The Isolation Cells of the Aegis Academy were not built for comfort; they were designed to suppress the Lattice. The walls were thick slabs of salt-veined lead that hummed with a low, nauseating frequency, a sound that felt like teeth grinding against a chalkboard inside Silas's skull.
He sat on a cold stone bench, his ruined tunic damp with sweat and dried blood. The bone spool rested in his lap, its purple thread pulsing with a rhythmic, alien light. Each pulse sent a shiver of Kinetic Anticipation through his nerves, a phantom sensation of the air moving before it actually did. It was a gift from the chandelier's death, but it felt like a parasite.
The heavy iron door groaned open, sliding into the wall without a sound.
Master Varis entered first, his tall, skeletal frame silhouetted against the harsh magnesium lights of the corridor. He had replaced his broken glasses with a fresh pair of smoked lenses, and his leaden robes had been brushed clean of marble dust. Beside him, stepping with a predatory grace that made the salt-lead walls seem to recoil, was Lady Elara Valerius.
Up close, Elara was even more terrifying. Her skin was translucent, revealing the glowing, sapphire networks of her augmented veins. She smelled of ozone and expensive jasmine. She didn't look at Silas; she looked at the spool in his lap as if she were dissecting it with her eyes.
Master Varis leaned over Silas, his shadow long and thin.
The High Weavers are agitated, Scribe, Varis whispered, his voice like dry autumn leaves. A structural collapse of that magnitude should have been detected by the spire's sensors hours in advance. Yet a boy from the Sump, a boy with an F-Rank scrap of bone, saw it before the first tether snapped.
Silas looked up. Behind the smoked glass of Varis's spectacles, he saw the red numbers flickering again. The man's life was no longer in immediate danger, but his Permanence was unstable, leaking like a cracked vessel.
I told you the glass was screaming, Silas said.
The Liar's Burden tightened around his neck, a phantom noose of heat. He couldn't elaborate. He couldn't soften the blow. The truth was his only weapon, and it was a clumsy one.
Elara stepped forward, her blue silk gown shimmering as if caught in an underwater current. She reached out with a gloved hand and tilted Silas's chin upward. Her touch was ice-cold.
The glass doesn't scream, Scribe, she said, her voice a low, dangerous melody. The Lattice is a mathematical construct of memory. It doesn't have a voice. Unless, of course, you aren't hearing it with your ears.
She released his chin and turned to Varis.
His Artifact isn't a spool, Master. Look at the thread. It's drinking the ambient resonance of this room. It didn't just predict the fall; it harvested it.
Varis narrowed his eyes. Impossible. A scavenger's Husk cannot have a devouring capacity. That is a trait of Calamity-Rank Relics. This boy is a fluke, a glitch in the Dredging.
Silas felt a sharp pang in his chest. A memory of his mother's voice, singing a low lullaby in the Sump, flickered and vanished. The Skein was demanding payment for the Kinetic Anticipation it had granted him. He was becoming a hollow man, one lost memory at a time.
I am not a glitch, Silas croaked, the Truth forcing its way out. I am the only one in this room who isn't blind.
Varis's face flushed a deep, angry purple. He raised his brass rod, the tip glowing with a spark of suppressed lightning. You forget your place, rat. You are a Scribe. You exist to record our history, not to insult our sight. Tell me how you knew. Tell me the mechanic of your Husk, or I will have the Wardens peel the Lattice from your skin.
Silas looked at the rod, then at Varis. The red numbers above the Evaluator's head suddenly shifted.
[NAME: MASTER VARIS] [DEATH-SIGHT: HEART FAILURE INDUCED BY LATTICE-REJECTION] [TIME REMAINING: 00:04:30]
The man's anger was pushing his artificial Permanence to the breaking point. Varis wasn't just old; he was over-augmented, a patchwork of stolen memories held together by lead and arrogance.
You should sit down, Master Varis, Silas said, his voice flat. Your heart is trying to turn into salt.
Varis froze. The spark at the end of his rod sputtered and died. The Evaluator's hand went to his chest, his fingers clutching the leaden embroidery of his robes. He staggered back, his breathing becoming a series of wet, ragged gasps.
What... what did you...
Elara moved with a blur of speed, catching Varis before he hit the stone floor. She didn't look panicked; she looked fascinated. She stared at Silas, her iridescent emerald eyes searching his face for a lie she knew he couldn't tell.
How did you know? she demanded. There are no sensors in this cell. No medical monitors. How did you see the rejection?
Silas looked at the bone spool. The purple thread was spinning, eager to record another high-Permanence event: the death of a Head Evaluator.
Everything has a timer, Silas replied, the Liar's Burden pulsing with a dull ache. I just see the clocks.
Elara's grip on Varis tightened. She looked at the dying man, then back at Silas. A slow, terrifying smile spread across her pale lips. It wasn't a smile of kindness; it was the smile of a predator that had found a shortcut.
Master Varis is a fool, she whispered, ignoring the man's choking sounds. He thinks you are a threat to the Academy's order. I think you are the most valuable thing to come out of the Sump in a thousand years.
She reached into a hidden pocket of her gown and pulled out a small, glowing sapphire vial. She pressed it against Varis's neck, and the man's tremors began to subside as a blue liquid was injected directly into his carotid artery.
He will live, Elara said, standing up and smoothing her gown. For now. But his clock is still ticking, isn't it, Silas?
Silas nodded once. The numbers above Varis had slowed, pushing the death-timer back to three days, but the red tint remained.
Good, Elara said. Because you are going to help me. The High Clans are obsessed with Permanence, with living forever through the Lattice. But they are all rotting from the inside out. They need a Scribe who can see the rot before it reaches the surface.
She walked toward the door, then paused, looking over her shoulder. Her emerald eyes glowed with a predatory light.
Don't worry about the Isolation Cells, Silas. I'm moving you to my personal quarters. The Scriptorium can wait. We have much to discuss regarding the truth.
As she left, Silas looked down at the Skein. The purple thread was thick and heavy, saturated with the kinetic energy of the Hall and the near-death of Varis. He had survived the interrogation, but he had traded his anonymity for the attention of a monster in blue silk.
He realized then that the Academy was even more dangerous than the Sump. In the Sump, people just died. Here, they used the truth to keep you alive until you were worth more dead.
The Skein gave a sharp tug. Another memory: the sound of rain on a tin roof dissolved into ash.
Silas closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cold, salt-veined wall. He was a Scribe, and he was finally beginning to understand the weight of the ink.