing. Could this entire structure be covered in some elaborate illusion, in some ways similar to what the captain did with my mind during our first confrontation? The thought of such a thing being possible with runes—a magical construct large enough to fool not just me but everyone who passes by—makes my head spin with implications. If the Empire possesses channelers capable of maintaining illusions of this magnitude, what other impossibilities might they accomplish? I scan the street below, searching for any telltale shimmer or inconsistency that might betray the fact I’m standing inside some falsehood, but everything appears distressingly solid and real, from the worn cobblestones to the merchants calling out their wares.

  Maybe it’s not an illusion, but some mental effect? I try to remember what this side of the street looked like, but I can’t for the life of me recall.

  I slump back onto the chair, my gaze drifting to my empty hands. Just hours ago, my vessel had thrummed with artificial juice, power enough to shatter stone and bend reality to my will. With a single rune, I could have blown this entire wall outward, creating an escape route and causing enough chaos to cover my flight. Now, with my vessel completely depleted and the lingering aftereffects of that intense euphoria still making my limbs feel heavy and foreign, I’m reduced to the same powerlessness as any common prisoner. The bitter irony burns in my throat—to have held such devastating potential only to lose it completely, trapped behind walls that might not even be real, separated from Mairi and the others by barriers both physical and magical that I have no way to breach.

  I perch on the edge of the bed, still replaying the day’s events in my mind. That artificial refill… god, what a disaster. Even hours later, I can feel phantom echoes of that overwhelming pleasure rippling through my body, a memory my muscles seem reluctant to forget. While I suspect I could better control the flow now that I understand the difference—the volatility makes it far too dangerous to risk using again. The room’s did something that saved us all from disaster, but that could have gone a lot better! And beyond the practical dangers, there’s something deeply unsettling about juice that doesn’t come directly from the fruits, the feeling when it entered my vessel was not something I’d like to re-experience. The intensity of its depletion feels like a warning, my body’s way of rejecting something fundamentally unnatural. No, I decide firmly, rubbing my arms to dispel the lingering tingles, I won’t touch that stuff again if I can help it. Better the simple, predictable power of real fruits than whatever distilled madness they put in those vials.

  I stare absently at the ceiling of my new quarters, my mind racing with possibilities despite my physical exhaustion. Something the captain said right before our confrontation keeps nagging at me—that without the fruit, channelers can still re-gather energy, just extremely slowly. If that’s true, then theoretically I should be able to replenish my juice without consuming more fruit, albeit at a glacial pace. The trees themselves must have some method of drawing in ambient energy from their surroundings to create the glowing fruits in the first place. What if my unusual abilities—my capacity to see runes rather than just feel them, to maintain so many formations simultaneously—extend to this aspect of channeling as well? Perhaps I could learn to draw in energy more efficiently than a typical channeler, especially if I could somehow mimic whatever process the trees use. It’s a long shot, but worth exploring—especially since I can’t exactly walk out and find a glowing blue fruit tree in my current situation.

  The sudden revelation hits me with the force of a physical blow, my breath catching as I consider the implications. If the Empire has the magical capability to hide an entire building in plain sight, they wouldn’t stop at mere architectural camouflage. The power requirements for such an extensive illusion would be astronomical, requiring a constant, reliable source of juice that wouldn’t deplete over time. What better solution than to plant their own trees within these hidden walls? It would be the most logical approach—a self-sustaining magical ecosystem that powers their operations deep in enemy territory while eliminating the need to transport valuable fruits across dangerous borders.

  I pace the room with renewed purpose, my gaze sweeping across the stone walls as if I might somehow see through them to whatever secret garden they might contain. The strategic usefulness of such an arrangement would be undeniable; if I were establishing a covert magical outpost, ensuring a reliable local source of power would be my first priority. The Empire clearly values efficiency and self-sufficiency. Having their own grove of juice-bearing trees hidden within an already-concealed compound would be entirely consistent with the apparent competence of their magical operations so far, and potentially my best chance at replenishing my depleted vessel before whatever transfer they have planned for me.

  I twist a loose thread from my sleeve between my fingers, watching the sunlight play across the embroidered patterns as I contemplate my situation. Even if I did manage to find their hidden grove and replenish my vessel, what then? The thought of using that power to just blast my way through these walls feels almost sacrilegious after witnessing the old man’s enthusiasm for the craft. Despite the circumstances of my capture and the humiliation of that testing chamber, I can’t honestly paint these imperials with the same brush as the monsters from Mairi’s horror stories. They’ve been stern but not cruel, professional rather than sadistic—nothing like the black-hearted demons who featured in the children’s nightmares.

  It doesn’t help that they speak my mother tongue with the casual familiarity of old friends, their Dutch accents calling forth memories of family gatherings and university classrooms half a world—or perhaps a whole universe—away. Each familiar phrase, each perfectly articulated word feels like a cruel reminder of everything I’ve lost, while simultaneously forging an unwanted connection. The captain’s arrogance and the old man’s academic enthusiasm are traits I recognize from countless colleagues and professors back home, making it all too easy to see them as people rather than enemies, despite their gold-trimmed uniforms and the lock on my door. Somehow, that recognition makes my captivity all the more complicated, the lines between captor and countryman blurring in ways that leave me unsettled and confused.

  I stare up at the featureless ceiling, thoughts of Mairi and the others swirling through my mind like autumn leaves in a storm. What if… what if I didn’t fight this transfer so desperately? These imperials clearly value talent, and Mairi’s natural ability easily surpasses mine. I doubt she’d have the attention span to create as many formations at the same time, but I can’t help but feel she’d also just make them up on the fly. The old man’s face would likely light up like a christmas tree with that same scholarly excitement if he witnessed her forming multiple burst runes on her first attempt. And wouldn’t the other children benefit from proper shelter, regular meals, and whatever education the Empire might provide? The League has given them nothing but hardship and hunger, forcing them to live like rats in abandoned buildings while their supposed protectors hunt foreign spies with more zeal than they show for caring for their own orphaned children. The prospect of all of us traveling together to this mysterious capital city begins to take shape in my mind—not as prisoners, but as students, as a family being given opportunities we could never find in these crumbling slums.

  Then, unfortunately, my thoughts wander back to the ancient tree, its massive trunk wrapped in twisted roots, branches heavy with glowing fruits that pulsed with inner light. Even now, just thinking about revealing its location causes a peculiar tightness in my chest—not quite pain, but a warning pressure, like the first hint of a storm gathering strength. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the comfortable temperature of my gilded prison. No, bringing the children here would inevitably mean questions about how seven of us learned to channel, questions that would lead straight back to that hidden grove. The statistical improbability of so many channelers emerging from one small group of street children would be impossible for the imperials to ignore—and then what? Would this strange compulsion physically prevent me from speaking if I tried to explain? Would it lock my jaw shut, steal my voice, or something worse? The uncertainty sends a shiver through me. Whatever ancient magic bound itself to that tree clearly operates beyond my understanding, and I can’t risk discovering its limits through trial and error, not when the consequences might extend beyond just myself.

  Information first, I remind myself. Before making any decisions about the children or attempting some ill-conceived escape, I need to understand exactly what I’m dealing with—this hidden imperial presence, their capabilities, their intentions. The idea of being suddenly whisked away to the capital certainly feels threatening, but realistically, arrangements for such a transfer would take time. There would be communications to send, responses to await, perhaps even special escorts to arrange for someone they consider valuable. Days, possibly weeks of preparation before any journey could begin. Time enough to learn more about my captors, to understand what this “Imperial Academy” might entail, perhaps even to discover if these quarters are truly as secure as they appear. Revealing information about Mairi and the others now would only endanger them before I have any leverage to ensure their protection. No, patience must be my ally here—gather intelligence, observe routines, identify weaknesses. Patience… I sigh. My biggest virtue.

  The servant steps into the room without warning, her perfunctory knock on the door the only prelude. Her eyes flicker briefly to my collar, noting the intricate embroidery with a subtle shift in her demeanor – not quite a bow, but a perceptible increase in formality. “The captain requests your presence in the dining hall,” she announces, her tone clipped and efficient. I nod wordlessly, rising from the bed though my stomach feels hollow in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. The fading light visible through my small window suggests it must be approaching dinner time, though the thought of food holds little appeal compared to the possibility of information.

  I follow the servant through a labyrinth of corridors, mentally mapping each turn and intersection as we progress deeper into the building. The stone walls bear occasional decorative carvings—geometric patterns that remind me uncomfortably of magical formations—but otherwise offer little to distinguish one passageway from another. My embroidered tunic feels suddenly heavy against my skin, a visible mark of my new status that seems to draw subtle glances from the few staff members we pass along the way.

  When I finally reach the dining hall, I find myself momentarily taken aback by its modest proportions. I had expected something grand and imposing—a space in line with the massive testing chamber I saw earlier—but instead discover a surprisingly intimate chamber with perhaps a dozen tables arranged in neat rows. More surprising still is the casual mingling of ranks; the captain sits at one table surrounded by what appear to be other officers, while nearby, servants in simple uniforms share meals and conversation at their own tables. This unexpected lack of separation gives me pause, forcing me to recalibrate my assumptions about imperial culture as the servant gestures toward the captain, who has already spotted my arrival.

  The captain rises as I approach, his earlier embarrassment seemingly forgotten as he waves me toward an empty chair at the table. Several other officers sitting there turn from their conversations to observe my arrival, their expressions shifting subtly as they note the embroidery at my collar, a silent acknowledgment of some status I’m still not entirely sure I possess. The ease with which they accept my presence feels strangely jarring after my days as a prisoner, this sudden shift from captive to honored guest creating a dissonance I struggle to reconcile.

  “Welcome,” the captain says with unexpected warmth before gesturing to the assembled officers. “I think some introductions are in order.” His lips curl into a wry smile as he continues, “I am Peter van Hoef, Captain of the Imperial Guard’s Fourth Division, Special Operations.” The name hits me like a physical blow, so quintessentially Dutch that I momentarily forget to breathe, memories of home flooding back with painful clarity—of Willem’s colleague who would spend ten minutes teaching everyone the proper pronunciation of Utrecht, of bicycle paths winding alongside canals, of everything I’ve lost. What’s worse, now that he has a name, he’s suddenly a person.

  I sit down, and Van Hoef begins introducing the others—Lieutenant This and Commander That—I realize I’ll need to reciprocate, and find myself hesitating over which name to offer. Should I use my full name, Emma Verbeke, and risk revealing yet another connection to the world I came from? The familiar syllables hover on my tongue, but something holds me back. In this world of magic and empire, of street children and ancient runes, perhaps I’m simply Emma now—not the programmer with a tidy apartment and distant family, just Emma, channeler and accidental guardian of a bunch of orphaned children. “I’m Emma,” I say finally, the simplicity of it feeling right somehow. In this world, I am just Emma. The lack of surname seems to mean something to the assembled officers though, as I see more than one raised eyebrow or surprised expression.

  One of the officers, a stern-looking woman with gray streaks in her auburn hair, leans forward with undisguised curiosity. “From which provincial academy does she hail?” she asks Van Hoef, her gaze sweeping critically over me. The question hangs in the air like a blade, exposing the fundamental incongruity of my presence at their table. My embroidered collar apparently speaks of training and status, of having attended a provincial academy. Yet, everything else about me—from my uncertain posture to my simple introduction—seem to betray my lack of any formal background.

  Van Hoef clears his throat, setting down his glass with deliberate precision. “She’s actually a commoner,” he says, the words landing with visible impact among the assembled officers, most seemed to have assumed based on the name already, but having their assumptions confirmed still means something. Their expressions shift in unison, eyebrows rising and lips parting in silent surprise. Van Hoef’s cheeks color slightly as he adds, “Though a ridiculously capable one, as it happens. The old man hasn’t been this excited about a prospect in years.” His tone carries a blend of professional assessment and something almost like embarrassment, as if admitting a truth that challenges his own preconceptions.

  Another officer—a younger man with a meticulously trimmed beard—leans in eagerly. “Just how capable are we talking about? The embroidery pattern suggests advanced formation potential, but—” Van Hoef raises a hand, cutting him off with surprising firmness. “That’s not my place to tell,” he says, his voice dropping to a more formal register. “The assessment details will be properly documented and forwarded to the Academy along with her transfer papers.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes as he says this, focusing instead on serving himself another portion from a nearby platter, effectively closing the subject despite the obvious curiosity still simmering around the table.

  The officers’ gazes shift from their captain to focus intently on me, their expressions a discomforting blend of curiosity and professional assessment. The auburn-haired woman leans forward, her posture suggesting she’s not remotely satisfied with Van Hoef’s attempt to close the subject. I feel my shoulders tense instinctively, that familiar tightness in my chest reminding me of every awkward conference presentation and team introduction I’d ever endured. Even in my previous life, where I understood all the social protocols and cultural expectations, I’d hated being the center of attention. Now, adrift in this world of unfamiliar hierarchies and magical politics, the scrutiny feels exponentially worse.

  The sudden reversal of my circumstances creates a peculiar form of cognitive whiplash. Just yesterday I woke up locked in a dusty storeroom for the crime of channeling without permission; today I sit at an officer’s table wearing their organization’s colors like some sort of honored recruit. The embroidery at my collar feels suddenly heavy, almost fraudulent. It’s oddly pleasant not being treated as an abomination simply because of my hair color—something I’d grown unfortunately accustomed to among League citizens—but this imperial acceptance feels unearned, even suspicious. Their rapid pivot from imprisoning me to celebrating my abilities makes me question what exactly they want from me, and what price this newfound respect might ultimately carry.

  The auburn-haired woman leans forward, her rings clinking softly against her glass as she studies me with undisguised curiosity. “Even if you’re a commoner, which provincial academy processed your initial evaluation? We can all see you have advanced potential, but I don’t recognize the stylistic markers.” Her question hangs in the air with deceptive lightness, though her sharp eyes suggest she’s already cataloging inconsistencies in my presence here. I freeze, my programmer’s mind racing through decision trees too complex to navigate in seconds. The truth seems absurd, any lie easily disproven, and silence potentially damning—a classic no-win scenario.

  Van Hoef clears his throat with deliberate authority, setting down his fork with military precision. “My earlier statement regarding her origins may not have been entirely complete,” he admits, his tone carefully neutral despite the immediate tension that descends upon the table. “She is indeed a commoner—from the League territories.” The words fall like stones into still water, ripples of disbelief spreading visibly across the faces of the assembled officers. Their eyes dart reflexively to my jet-black hair, then to Van Hoef’s face, searching for signs of an ill-conceived joke.

  The stern-faced woman who’d questioned me first breaks the stunned silence with a derisive snort, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass as she gestures dismissively. “Come now, Captain. We may be stationed in this backwater, but we’re not fools to be played with. If she were truly from the League, they’d have lynched the ‘witch’ a thousand times over before she took two steps through their streets with that hair.” Her words carry the cold certainty of established fact, and around the table, heads nod in agreement while eyes continue to study me with renewed suspicion. I stare down at my untouched plate, suddenly aware of how precarious my position has become—an impossible anomaly that defies their clear categories of friend and foe.

  “To be fair,” I say, holding up my fingers to count, “I’ve only been shot at once with actual arrows, attacked maybe… three times? And chased by an angry shop owner.” I shrug, trying to convey how routine these incidents had become. “Most of the time, as long as I kept my hair covered, people just left me alone.” The words hang in the air as the woman looks at me steadily, her expression suggests I’ve done nothing to reduce the strength of her argument. The silence stretches uncomfortably as I realize that what I intended as a correction of hyperbole has instead painted a damning portrait of League society that no amount of qualification can salvage.

  I try again, “I mean, while many were bad, some of them didn’t seem to care one way or the other.”

  The woman’s angular face shifts with subtle surprise, her earlier skepticism giving way to genuine curiosity. “There have been people who did not react to your hair?” she asks, leaning forward with sudden interest. The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I can’t fully decipher but recognize as significant. Around the table, the other officers exchange meaningful glances, their earlier dismissiveness transforming into something more attentive.

  “Children, mostly,” I admit with a half-shrug, trying to downplay the information even as I note their sharpened focus. “The younger ones in the League settlements barely seemed to notice, and even older children reacted with curiosity rather than fear.” I pause, recalling Ronain’s analytical interest and Mairi’s casual acceptance. “It seems to be primarily teens and adults who respond with… hostility and fear.” The words hang in the suddenly quiet dining hall as the auburn-haired woman’s eyes narrow in calculation, and I realize too late that I’ve inadvertently provided them with information they consider valuable. I guess that shouldn’t surprise me considering they were gathing a literal child army around the hideout we blew up.

  The auburn-haired woman’s sharp eyes fix on me with renewed interest, her jeweled fingers drumming thoughtfully against the polished table. “So how exactly did you end up here then? A black-haired League commoner suddenly sitting among imperial officers—there must be quite a story behind that.” Her tone carries that particular blend of professional curiosity and personal amusement that suggests she’s settling in for an entertaining tale rather than a security briefing.

  I glance at Van Hoef, expecting him to intercept with some carefully sanitized version of events, but he merely raises an eyebrow and gestures for me to continue, his expression betraying his own curiosity about how I’ll characterize our interactions. The sudden realization that I’m being tested—again—sends a pulse of irritation through me. “Well,” I begin, trying to keep my voice even despite the tension building in my chest, “I was walking down a street minding my own business when Captain Van Hoef here decided to play with my mind using some sort of illusion rune. When I tried to defend myself—with admittedly limited knowledge—I was knocked unconscious, woke up in a storeroom, and then subjected to a series of tests whose purpose nobody bothered to explain to me.”

  The words pour out faster as my frustration builds, the events of the past days suddenly seeming absurd when laid out in sequence. “Then I was given some sort of artificial juice that caused… unexpected effects when depleted,” I continue, my cheeks warming slightly at the memory while Van Hoef suddenly develops an intense interest in his wine glass. “And after demonstrating some basic channeling abilities in their testing chamber, I was promptly dressed in this embroidered tunic and brought here, apparently elevated from dangerous foreign witch to valuable recruit in the span of a few hours.” My voice has taken on an edge I can’t quite suppress, the programmer’s part of my brain that craves clear documentation and logical processes deeply offended by the chaotic sequence of events that has led me to this dining table.

  The officers stare at me in stunned silence, glances darting between my rigid posture and Van Hoef’s carefully neutral expression. Finally, the woman with the auburn hair bursts into unexpected laughter, the sound breaking the tension like glass shattering. “By the Empress,” she says, wiping at her eyes, “that sounds exactly like Peter’s idea of recruitment. No wonder she looks ready to stab you with that dinner knife, Captain.” The table erupts in muted chuckles, even as I realize I’ve been unconsciously gripping my knife with white-knuckled intensity. Van Hoef’s face flushes slightly, but there’s a grudging respect in his eyes as he raises his glass in a mock salute to my candor.

  The young officer with the meticulously trimmed beard raises his glass with a sheepish smile, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Welcome to the ‘fucked up with artificial essentia’ club,” he announces, his tone carrying that particular blend of embarrassment and camaraderie that comes from shared humiliation. “I believe we’ve all been there at least once during training.” His admission hangs in the air for a moment before several officers nod in rueful agreement, their expressions suggesting memories best left unmentioned in polite company.

  The table erupts in good-natured laughter, tension dissipating like morning mist as the auburn-haired woman slaps the young officer on the shoulder with unexpected force. “Raaf here holds the distinction of having his episode during the Empress’s inspection tour,” she says, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Poor boy tried to impress Her Imperial Majesty by burning through a full dose all at once. Ended up writhing on the parade ground while the entire Fourth Division stood at attention.” Fresh peals of laughter punctuate her story as Raaf sinks lower in his chair, though his reluctant smile suggests the sting of embarrassment has long since faded into the realm of cherished legend.

  The mirth around the table wraps around me like a forgotten quilt, its warmth seeping through my defenses despite my better judgment. These people—these imperial officers speaking my mother tongue with familiar cadences—should represent everything I’ve been taught to fear in this world. Yet here I sit, the tension gradually melting from my shoulders as Raaf regales us with another embarrassing training mishap, his self-deprecating humor drawing reluctant chuckles from my lips. There’s something disarmingly normal about this dinner, about being surrounded by adults who see me as a person worth conversing with rather than a monster to be feared or a resource to be exploited.

  I find myself savoring this strange moment of acceptance, rolling the unfamiliar feeling around like a rare fruit whose taste I’m trying to memorize. How long has it been since I’ve simply shared a meal and conversation without constantly scanning for threats? The children are precious to me, but the weight of that responsibility, their needs, has been a constant presence on my shoulders. Here, just for tonight, I can be merely Emma—not protector, not provider, not foreign witch. I know this respite is temporary, that the fundamental reality of my captivity hasn’t changed, but perhaps there’s no harm in letting myself enjoy this fleeting normalcy, this echo of the social connections I’d almost forgotten how to form.

  The conversation swirls around me as I mentally catalog the names of these imperial officers who’ve suddenly become my unexpected dinner companions. Peter van Hoef, the captain whose Dutch name sends uncomfortable pangs of homesickness through me; Lieutenant Raaf with his meticulously trimmed beard and embarrassing essentia story, who seems to go only by his nickname for some reason; Commander Liselotte van der Meer, the sharp-eyed woman with auburn hair who seems to miss nothing; Major Willem Dekker, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual half-smile who’s barely spoken but watches everything with careful attention; and Captain Ava Janssen, a lean woman with close-cropped blonde hair whose sardonic comments punctuate the conversation at perfectly timed intervals. I deliberately commit each name to memory—partly out of professional habit from my programming days when keeping track of team members was essential, but my mind would not possibly do so without concerted effort, but mostly because in the unfamiliar world of imperial politics and hierarchies, information feels like the only currency I truly possess.

  Lieutenant Raaf’s sharp bark of laughter suddenly cuts through the meandering conversation about training mishaps, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he turns to Peter. “Enough about Ava’s first-time jitters with the recruits—what I want to know is how our League friend here managed during her testing. The old man seemed practically giddy when I passed him in the corridor.” His grin widens as both Liselotte and Peter exchange that particular look reserved for Raaf’s inability to maintain professional boundaries, a blend of resignation and grudging affection that speaks of years enduring his irreverence.

  Major Willem Dekker, who has been silently observing the entire exchange with a tactician’s patience, finally speaks, his deep voice carrying easily across the table. “There’s no need for baseless speculation,” he says, a hint of amusement warming his otherwise measured tone. “There’s simply no possibility a completely untrained channeler could have surpassed Ava’s record of sixty concurrent formations on her first attempt.” He nods respectfully toward Captain Janssen, who straightens almost imperceptibly at this acknowledgment, a subtle smile of pride tugging at the corner of her mouth as she returns his nod with practiced military precision.

  Peter makes a sound that starts as a derisive snort but transforms midway into something closer to a groan of despair, his hand rising instinctively to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I had rather hoped,” he says with the carefully measured tone of someone choosing each word with painful deliberation, “that we might avoid this particular topic until the official assessment reports are filed.” His eyes flick momentarily to mine, then away, his expression caught between professional discretion and the resignation of someone who knows perfectly well that military gossip travels faster than official protocols in any world, medieval or modern.

  I can’t resist a challenging smile as I meet the officers’ expectant gazes, finding odd comfort in their curiosity despite my precarious position. It’s not like it’s going to make a difference now. The important people already know, and my future seems to have been decided already. Might as well get what satisfaction I can out of it. “I’m not entirely certain what’s considered impressive in imperial circles,” I admit with a slight smile, “but from the captain’s reaction, I gather my performance might have been… noteworthy?” I deliberately undersell it, watching Peter shift uncomfortably under the sudden scrutiny of his colleagues, his earlier bravado melting away.

  “Noteworthy?” Lieutenant Raaf exclaims, nearly choking on his wine. “Van Hoef, you miserable, tight-lipped bastard!” The entire table pivots toward Peter, whose complexion has taken on a fascinating shade of crimson. Commander Liselotte leans forward with predatory interest, her rings clicking against her glass as she pins him with her gaze. “Just how many formations are we talking about, Captain? More than sixty?” Peter’s shoulders rise defensively as he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “one hundred and twenty-three,” causing a collective intake of breath around the table.

  The collective intake of breath around the table is broken by Captain Ava Janssen’s sudden burst of delighted laughter, her lean frame practically vibrating with excitement as she slams her palm against the table hard enough to make the glasses jump. “Finally!” she exclaims, her blue eyes locking onto mine with predatory intensity. “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is being the measuring stick everyone uses? ‘Not as good as Janssen,’ ‘Almost reached Janssen’s record,’ ‘Remember when Janssen did this?’” She mimics each phrase with exaggerated pomposity before leaning toward me, her earlier sardonic demeanor replaced by genuine enthusiasm. “We should arrange a proper demonstration sometime—formation against formation, complexity against complexity. It’s been years since I’ve had a worthy opponent.” The naked hunger for challenge in her voice catches me off guard, as does the realization that in this strange new world, my programming-adjacent skills have transformed me from socially awkward outlier to someone worth challenging, someone whose abilities inspire not fear but anticipation in the eyes of those who understand their value.

  The auburn-haired Commander Liselotte leans forward, her jeweled fingers tapping thoughtfully against her glass as she studies me with renewed intensity. “One hundred and twenty-three,” she repeats, the words carrying a weight that silences the table. “Not one hundred and twenty, not one hundred and twenty-five—but precisely one hundred and twenty-three.” She exchanges a meaningful glance with Major Dekker, who responds with an almost imperceptible nod that speaks volumes about some shared understanding I’m not privy to. The exactitude of the number clearly holds significance beyond mere quantity, though what that might be remains frustratingly unclear.

  Lieutenant Raaf doesn’t feel compelled to keep his conclusions a secret, his eyes dancing with amusement as he reaches for his wine. “The absurdly high number I get, I mean, it’s impressive of course,” he says, swirling the ruby liquid thoughtfully, “but it’s that random three tacked onto the end that truly fascinates me.” He leans forward, elbows propped on the table in clear violation of whatever imperial etiquette might dictate. “One hundred and twenty is neat, organized—something a disciplined mind might aim for. But those three extra formations….” He trails off, studying me with unexpected shrewdness. “Those speak of someone pushing absolute limits, pressing forward until complete collapse rather than stopping at a tidy benchmark. Much more revealing than the impressive total, wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

  The lieutenant’s shrewdness sends a flutter of something uncomfortably like recognition through my chest. Peter catches my eye across the table, a meaningful glance that silences further discussion as he rises to his feet with military precision. “If you’ll excuse us,” he says, his tone carrying that particular blend of authority and apology that brooks no argument from his subordinates, “I need a moment with our guest to discuss certain protocol matters before we continue.” His hand on my elbow is firm but not unkind as he guides me toward a small alcove near the dining hall’s entrance, the officers’ barely contained curiosity following us like a physical weight.

  “Listen,” Peter murmurs once we’re out of earshot, his voice pitched low despite the alcove’s privacy, “for your own safety, don’t mention the exact numbers to anyone else. The people here are mine, and they’re good people.” His eyes hold mine with unexpected intensity, the earlier embarrassment replaced by genuine concern. “One hundred and twenty-three on your first attempt—it’s the kind of thing that gets people assigned to special projects, not academic training.” When I merely shrug in response, his expression softens slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “I’m not saying you were bragging—though that laugh was rather telling—but there are people who would kill for that kind of natural ability, and others who would kill to control it.” His words hang between us, heavy with implications I don’t fully understand but recognize as a genuine warning rather than a threat. I nod my acquiescence, though privately I wonder what exactly constitutes “special projects” in an empire that speaks my mother tongue and hides buildings in plain sight.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The rest of dinner passes in a blur of anecdotes and carefully navigated questions, each revelation about imperial life adding another piece to my incomplete understanding of this world. When the conversation lulls, I seize the opportunity with both hands. “This Imperial Academy that the old man mentioned—what exactly should I expect there?” The question comes out more hesitantly than I’d intended, betraying my unease about this looming transfer.

  My phrasing triggers an immediate reaction—subtle but unmistakable—as every officer at the table pauses mid-motion. Glasses hover halfway to lips, forks suspend above plates, and eyes flick rapidly between faces in silent communication. Commander Liselotte recovers first, setting down her wine with deliberate precision. “You mean simply ‘the Academy,’” she corrects, her tone gentle but firm. “There’s only one Academy worthy of the name. The ‘Imperial’ prefix is redundant when discussing the central institution.” The explanation carries an undercurrent of amusement, as if I’ve committed some charming provincial faux pas rather than revealed my profound ignorance of their world.

  “The capital itself is unlike anything you’ll have seen in these border territories,” Major Dekker offers, his deep voice carrying that particular blend of pride and fondness reserved for one’s homeland. “Seven districts surrounding the Imperial Palace, each with its own character—though you’ll mainly experience the Academy District during your initial training.” He sketches a rough map in the air with his broad hands, describing sprawling gardens and libraries, ancient observatories and testing chambers that make their current facilities sound primitive by comparison. He mentions that many of those facilities are leftovers from an earlier era, and that the capital and the academy are located where they are purely because of them. “The campus houses over two thousand channelers at any given time—students, professors, researchers, and visiting masters from provincial academies seeking to further their studies.”

  Lieutenant Raaf leans forward eagerly, his earlier teasing giving way to genuine enthusiasm. “The first-year experience depends entirely on your specialization,” he explains, fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth. “Those with formation aptitude like yours typically start with theoretical foundations before progressing to practical applications. The training is… intense.” His emphasis on this last word carries uncomfortable weight. “But the opportunities are unparalleled—access to ancient texts, exposure to formations you’ve never imagined, and most importantly, connections that will serve you for life.” His eyes shine with something unspoken as he glances at Van hoef. With something like envy as he adds, “Most provincial channelers would sacrifice a limb for the chance you’re being given.” The undercurrent of his words—the assumption that I should be grateful rather than apprehensive—lands like a stone in my stomach, though I keep my expression carefully neutral as I consider what this means for finding Mairi and the others.

  “So what happens after this Academy… training?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. “I mean, until quite literally yesterday, I was living on the streets. Fighting for scraps, hiding from people who wanted to kill me for my hair color. This is all…” I gesture vaguely at the elegant dining hall, the fine clothing, their military precision, “rather overwhelming.”

  Commander Liselotte studies me with renewed interest, her jeweled fingers drumming thoughtfully against the polished table. “You wouldn’t know it from your manner of speech,” she observes, her sharp eyes never leaving my face. “You speak with the precision of a scholar despite your claimed origins. Most street urchins I’ve encountered can barely string together a coherent sentence, yet you articulate complex thoughts with remarkable clarity.” She tilts her head slightly, auburn hair catching the light. “You’re clearly ignorant of our customs and hierarchies, that much is evident—but you express that ignorance with the vocabulary and syntax of someone who’s spent considerable time in academic circles. Curious, wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

  The tension breaks as Lieutenant Raaf leans forward, his meticulously trimmed beard framing a surprisingly stern expression. “Come now, Commander,” he says, his normally playful tone carrying an unexpected edge, “you know as well as I do that the Academy specifically forbids inquiry into provincial backgrounds before the patterned collar is earned. The old traditions exist for a reason—skill speaks louder than lineage.” His words carry the weight of someone who has personally benefited from this particular custom, and around the table, several officers nod in agreement while Commander Liselotte’s sharp gaze narrows at the interruption.

  “Forgive me,” she concedes with a thin smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, her jeweled fingers resuming their rhythmic tapping against her glass. “Lieutenant Raaf is merely so passionate about this particular protocol because his own closet rattles rather loudly with skeletons.” The barb hangs in the air for a moment before Raaf’s face splits into a broad grin, as if she’s paid him the highest compliment rather than attempted to wound his pride. “The loudest skeletons make the most interesting dinner companions, Commander,” he replies with a wink, raising his glass in mock salute while the table erupts in another round of laughter that effectively closes the subject.

  The dinner conversation lulls momentarily, and I suddenly realize something that’s been nagging at the edge of my consciousness. How strange that everyone—from the captain to these officers—consistently refers to the weathered academic who oversaw my testing as simply “the old man,” never by name or title. It’s a peculiar informality that seems at odds with the Empire’s otherwise meticulous adherence to hierarchy and protocol. The thought strikes me as so odd that I find myself voicing it aloud before I can think better of it. “This might sound ridiculous, but does the old man who tested me actually have a name? Or is ‘old man’ his official title in your records?” The question draws amused smiles from around the table.

  “Master Roelof van Rijcken, at your service,” comes a familiar voice directly behind me, its weathered timbre carrying that particular blend of academic precision and grandfatherly warmth I’ve come to associate with my tester. The unexpected proximity sends a jolt of surprise through my system, causing me to bolt upright so quickly that my chair screeches against the stone floor. Wine sloshes dangerously in my glass as I twist around to find the old man—Master Roelof—standing barely a arm’s length away, his eyes twinkling with undisguised amusement at my startled reaction. His gray tunic has been exchanged for more formal attire, and the intricate embroidery at his collar far surpasses the pattern on my own tunic.

  The officers at the table make no attempt to hide their enjoyment of my discomfort, several chuckling openly as Commander Liselotte gestures toward an empty chair. “Perfect timing as always, Master Roelof,” she says, her sharp eyes dancing with mirth. “We were just discussing your newest prodigy’s remarkable performance in the testing chamber.” Master Roelof settles into the offered seat with the careful movements of someone whose joints no longer fully cooperate with his intentions, his weathered hands coming to rest on the polished table surface. Despite his aged appearance, there’s something about his presence that immediately shifts the dynamic of the gathering—a subtle repositioning of attention that suggests his authority extends beyond mere academic credentials, regardless of the military rank surrounding him.

  Master Roelof’s weathered face breaks into a warm smile as he accepts a glass of wine from Lieutenant Raaf. “I must say,” he begins, his eyes twinkling with academic enthusiasm, “watching you work with those formations was truly remarkable. It’s been decades since I’ve seen such natural aptitude in an untrained channeler.” His obvious delight makes me bold enough to voice the question that’s has been at the tip of my tongue since he introduced himself just a moment ago. All the other titles make sense, they seem military in nature, and I can roughly relate them.

  “You introduced yourself as master. What exactly does ‘Master’ entail?” I ask, trying to keep my tone conversational despite my burning curiosity. To my surprise, it’s the quiet Major Willem who answers, his deep voice cutting through the pleasant dinner chatter. “It means your impressive little performance means absolutely nothing if he decides to slap you down,” he states flatly, meeting my startled gaze with unflinching directness. Master Roelof’s face flushes slightly as he sets down his glass with deliberate care. “I would never—” he begins, then collects himself with visible effort. "That’s an unnecessarily harsh characterization, Willem. The title merely signifies that I’ve mastered all the fundamentals to such a degree that their combination results in something formidable. It grants certain academic privileges, yes, but nothing about specific martial applications. Undoubtedly there are masters that would lose to our dear Ava or Peter here.”

  The old man’s weathered face crinkles with amusement as Van Hoef leans forward, a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye. “This is precisely why we all adore Master Roelof,” he says, shooting me a deliberate wink. “We can call him ‘old man’ to his face without fear of reprisal.” He gestures broadly toward Roelof with his wine glass, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Even though we’ve talked during the test about the fact his pure capacity is still somewhat on the low end, he’s considered the strongest of the channelers present, by far, something our dear Master rarely considers in his calculations.” The officers around the table nod in agreement, their expressions a mixture of fondness and respect that speaks volumes about their relationship with the weathered academic.

  I study Roelof’s face, noting how genuinely perplexed he seems by this turn in conversation. Despite the immense power they’re casually attributing to him, his thoughts clearly dwell in the realm of theory rather than application, of knowledge rather than force. The disconnect is striking—a man who could apparently “slap down” someone like me in magical combat, yet whose first instinct is always toward teaching rather than demonstrating. Based on what I’ve seen, the thought of weaponizing his gift against others seems entirely foreign to his nature. The realization is oddly comforting, like finding an unexpected pocket of familiarity in this increasingly complex world of imperial politics and magical hierarchies.

  The comfortable atmosphere that had settled around the dinner table suddenly feels incongruous, almost offensive. These people with their polished manners and easy laughter—how quickly I’ve allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of camaraderie. Weren’t they my enemies just days ago? Do I really let myself get swayed that easily by sweet words and honeyed promises? Something makes me want to break this facade wide open. To remind me of what these imperials are truly capable of. Of the ruthlessness with which they went from 'problem’ to 'eliminate’.

  Antagonizing my hosts would be foolish when I still know so little about my situation, and yet beneath the calculation, anger churns—a hot, insistent pressure pushing against my ribs. I think of Mairi and the others, huddled in the dark as blue fire consumed our city. I remember the acrid smell of that unnatural flame, the screams echoing through streets we’d called home. These officers sit here trading jokes and stories while somewhere children I’ve sworn to protect wonder if I’m dead or alive. And the screams. I’ll be looking at something and it’ll remind me of something I’ve seen during the search, and within seconds there will be a screaming child in my head. A corpse missing a leg. That damnable doll.

  I take a measured sip of wine, buying myself precious seconds. What would confronting them accomplish? If I reveal too much about what I saw that night, I could endanger the children further. But if I say nothing, I’ll remain adrift in half-truths and polite fictions, dancing around the reality that these people—regardless of how familiar they sound or how courteously they treat me—represent the force that attacked our shelter without warning or apparent remorse.

  The conversation continues around me, but I’ve withdrawn into my own thoughts, weighing consequences against moral imperatives. Master Roelof is describing some aspect of the Academy curriculum, his weathered hands sketching formations in the air with infectious enthusiasm. Captain Janssen laughs at something Lieutenant Raaf says, the sound genuine and unrehearsed. They’re just people, I remind myself. People doing their jobs, following orders—the same justification used by every military organization in history.

  At that thought, something in me hardens. My fingers tighten around the wine glass, the cool, smooth surface a small anchor against the rising heat in my chest. I set it down on the polished, dark wood of the table, not with a careless clatter, but a deliberate, quiet thud. A finality. I might be committing a mistake, yes. Lord knows my previous manager thought I was a goddamn pain in the ass, always pointing out inefficiencies or ethical issues. But if they’re going to train me, use me, they should at least acknowledge who and what I am. And what I am, right now, is goddamn fucking angry. The heat of it spreads from my chest, a tight, burning knot behind my ribs, pushing against my breath.

  My chair scrapes softly against the flagstones as I push it back, cutting into Roelof’s discourse. I meet his gaze, my voice carefully level despite the familiar, tight knot coiling behind my ribs. “I suppose the martial application of channeling prowess is rather redundant when you’ve got a warehouse stocked with whatever caused that explosion of blue flames in the tannery district,” I say, aiming for casual observation, but not entirely succeeding. “Much more efficient to just blow half a district to pieces than bother with individual runes, isn’t it?”

  The reaction around the table is immediate and dramatically varied—like watching multiple chess players realize they’re in checkmate, but each in completely different ways. Van Hoef’s wine glass freezes halfway to his mouth, Commander Liselotte’s sharp eyes narrow to dangerous slits, while Lieutenant Raaf’s expression cycles through surprise, confusion, and alarm in rapid succession. Most telling is Master Roelof’s reaction—his weathered face drains of color as he exchanges a quick, alarmed glance with Captain Van Hoef, who seems suddenly very interested in the ceiling beams.

  A puzzled silence hangs in the air for a beat, thick and sudden, before chairs scrape back across the stone floor in a near-simultaneous movement. Several officers lean forward, the easy curve of their spines straightening into sharp angles, their faces hardening from relaxed amusement to a collective, piercing focus. Lieutenant Raaf’s earlier smile is gone, replaced by eyes that narrow, scanning me like a battlefield map, every line of his face tightening with calculated thought. “That’s a remarkably specific observation from someone who claims to have been living on the streets,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of its previous warmth. His gaze darts to Commander Liselotte for a fraction of a second; she gives him a tiny, almost invisible dip of her head.

  Captain Janssen’s lean form stiffens. Her hand, instead of lifting the glass, lowers it to the table with slow, deliberate precision. “The tannery district incident,” she says, her voice lacking some of its earlier warmth, cutting through the air. “You were there.” It’s not a question but a realization, and I watch as her fingers unconsciously trace what must be a formation pattern against the tablecloth. All of them seem to be doing it, maybe influenced by Roelof? Across from her, Major Willem, his broad shoulders suddenly squared, fixes his gaze on me, his eyes sharp and assessing where they had been soft with amusement moments before. It unnerves me more than any of the other reactions. Like a boulder that casually climbs onto your shoulders and just sits there, unmoving.

  “I think our guest might benefit from explaining exactly how she came to witness the rapid unscheduled deconstruction of our storehouse,” Van Hoef interjects smoothly, though the sudden tension in his jaw betrays his discomfort at this unexpected turn. His eyes meet mine with a warning I can’t quite interpret—is he offering protection or suggesting I tread carefully? The casual dinner atmosphere has evaporated completely, replaced by the unmistakable feeling of being in an interrogation, albeit one conducted over fine wine and empty dessert plates. I look around the table, wondering if this was all me. It seems impossible. This tension must have been there underneath the surface, and my comment brought it all boiling out.

  Master Roelof observes this sudden transformation with apparent confusion, his weathered brow furrowing as he glances between the officers’ intense faces and my rigid posture. “Rapid unscheduled deconstruction?” he echoes, setting down his glass with a bewildered expression. “Peter, what precisely are we discussing? I was under the impression we were celebrating a remarkable new talent, not conducting field intelligence.” His genuine perplexity suggests he’s been kept entirely in the dark about whatever occurred in the tannery district—a surprising information gap for someone who carries such apparent authority within their ranks.

  The officers exchange meaningful glances that speak volumes about compartmentalized information and the delicate politics at play, even as their attention remains fixed unerringly on me.

  Master Roelof’s weathered face twists with a mixture of irritation and intrigue as he turns to me instead. “Emma, I don’t believe I understand what you’re referring to,” he says, his tone gentle despite the tension hanging in the air. “The captain cannot discuss active operations, of course—standard protocol—but if you’ve witnessed something related to imperial activities, I’d very much like to hear your perspective.” His eyes flick briefly to Peter, who sits rigidly on his chair, his expression carefully neutral though I get the strong impression he’d rather be anywhere but there.

  “I don’t know why he’s calling it a 'rapid unscheduled deconstruction’ either,” I admit, the words tumbling out before I can consider their wisdom, “but it’s not really representative of what I saw. Half the tannery district was reduced to ash. I watched children—children—buried under rubble that glowed with blue fire.” My voice cracks slightly as the memories flood back—Mairi’s small hands systematically checking for survivors, Calum’s face as he ended the suffering of those beyond saving. I’m trying to make up a plausible scenario on the fly “Whatever you people did, whatever weapon you… deployed, it didn’t just kill soldiers or enemies or whatever target you were aiming for. It killed innocent kids who had nowhere else to go.”

  Master Roelof’s weathered hands tremble slightly as he stares at me with mounting horror, his earlier intrigue completely evaporated. “Blue fire?” he whispers, the color draining from his face as his gaze darts accusingly toward Peter. “You told the council it was a controlled detonation—minimal civilian exposure.” The revelation seems to physically age him before my eyes, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight as he processes what I’ve said. I realize belatedly that I may have made a terrible mistake in revealing my connection to that night. Even considering the effects, this reaction from Roelof seems excessive, but the words cannot be unsaid, and frankly, faced with their callous indifference, and apparent ass-covering behavior, I find I don’t particularly care anymore.

  I can’t help but laugh—a short, sharp sound that surprises even me with its bitterness. “Controlled detonation? Is that what they’re calling it?” The words spill out before I can stop them, edged with a savage irony that makes Master Roelof’s eyebrows rise. “I was there, Master Roelof. I watched children die in blue flames that behaved like nothing I’ve ever seen. There was nothing ‘controlled’ about it, nothing minimal about the civilian exposure. That fire behaved like it was alive—like it was hunting. Whatever was in that warehouse wasn’t just tanning chemicals.”

  I lean forward, my voice dropping despite the privacy of this small chamber. “The blast flattened buildings in a thirty-meter radius. People, me included, were thrown like ragdolls. And those blue flames… they burned for hours.” My hands sketch the remembered devastation in the air between us, tracing the crater’s edge with painful precision. “I’m no military expert, but I’ve seen enough accidents in my time to know the difference between an intended outcome and something gone catastrophically wrong.”

  The captain recovers quickly, his military bearing reasserting itself as he meets Master Roelof’s accusing stare with desperate composure. “The detonation was regrettable but, given the circumstances, about the best outcome we could expect,” he says, his words measured and deliberate as he shoots me a meaningful glance. “The events Emma describes here are indeed the controlled detonation I informed you and the rest of the council of. I believe the full operational details remain classified, especially for those without appropriate clearance.” The emphasis he places on those last words carries a clear warning that silences further questions from the old academic, though the disapproval radiating from Master Roelof remains palpable in the suddenly tense atmosphere.

  Lieutenant Raaf clears his throat, his earlier jovial demeanor replaced by something more cautious as he leans forward. “I was part of the assessment team afterward,” he offers, his eyes flicking between my rigid posture and the captain’s carefully neutral expression. “Working alongside the League investigators was quite illuminating—their theories about the cause differed significantly from what we know to have happened.” The subtle emphasis he places on ‘alongside’ carries unmistakable weight, and I realize with a jolt that he’s confirming what I’ve suspected all along—these imperials have infiltrated the city’s authorities, embedding themselves so deeply that they participate in investigations of their own operations without detection. It’s also entirely clear to me that he’s trying to change the subject, the bastard.

  Lieutenant Raaf leans forward, his meticulously trimmed beard practically bristling with a kind of vicious excitement as he steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “The debris displacement patterns were unlike anything we’ve ever seen,” he explains, his eyes gleaming with the particular enthusiasm of a puzzle-solver on the scent of a solution. “League investigators naturally assumed it was some imperial formation, while I initially assumed they were lying to hide their own capabilities. But after consulting with Master Roelof—” he inclines his head respectfully toward the old academic, “—I discovered that not even he recognizes the effect. Curious, isn’t it?” His gaze fixes on me with unsettling precision, the casual dinner conversation suddenly feeling like an interrogation. “Almost as curious as a ridiculously talented League commoner who happens to have been present at an incident where unknown magic was clearly employed afterwards.”

  The realization hits me with the force of physical impact—burst isn’t just some rune everyone knows and I stumbled upon, but something genuinely unknown to both major powers in this conflict. My throat constricts as I process the implications, my mind running calculations on probabilities and outcomes, none of which end particularly well for me if they suspect I possess knowledge of a rune outside their magical canon. Based on Iain’s descriptions, my value would suddenly shift from “talented apprentice” to “strategic intelligence asset”—the kind that gets locked away and methodically drained of information. The ‘special operations’ Van Hoef warned me off before suddenly take on an entirely new perspective. Was he trying to warn me? The embroidered collar at my neck suddenly feels like a noose, the fine fabric scratching against my skin as I swallow hard.

  I force my features into what I hope passes for puzzled confusion, mentally cursing my impulsive decision to mention the explosion. “I’m not sure what you’re implying,” I say, carefully modulating my voice to sound more bewildered than defensive. “I was trying to help injured children after an explosion that nearly killed me—forgive me if I didn’t stop to analyze the rubble patterns while doing so.” I turn slightly toward Master Roelof, hoping his academic curiosity might override any military suspicions. “Though if there truly was unknown magic at play, perhaps that explains the unusual blue flames? They behaved unlike any normal fire I’ve ever seen.” The diversionary tactic feels clumsy on my tongue, but it’s the best I can manage while internally panicking at the sudden realization of just how valuable—and therefore dangerous—the knowledge I carry truly is.

  “Saving the children indeed,” Raaf continues, ignoring Roelof’s frown at being ignored, “these pathways invariably led to places where we later found evidence of survivors—pools of blood where injured children had clearly been helped, or in some cases, bodies of those beyond saving.” He pauses, his tone shifting to something almost amused. “Curiously, none of these rescue efforts appear to have been extended to our personnel. All six imperial guards buried in the blast remained exactly where they fell, without so much as a single beam near their locations out of position.” The implicit message is clear: he believes I used unknown magic specifically to save children while leaving imperial soldiers to die, a conclusion that’s pretty close to the truth, even if his understanding of the rune itself remains flawed. Truthfully, I didn’t know any imperial soldiers were trapped. Maybe they heard us going for the children and kept silent, but that’s probably attributing too much nobility to people that more likely just instantly died.

  I feel cold sweat gathering at the nape of my neck as I realize the precarious position I’m in—one wrong word could reveal not just my knowledge of burst, but potentially lead them to the cave and the other unknown runes I’ve kept secret so far.

  I shift uncomfortably under Raaf’s relentless questioning, my mind racing to formulate plausible explanations for the suspiciously precise paths through the rubble. “I’ve already told you,” I insist, trying to keep the defensive edge from my voice, “we just got lucky with how some of the debris fell. When you’re desperate to save children, you don’t stop to analyze convenient openings.” My fingers fidget with the embroidery on my new tunic, pinching and releasing to ensure I don’t accidentally start drawing patterns like them. Each question feels like another step toward a precipice—not just for me but for Mairi and the others who also possess knowledge of those unknown runes. If they extract burst from me, how long until they wonder what else I might know? How long until they trace the knowledge back to its source? Would Ronain’s village becomes a battlefield between channelers vying for control of the tree and cave?

  Raaf leans forward, his meticulously trimmed beard failing to hide the predatory smile beneath. “Convenient openings that just happened to follow the most efficient path to trapped survivors? Pathways with perfectly smooth edges where debris should have created jagged barriers?” Is he for real? There is no way that the paths had perfectly smooth edges? I’m almost tempted to correct him, but I can’t help but feel it would hurt my case. Would I really have paid attention to the nature of the edges if I were just using convenient openings? His fingers tap rhythmically against the table as he builds his case with the methodical precision of someone who’s interrogated countless subjects before. “These aren’t the hallmarks of lucky breaks, but of controlled application of power—power that matches no known formation in our extensive imperial archives.” His eyes gleam with the particular excitement of an bloodhound on the verge of discovery, though the military ruthlessness behind that enthusiastic facade makes my blood run cold. I feel sweat gathering at my nape, the weight of eight additional unknown runes pressing down on me like physical stones.

  “Lieutenant Raaf,” Commander Liselotte’s sharp voice cuts through the tension like a blade, her jeweled fingers landing with surprising force on the table between us. “While your enthusiasm for discovery is commendable, perhaps we might remember that we’re questioning someone who risked her life to save children after we messed up, not a captured enemy operative.” The unexpected intercession catches me completely off-guard—these imperials questioning a prisoner less harshly because they saved League children? It makes no tactical sense. Yet Liselotte continues, her tone carrying that particular blend of command and reason that brooks no argument. “Whatever runes or formations were or weren’t employed that night, the fact remains that her actions resulted in lives saved rather than lost. There will be ample time to explore these mysteries during her training at the Academy.” Her eyes meet mine briefly, carrying a message I can’t quite decipher before she turns back to Raaf. “After all, Lieutenant, she isn’t going anywhere, is she?”

  I struggle to maintain my composure as Commander Liselotte’s words—“her actions resulted in lives saved rather than lost”—pierce through my carefully constructed defenses. A wave of crushing guilt threatens to drown me as memories flash unbidden: Mairi methodically counting the dead, Calum’s sword delivering mercy, the child screaming accusations as their world burned around them. My hands begin to tremble and I clench them tightly in my lap, desperately fighting the tears that suddenly burn behind my eyes. These imperials think I’m some kind of hero, when all I did was reduce the body count of a massacre I helped create. The bitter irony tastes like ash in my mouth as my carefully constructed mask slips for just an instant before I can force it back into place.

  I look up to find myself staring straight into Master Roelof’s weathered gaze. A gaze that never left my face during this momentary breakdown, his keen eyes missed nothing. Where the others were distracted by Liselotte’s intervention, the old academic’s attention remains fixed on me with an intensity that suggests he’s catalogued everything, every flicker of emotion I failed to conceal. Yet his face shows no judgment, no disgust at whatever truth he’s glimpsed beneath my fa?ade—just that same scholarly interest tinged now with something that might almost be compassion. He says nothing as I regain my composure, but the weight of his silent observation makes me wonder just how much he’s truly understood about what happened that night, and what role I really played in it.

  He turns suddenly to Van Hoef, his posture straightening with an authority I haven’t witnessed from him before. “As the ranking Imperial Magister present, I hereby grant this channeler full pardon for any actions she may have taken against imperial interests prior to this moment,” he declares, his voice carrying a formal weight that silences the table instantly. He glances at me, and adds, after a moments consideration, “Provided, of course, that she completes proper training at the Academy.” His tone brooks no argument, and I watch the officers’ expressions shift from surprise to careful neutrality, their military discipline reasserting itself despite the obvious questions, like they hurriedly put on their masks because it’s the only way they can stop the floodgate of questions from bursting open.

  Lieutenant Raaf’s meticulously trimmed beard fails to hide his barely suppressed exasperation as he shoots me a calculating look before addressing Master Roelof. “With all due respect, Master, this unprecedented leniency seems rather… sudden.” His careful phrasing barely masks his suspicion that something important is being concealed from him, though his tone remains deferential to the old academic’s apparent authority. Van Hoef’s face has gone completely blank, his earlier embarrassment replaced by the perfect stillness of a career soldier who’s just witnessed a superior officer break protocol in spectacular fashion but knows better than to question it openly. Around the table, the other officers maintain similarly neutral expressions, though I catch Commander Liselotte and Major Willem exchanging a brief, meaningful glance that suggests this invocation of authority is as unexpected as it is unusual.

  I stare at Master Roelof, my mind whirling with the implications of his formal pronouncement. A pardon for actions against imperial interests? Is that something he can even grant? Don’t you need like a president for that? The weight of his words sinks in slowly—he knows, or at least strongly suspects, that I was somehow involved in the warehouse explosion. Yet instead of interrogation or punishment, he’s offering protection. My bigcorp brain immediately tells me there’s a catch. Is this merely a more sophisticated trap? A way to make me reveal burst while believing I’m protected? A way to force me to comply and go to the Academy he wants me to go so much? The memory of those children we couldn’t save presses against my conscience, making the old academic’s unexpected clemency feel almost undeserved.

  Master Roelof isn’t finished, however. His weathered face hardens as he turns to Van Hoef, the academic gentleness replaced by something colder and more official. “And while we’ve tactfully avoided the subject thus far, Captain, there will be a full accounting—in more secure surroundings—regarding why materials capable of such catastrophic destruction were stored in the middle of a civilian population center.” The formal tone carries an undercurrent of genuine anger that makes the captain visibly flinch. The term ‘whipped dog’ comes strongly to mind. “Beyond the unconscionable loss of life, in more practical terms, your entire operation has been compromised while bastion soldiers swarm through the city searching for answers.” There is a flash of genuine fear on Roelof’s face as he adds, almost under his breath "And father help us all if they come up with the wrong ones.” To my surprise, Van Hoef’s expression fills with unmistakable shame, his earlier military bearing crumbling under the old man’s rebuke. Whatever else he may be thinking, he clearly holds Roelof’s opinion of him in high regard.

  The other officers shift uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging glances that speak volumes about shared culpability and anticipated consequences. Commander Liselotte’s jeweled fingers have gone completely still against her glass, while Lieutenant Raaf’s earlier enthusiasm has evaporated entirely. Even Major Willem, who’s barely spoken all evening, seems to shrink slightly under Master Roelof’s disapproving gaze. I find myself mentally reassessing the power dynamics at play—this seemingly harmless old academic clearly wields authority that transcends military rank, his displeasure carrying consequences that even these battle-hardened officers fear. For the first time since my capture, I wonder if perhaps I’ve been viewing the imperial hierarchy entirely backward, mistaking those who execute orders for those who actually wield power. Then again, there is an equal measure of shock in their faces. It may just be an unprecedented display of rage, or usage of authority for the mild mannered Roelof.

  The old man’s weathered face remains clouded with disapproval as Van Hoef straightens, his military bearing returning slowly despite the lingering tension. “I believe we’ve covered quite enough ground for one evening,” the captain announces, his tone shifting to something deliberately formal and final. “We all have duties to attend to tomorrow, and our guest has had quite the exhausting day already.” His eyes meet mine briefly, carrying a complex message I can’t fully decipher—part warning, part reassurance, and perhaps even a hint of gratitude. I maintain my careful composure as I rise from my seat. If they discover I have not just one, but eight potentially new runes etched into my memory from that inconspicous cave—especially those two impossibly complex ones I couldn’t even memorize completely—I don’t want to think about what methods they might employ to extract such knowledge. How quickly would even Roelof’s cordial treatment evaporate if they realized just how much forbidden knowledge I actually possess.