The iron coin felt cold in Caspian's pocket, a heavy reminder that he was being hunted—or recruited. Back inside the clinic, the smell of copper and chemicals was stifling. Kael had fallen asleep in the corner, his breathing shallow and rhythmic.
Caspian sat at his desk, the Prism of the First Dawn resting before him. It was dull now, looking like nothing more than a piece of sea-glass, but he knew better. He reached out and touched the apex of the crystal, closing his eyes.
Enter.
The transition was smoother this time. The nausea was gone, replaced by a sense of homecoming. The obsidian floors of the Silent Gallery stretched out into the gloom, and the air—if one could call it that—tasted of old parchment and ozone.
Caspian walked toward the center of the hall. With a mere thought, a grand mahogany table manifested, surrounded by high-backed chairs made of translucent glass. At the head of the table sat his throne of blackened bone.
He sat, and the Vellum of Souls unfurled before him like a loyal servant.
"It is time," Caspian whispered.
He visualized the "Spirit Threads" he had anchored during the first accidental meeting. He felt the pull—one in the upper-city of Aethelgard, pulsing with the frantic energy of a trapped bird; the other in the military barracks of the Iron Belt, steady and smoldering like a dying coal.
He tugged.
The Summoning
Two pillars of grey mist erupted from the floor.
The woman appeared first. In the physical world, she was Lady Elara, the daughter of a high-ranking Archon. Here, she was "Marble." Her form was white and polished, though cracks webbed across her throat where she felt the suffocating pressure of her family's expectations.
The man followed. He was "Ash," the tattered soldier. His form was a silhouette of grey flakes that drifted off his body as if he were being consumed by an invisible fire.
"The Curator," Marble whispered, her voice echoing. She gripped the edge of the glass table. "It's real. I thought... I thought it was a hallucination brought on by the Oxygen-Deprivation."
"Reality is a matter of perspective," Caspian said, his voice distorted by the Gallery's acoustics, sounding ancient and multifaceted. "Welcome back to the Silent Gallery."
Ash didn't speak immediately. He looked at his hands—hands that were solid here, unlike the shaking, scarred limbs he possessed in the barracks. "You called us. Why?"
"Knowledge is the only currency that matters in a world that is sinking," Caspian said. "I require information. In exchange, I offer the means to survive the coming 'Awakening.'"
Marble flinched at the word Awakening. As a noble, she had heard whispers in the inner sanctums of the Church. "You know about the Great Awakening? They say it's the day the Iron Lung becomes a Sun."
"They lie," Caspian said coldly. "The Iron Lung is not a savior; it is a mouth. And it is getting hungry."
The silence that followed was heavy. Caspian let the weight of the truth sink in. He needed them desperate.
"I need to know about the Governor's Masquerade," Caspian continued. "Specifically, about an artifact called the 'Tongue of the Silent King.'"
Marble's form shimmered. "The Governor... he's my uncle. The Masquerade is a front. He's hosting a 'Grafting Ceremony' for the elite. The Tongue is the primary catalyst. They say it allows a person to speak the language of the Void-Beasts without losing their mind."
"And the security?" Ash asked, his military instincts kicking in.
"The Clockwork Sentinels," Marble replied. "And a high-ranking Inquisitor of the Path of the Iron Lung. His name is Father Vane. He can pull the air right out of a man's chest from fifty paces."
The Trade
Caspian nodded. He reached into the "void" of the table and produced a shimmering blue shard—a fragment of the Void-Stray's heart he had processed within the Gallery's logic.
"This is a Stabilizing Remnant," Caspian said, sliding it toward Ash. "It will stop your 'Ash-Degradation' for one month. In exchange, you will provide me with a map of the Governor's manor and the patrol routes of the Clockwork Sentinels."
Ash reached for the shard with a trembling hand. As he touched it, his form solidified. The falling flakes stopped. "Done."
Caspian turned to Marble. "For you, Lady Marble, I offer a secret. The 'Path of the Weaver' which you are currently struggling to walk is flawed. Your family gave you a corrupted potion. That is why your throat is cracking."
Marble gasped, her hands flying to her neck. "How did you...?"
"In this Gallery, I see the truth of your soul. To fix it, you must consume the 'Dew of a Glass-Rose' before the next full moon. I can tell you where to find one, but you must find a way to get me an invitation to the Masquerade. Under a pseudonym."
"I can do that," Marble said, her voice filled with a new, fierce hope. "I will list you as a 'Plague Doctor' from the Western Isles. They are common enough that no one will question the mask."
The Shadow of the Monocle
As the meeting concluded and Caspian prepared to sever the connection, a sudden chill swept through the Gallery.
The obsidian floor rippled.
A third pillar of mist began to form, unbidden. It wasn't grey like the others; it was a sickly, clockwork gold.
Caspian stood up from his throne, his Indigo eyes flashing. Who is invading my space?
The mist didn't form a full body. Instead, a giant, spectral Clockwork Monocle appeared, hovering in the air at the far end of the table. It whirred, the lenses clicking as it zoomed in on Caspian.
"So," a familiar, playful voice echoed through the Gallery. It was the man in the white suit from the alleyway. "This is where you hide your little collection, Curator. Impressive. A bit gothic for my taste, but the architecture is... divine."
Marble and Ash cried out, their forms flickering as the intruder's presence destabilized their connection.
"Leave," Caspian commanded, slamming his hand onto the table. The Vellum of Souls flared with a blinding light.
"Oh, don't be like that," the voice chuckled. "I'm just a 'Truth-Seeker' doing my job. You have a beautiful Gallery, Caspian Thorne. I look forward to seeing what you add to it after the Masquerade. Just remember... someone is always watching the watchman."
With a sound like a ticking clock shattering, the monocle vanished.
Caspian stood alone in the silence. His heart was hammering against his ribs. The intruder hadn't just found him; he had bypassed the Gallery's defenses as if they were nothing.
He looked at the Vellum. A new line had appeared at the very bottom, written in a gold ink that seemed to be made of tiny, turning gears:
[Warning: An 'Observer' has marked this Gallery. Sequence 7: The Clockwork Spy.]
Caspian took a deep breath, grounding himself. The stakes had just escalated. He wasn't just a doctor or a scavenger anymore. He was a piece on a board, and the game had begun in earnest.
"Kael was right," Caspian whispered to the empty hall. "The air is getting thin."