The Hall of Edicts sat at the heart of the Great Conclave, a circular chamber of white marble veined with gold, where the light of the twin suns streamed through crystalline windows to paint the floor in shifting patterns of amber and teal.
First Citizen Orin stood at the window, his back to the door, his grey robes absorbing the light rather than reflecting it.
"You know what day this is, Valdris?"
Valdris paused mid-stride, the sealed report still in his hand. "The 63rd of the third Quarter, 1830 AE, First Citizen."
"Two quarters until the election." Orin's voice was soft, almost conversational. "Two quarters until we need those thirteen votes again. And after thirty years, look—the chickens are finally strutting. Sector Lord Varn has already gobbled up three lesser seats. High Scholar Lottie's reformists are polling higher than ever. Even that Merchant Prince from Tread—what's his name?"
"Korvan Vex, First Citizen."
"Korvan Vex." Orin turned, and his pale eyes held something Valdris rarely saw: genuine worry. "A merchant. With ambitions. In any other decade, I'd laugh. But this decade? This year?" He shook his head. "Three quarters, Valdris. And every opponent I have is circling like vultures."
"The Grey Cabinet's networks are intact, First Citizen. Your position remains strong."
"Remains." Orin smiled without warmth. "Not strengthens. Not grows. Remains. That's the problem with incumbency, Valdris. You don't win by standing still. You win by giving the thirteen something they want more than change." He moved to his desk, finally noticing the scroll in Valdris's hand. "What's that?"
"Evaluator Solon's latest report on the Blackspire anomaly. The Rifter slave designated Lot 42."
Orin waved his hand. "Give me the short version. I have three more meetings before sundown."
"The subject has been confirmed as a Mark-bearer. Initial assessments suggested a Mark of Origin, but Solon believes it may be something rarer—a Progenitor pattern. The mark has already begun to stabilize, abilities to change metal properties"
Orin stopped mid-step.
"A Progenitor," he said slowly. "And Solon only tells me this now?"
"The mark's true nature is still unfolding. Solon wanted to be certain before reporting upward."
"Certain." Orin lowered himself into his chair, his expression unreadable. "Do you know what a Progenitor is worth, Valdris? Not in gold—in influence? In power?"
"I have some idea."
"No. You don't." Orin leaned forward; his pale eyes gleaming. "Three quarters until the election. Three quarters until I face Varn and Lottie and every other ambitious fool who thinks they can sit in this chair. And now—now—a Progenitor falls into my lap."
"The boy belongs to a forge master. Thorne of the Blackspire. Former Knight-Commander."
"Thorne." Orin's expression flickered—recognition, perhaps, or old memory. "The one who walked after Ashmourne."
"The same."
"Interesting." Orin was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming on the armrest. "So. A potential Progenitor, still developing. A former Knight-Commander playing protector. All happening in an election year." He looked at Valdris. "Solon's recommendation?"
"Continued observation. The subject's abilities are still emerging. Intervening now might trigger unpredictable developments."
"Observation." Orin nodded slowly. "Yes. For now. But Valdris?"
"First Citizen?"
"I want layers. Deep-spectrum monitoring of the entire Blackspire tier. Asset tracking on everyone near the boy. Names, faces, patterns—everything."
"Understood."
"If the situation escalates—if the boy's power grows beyond Solon's ability to contain—I want extraction protocols ready. Quiet. Surgical. Deniable."
"And the hound?"
"What hound?"
"The companion. A Void-Stalker emerged from the same Maelstrom. It stays with the boy constantly. Solon reports they may be bonded."
Orin's eyes narrowed. "Bonded. To a Void-Stalker." He was silent for a long moment. "Bring it too. A bonded pair is worthless broken. But if they're truly connected..." He trailed off, already calculating. "Keep me informed. And Valdris?"
"First Citizen?"
"No mistakes. The last Progenitor we missed cost us two decades of research and a facility full of dead agents." His eyes met Valdris's. "I won't lose this one. Not with three quarters left. Not with everything on the line."
Valdris bowed and withdrew.
In the corridor, he paused, looking down at the sealed report. Somewhere in the Blackspire, a boy with a glowing mark and a loyal hound was going about his life, unaware that an election three quarters away had just made him the most valuable asset in the Conclave.
Valdris allowed himself a moment of something almost like pity.
Then he moved on. There was work to do.