CHAPTER 3.5 — After the Applause
The Spires didn't cheer.
They exhaled.
The crystal towers shimmered as the last remnants of glitter drifted away, light settling back into flattering angles, bridges re-solidifying as if embarrassed by how close they'd come to nonexistence.
I stood very still, afraid that if I moved too quickly, reality might remember I was just a librarian and collapse out of spite.
My coat dimmed, the impossible confidence draining away like a sugar high. The silver streaks in my hair faded to something closer to my usual forgettable brown.
"Oh thank the archives," I muttered. "I was starting to feel like I owned a scarf collection."
Puck snorted from my shoulder. "You absolutely would."
Valerius sheathed her rapier with deliberate calm, though I noticed the faint tremor in her fingers. The High Marshal of the Spires—Protector of the Aesthetic—had faced gods, monsters, and fashion critics.
But she was looking at me like she wasn't sure which category I fell into.
"You should sit," she said. Not an order. A suggestion. "The Spires punish hubris with gravity."
"I'm good," I lied, legs wobbling.
I sat.
The terrace responded, a crystalline bench forming beneath me with impeccable timing. Even the furniture here had better manners than I did.
Silence stretched.
Not awkward—charged.
The kind that comes after something has gone very wrong but survived anyway.
"I didn't know," Valerius said finally, standing beside the railing. "That the Ninth Shard would manifest like that."
"Neither did I," I admitted. "I was mostly improvising and hoping reality shared my sense of humor."
She huffed—a sound suspiciously close to laughter.
"That was not humor," she said. "That was blasphemy, weaponized."
"High praise coming from the woman who tried to kill me over a cardigan."
She glanced at me sideways. "I still might."
Fair.
Below us, the Spires continued their elegant routines, citizens cautiously resuming their glides and poses, pretending they hadn't just watched an Overseer get bullied into a personality.
"They saw," Valerius said quietly. "What you did."
"Great," I said. "I hate witnesses."
"They'll talk," she continued. "The Curator's enemies. His rivals. His collectors. You didn't just defend the Spires, Arthur Vane. You announced yourself."
I leaned back, staring up at the now-mercifully-blue sky.
"I didn't want to be anything," I said. "I wanted a sandwich and a quiet afternoon."
Her eyes softened—just a fraction.
"That's usually how legends start," she said. "With irritation."
Puck yawned. "Can we get moving before the next wave of existential paperwork arrives?"
Valerius nodded. "We can't stay. The Spires are compromised now."
She hesitated, then added, "Because of you."
"Still apologizing or should I be flattered?"
She turned to face me fully.
For the first time, she wasn't armored by rank or posture. Just a woman with stained-glass wings catching the light in a way that felt… vulnerable.
"I'm trying to decide," she said honestly, "if you're a miracle or a liability."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
Her lips twitched.
Just barely.
That felt like a win.
A distant hum rolled across the sky—low, patient, furious.
Puck's fur stood on end. "That's not Janitors," he said. "That's the sound of someone filing a complaint."
Valerius stiffened. "The Curator."
The light above the Spires warped—not erased this time, but measured. Like a gaze sliding across a gallery.
I felt the Shard pulse behind my eyes.
And something else.
A weight.
Not pain.
Attention.
"I don't like that," I whispered.
"No," Valerius agreed softly. "Neither do I."
She stepped closer—close enough that I could feel warmth radiating from her wings. Not deliberately intimate.
Protective.
"You're exhausted," she said. "Your power is loud right now. If the Curator pushes again—"
"I won't be able to pull off another fashion miracle," I finished.
"Correct."
We stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring into the sky that was pretending to be innocent.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "you fought beautifully."
I blinked.
That… landed harder than expected.
"Thank you," I said, then ruined it immediately. "I was mostly panicking."
"That's the best kind of courage."
Puck cleared his throat loudly. "As touching as this is, I would like to point out that the Curator does not strike twice in the same place."
The sky darkened again.
Not blank.
Targeted.
A tear opened at the edge of the horizon—green, oily, wrong.
Valerius's jaw tightened. "The Slipstreams are destabilizing."
"Meaning?" I asked.
"Meaning we run," she said. "Now."
She grabbed my wrist.
And didn't let go.
"For the record," I said as we started moving, "this is the fastest I've ever escalated from 'civil servant' to 'multiversal problem.'"
Puck grinned. "You're doing great, Artie."
The tear widened.
Something was coming through.
And this time—
It wasn't here to be impressed.