Before I could formulate a polite refusal, Lord Chancellor Whitehall raised his hand, drawing attention back to himself. "What Dr. Mourne means to say is that your experience might benefit others who serve on our borders. After the audience, perhaps."

  The casual way he deferred the examination rather than dismissing it entirely confirmed my suspicions. This wasn't a routine summons—it was an assessment of my potential value to Project Wellspring.

  "I would be honored to contribute to such research," I lied smoothly, "though my schedule is rather full with court obligations during my stay."

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure moving along the edge of the chamber—a woman in traditional healing robes, her serene face somehow familiar though I couldn't place her. She caught my gaze momentarily, and something about her perfect, placid expression sent warning signals through my mind.

  "Your dedication to court protocol is admirable," the Chancellor said dryly, "though surely the advancement of healing techniques that might save your fellow knights deserves some priority?"

  The way he framed it was masterful—refusing now would mark me as selfish or suspicious. I needed a diversion, something to redirect without outright refusal.

  As if in answer to my unspoken need, I felt a surge of energy from where Sister Circe stood in the gallery. A moment later, one of the crystal chandeliers emitted a sharp crack, drawing every eye upward. No damage occurred, but the unexpected sound provided just enough distraction for me to recalibrate.

  "Perhaps a compromise," I offered as attention returned to the proceedings. "I could provide written accounts of my treatment and recovery for Dr. Mourne's research. The details of field medicine often get lost in formal reports."

  Mourne's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. Written accounts wouldn't give him what he wanted—direct access to examine me personally. His cane tapped against the floor with slightly more force than necessary.

  "Your written testimony would be... a start," he conceded. "Though I must emphasize that physical examination provides data that reports cannot capture."

  I bowed again, the perfect image of a cooperative but busy noble. "I'll endeavor to make time before my departure, circumstances permitting."

  A subtle game of defer-but-don't-deny. I had no intention of allowing Mourne anywhere near me with his instruments, but outright refusal would confirm his suspicions.

  The Lord Chancellor seemed about to press further when another noble approached the herald, apparently impatient for his own audience. Whitehall's eyes narrowed at the interruption, but court protocol dictated a certain pace to proceedings.

  "We look forward to your continued service to the crown, Lord Greywers," he said, dismissing me with practiced finality. "Please ensure your healing specialists register their credentials with the palace chamberlain before departing today."

  I backed away with appropriate deference, maintaining the precise number of steps before turning.

  As I moved toward the side of the chamber where petitioners awaited their turn or recovered from their audiences, I felt the currents beneath the floor reaching for me again—hungrier now, as though Mourne's attention had somehow activated the extraction devices Vale had mentioned.

  A court page intercepted me before I could reunite with the Sisters.

  "Lord Greywers," the young man said with a bow, "the Lord Chancellor requests your attendance at a private reception this evening. The northern salon, two hours past sunset."

  So the game wasn't over—merely moving to a more private venue. "Please convey my gratitude for the invitation. I would be honored to attend."

  The page nodded and disappeared into the crowd of courtiers. Willem materialized at my elbow, his expression grim.

  "That went about as well as stepping barefoot on a hedgehog," he muttered.

  "They know something," I agreed quietly. "Though not everything, or I'd already be strapped to one of Dr. Mourne's examination tables."

  "The Sisters?"

  "Will meet us outside. They've done something to disrupt whatever detection methods Mourne was employing."

  Willem nodded, years of military service making him adept at discreet retreats. "The Captain sent word. She's secured a more private meeting location for us to regroup. Apparently the Gilded Lance has ears in its walls."

  That didn't surprise me. The recommended accommodations for visiting nobles were undoubtedly monitored, especially for those summoned under unusual circumstances.

  As we made our way through the palace corridors toward the exit, I noticed the woman in healer's robes again, now conversing quietly with a palace guard. Something about her continued to disturb me—a perfectness to her serenity that felt rehearsed rather than genuine.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "The woman in white and blue," I murmured to Willem. "By the eastern archway. Do you recognize her?"

  Willem glanced casually in the indicated direction. "Can't say that I do. Traditional Order healer by the look of her. Why?"

  "Just a feeling," I replied, though it was more than that. Something about her resonated oddly with the currents—not like the Sisters or Magistra Vale, but in a way that felt constructed rather than natural.

  We had nearly reached the grand entrance when a familiar voice called out behind us.

  "Lord Greywers! What a delightful surprise."

  I turned to find Captain Rowan Valerius approaching, resplendent in formal court attire that probably cost more than a year's income from my lands. The golden Phoenix Collective emblem gleamed on his breast, positioned more prominently than his family crest.

  "Captain Valerius," I replied with practiced cordiality. "I wasn't aware you had been summoned to court as well."

  His perfect smile was unchanged since our training days—all flash and no substance, like a well-polished coin of questionable metal.

  "Oh, I'm frequently at court these days," he said, the casual boast delivered with practiced humility. "The Phoenix Collective values my input on military healing protocols. My family's connections have proven quite useful in advancing more efficient treatment approaches."

  Translation: his family had bought him a cushy advisory position where he could play at importance without facing actual danger.

  "How fortunate for the realm," I replied, keeping my tone just this side of sincere.

  Valerius glanced toward the audience chamber. "I saw you speaking with Dr. Mourne. Brilliant man—revolutionizing healing approaches through scientific rigor. I understand he expressed interest in your recent injury?"

  The question confirmed my suspicions. Valerius wasn't here by chance—he was another tendril of the Phoenix Collective's information-gathering apparatus.

  "A routine follow-up," I deflected. "Border knights are apparently underrepresented in their research databases."

  "Ah, but there was nothing routine about those raiders, was there?" Valerius leaned closer, dropping his voice. "Blue serum exposure is extraordinarily rare. Most recipients don't fare nearly as well as you apparently have."

  A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the palace's marble coolness. He knew. The question was whether he understood what the serum had awakened, or merely that I'd survived exposure.

  "The Royal Corps field treatment proved adequate," I maintained. "Though I've retained specialists as a precaution."

  Valerius' eyes flicked to where the Sisters waited near the entrance. "Yes, I noticed your... unconventional healers. Curious choice, given the premium care available through the Phoenix network. I could arrange a consultation with our specialists, as a personal favor."

  "Most generous," I replied, "but unnecessary. My current arrangements are satisfactory."

  His smile tightened fractionally. "Well, should you reconsider, the offer stands. The Phoenix Collective takes particular interest in unusual cases—our resources for research far exceed those of independent practitioners."

  The threat beneath the offer was about as subtle as a mace to the face. I forced a smile of my own.

  "I'll certainly keep that in mind, Captain. Now if you'll excuse me, I have several appointments to keep."

  As we parted ways, I felt his eyes following me—calculating, assessing, reporting back to masters whose interests extended far beyond mere healing.

  Outside the palace, the Sisters rejoined us, tension visible in their postures despite their attempts at discretion.

  "Dr. Mourne attempted an energy signature reading," Morgana reported quietly as we descended the steps. "The detection probability reached seventy-eight percent before our countermeasures diverted his instruments."

  "I scrambled his pretty toys with a resonance disruptor," Circe added with poorly suppressed glee. "Should've seen his face when the readings went all squiggly! Like someone had replaced his dinner with live frogs!"

  "The extraction devices beneath the audience chamber are more powerful than anticipated," Hekate said, her formal bearing returning now that we were away from court observers. "They hunger with unnatural intensity—a system pushed beyond sustainable limits."

  "Magistra Vale's assessment was correct," I concluded. "The convergence is failing. They're desperately seeking alternatives."

  "With thee as a potential solution," Hekate confirmed grimly. "The patterns of their questioning reveal their intent clearly enough."

  "And now I've been invited to a private reception with the Lord Chancellor," I added. "Two hours past sunset."

  The Sisters exchanged concerned glances.

  "A seventy-two percent probability of direct recruitment attempt," Morgana calculated. "They'll offer research partnership first, emphasizing patriotic duty and generous compensation."

  "And if that fails?" Willem asked, though his expression suggested he already knew the answer.

  "Alternative acquisition methods," Morgana replied clinically. "The Phoenix Collective maintains several research facilities beyond conventional oversight."

  A polite way of saying they'd kidnap me for dissection if persuasion failed. The reality of my situation was becoming clearer with each passing hour.

  "We need to meet with Captain Dureforge and formulate a response strategy," I decided. "Where has she arranged for us to convene?"

  Willem glanced around to ensure we weren't overheard. "An establishment called The Crooked Quill. Apparently it caters to military officers of a certain... independent mindset."

  As we made our way through the capital's streets, I found myself unconsciously following the currents again, sensing how they flowed around barriers and converged at certain points. With each step, my awareness of the city's underlying energy structure grew clearer.

  I also became increasingly certain we were being followed—not physically, but through the currents themselves. Something or someone was tracking our movement through the energy flows, maintaining just enough distance to avoid detection.

  The court appearance had accomplished one thing with absolute clarity: I was now firmly established as a person of interest to the Phoenix Collective. Their attention, once a vague concern, had crystallized into active pursuit.

  And somewhere beneath the palace, the greatest convergence in the kingdom continued to fail, its energies desperately devoured by those who couldn't—or wouldn't—see the consequences of their actions.