The Arcanist's staff hums like a hive inches from my chest. The rings around its head spin faster the longer it hovers, singing against the fire inside me. The vibration crawls into my ribs, tugging at the heat buried there, urging it to surface.
My fingers twitch. Shadows stir at my ankles, thin as smoke. The part of me that was once a girl eating stew on a chipped table says: Stay calm. Don't move. But the other part—the new part, the hungry part—whispers: Break him. Break them all. Show them.
I grind my teeth and hold still.
"Stable?" the winter-haired Arcanist finally says, his tone smooth and dangerous. "You call this stable?"
Captain Rhosyn doesn't flinch. "She restrained herself when provoked. That's more discipline than most vessels."
The Arcanist chuckles without warmth. His eyes dissect me the way butchers look at meat—clinical, detached. "No vessel who drinks the field is stable."
The Scribe beside him scratches notes across a glass tablet. Every stroke burns faint runes into the surface. His lips move as he mutters: Unauthorized emergence… Abyssal Authority core… rank SSS+.
Each word feels like a shackle locking onto me. My fists curl until my nails bite my palms.
"I am not your subject," I snap. My voice comes out sharper, heavier, as if carrying more weight than it should. The staff rings flare in answer, hungry for the sound.
The Arcanist's smile deepens. "Good. A will of iron. That makes this interesting."
"Enough," Rhosyn says, her blade-hand tightening at her hip. "What's your intention?"
"Observation. Containment, if necessary. Bastion has rules." His gaze pins me. "And the Tower has never measured beyond SSS. Which means this girl is either a miracle…" His staff dips closer, and the rings glow hotter. "…or a catastrophe."
Heat pools in my throat. I want to tell him to choose his words carefully. But I bite it back. Let them think me quiet. Let them think me tame. For now.
He lowers the staff. "Bring her. The Council must see this."
We walk Bastion's streets in formation. Guards ahead, Arcanists flanking, Rhosyn at my side like a blade drawn but not yet used.
The city is larger than anything I've seen—tiered streets winding up the cliffside, market stalls spilling spice-scented smoke, banners snapping from rooftops. Smiths hammer iron in rhythm, priests chant prayers that weave like thread, children run barefoot through squares marked with chalk games.
But when their eyes fall on me, the world changes. Whispers rise, fingers point. A merchant drops his basket of figs, staring. A pair of soldiers step aside, their hands twitching toward hilts without realizing it. Some lower their gazes instantly, as if something about me demands submission.
The air bends around me. My aura—my curse.
We reach the Tower. Up close, it is impossible. Black glass climbs higher than clouds, streaked with veins of copper that glow faintly like lightning frozen mid-flash. Its gates are iron doors etched with a forest of runes. They thrum angrily as I step closer, as if straining against their own design.
Inside, the air is colder, thinner. Every wall hums with centuries of layered wards, yet when I pass, they flicker faintly, threads straining as though I've unsettled their roots. I smile despite myself.
The Council Chamber is round, its floor polished obsidian, its ceiling lost in shadow. Ten thrones line the curve of the wall. Ten figures sit cloaked in darkness and authority. Some wear robes heavy with sigils, others armor inlaid with copper and silver. Their eyes glint faintly—some curious, some fearful, some cold with calculation.
"Report," one intones. His voice rattles like old stone.
The Arcanist bows. "As registered. Emergence through a dormant gate. Rank confirmed: SSS+. Core: Abyssal Authority. Vessel claims the name Veyra Ambrose."
Murmurs spread, rising like a tide. The word Abyssal is spat by one, whispered like a curse by another.
A councilor leans forward, pale hands gripping the arm of his throne. His gaze pierces me. "Girl. Do you understand what you are?"
I meet his eyes and hold them. My voice is low, steady, sharp. "I understand this. I died once. I will not be weak again."
Silence falls. Then, soft laughter from the far side of the chamber. A woman reclines lazily in her throne, her eyes gleaming with interest. "Fire in her," she says. "I like her already."
"Fire can be dangerous," another snaps. "Especially when it burns without control."
"She restrained herself," Rhosyn cuts in. "Even when provoked."
"Provoked?" the pale councilor scoffs. "She flared against Arcanist wards and drained the field. That is not restraint. That is hunger."
They argue, voices layering: threat, weapon, asset, monster. I stand still, refusing to bow, refusing to cower.
Finally, the eldest of them rises. His cloak is stitched with runes so old they glow faint gold, ancient as carved bone. His voice is dry as dust, but every syllable carries authority.
"Enough."
The chamber stills instantly.
"She will not be caged. Not yet. To waste potential is folly. But she will be tested." His gaze, sharp as a blade, locks on me. "If she survives, she earns her place in Bastion. If she fails…" His lips curl faintly. "…then we seal the gate she crawled from and scatter her ashes."
The decision hangs in the air like a guillotine.
The Arcanist smirks, satisfied. Rhosyn's jaw tightens but she says nothing.
And me? My shadows stir, curling like smoke at my feet, eager.
Test me, I think, pulse quickening. I dare you.