I'd attended enough court functions to know that genuine power rarely announced itself with trumpets. It whispered from shadowed alcoves, traded pleasantries with poisoned undertones, and smiled most broadly when plotting your downfall.

  The palace of Veritas exemplified this principle. Its grandeur—soaring marble columns, intricate tapestries depicting historical victories, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across polished floors—existed primarily to intimidate those unused to such splendor.

  Like most noble facades, its beauty served to distract from the rot beneath.

  And rot there was.

  As I ascended the grand staircase toward the audience chamber, the currents beneath the palace screamed at me. The great convergence Magistra Vale had shown on her map pulsed beneath my feet like a wound struggling to heal. Where there should have been harmonious flow, I sensed jagged disruptions—energy being forcibly extracted rather than guided.

  "Stop grimacing like you've bitten into a rotten apple," Willem muttered beside me, his court attire sitting on his weathered frame with all the comfort of a torture device. "Half the court's already staring."

  "Can you feel it?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "The wrongness beneath us?"

  Willem's eyes darted to the guards positioned along the corridor. "All I feel is that this doublet is trying to strangle me. Focus on the task at hand, my lord."

  He was right, of course. The Sisters had worked through half the night preparing me for this appearance—Morgana calculating the optimal positions and responses, Circe treating my formal attire with compounds that would mask my energetic signature, and Hekate providing warding tokens disguised as fashionable accessories.

  All would be wasted if I couldn't maintain basic composure.

  Captain Dureforge had declined to join us, citing her need to deliver urgent reports to military superiors. In truth, I suspected she was making discreet inquiries about Phoenix operations. The captain's metal hand had connections to alternative practitioners—perhaps some of the same networks the Twilight Covenant utilized.

  As we approached the massive doors to the audience chamber, a court herald intercepted us.

  "Lord Magius Greywers," he proclaimed, examining me with the practiced disdain of a man who announced fifty nobles more important than me before breakfast. "Knight-Protector of the Southern Marches. And..." His eyes shifted to the Sisters, who had maintained a respectful distance behind me.

  "My personal healing specialists," I supplied smoothly. "Retained following a significant injury during border defense operations."

  Sister Morgana stepped forward, her silver crescent tattoo cleverly concealed beneath a dusting of cosmetic powder. She'd abandoned her modified habit for the attire of a respectable court physician—subdued colors and practical cut, but with subtle touches that suggested professional standing.

  "We have the necessary credentials," she said, producing documentation that looked impressively official. "Fully registered with the Royal College under specialized practice exemptions."

  The herald examined their papers with narrowed eyes. I could almost see the calculations running behind them—weighing the risk of offending a minor noble against the possibility of allowing improper elements into court. Finally, institutional caution won out.

  "These practitioners must remain in the physicians' gallery," he declared. "Only titled nobility and officially sanctioned royal personnel may approach the throne directly."

  "Of course," I agreed before Morgana could argue. "They're here merely as a precaution should my injury require attention."

  The herald nodded stiffly and returned their documentation. "You will be announced shortly. The Lord Chancellor is conducting today's audience in His Majesty's absence."

  Now that was interesting. The king rarely attended routine court functions, true, but the Lord Chancellor personally handling a minor border lord's appearance suggested political currents I hadn't anticipated.

  As the herald moved away, Morgana stepped closer. "This alters probabilities," she murmured. "Lord Chancellor Whitehall sits on the Phoenix Collective's governing board."

  "Precisely how unfavorable does that make our position?" I asked, keeping my expression pleasantly neutral for any observers.

  "Sixty-three percent likelihood of direct questioning about your condition," she replied. "Eighty-seven percent probability that Dr. Mourne will be present as scientific advisor."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "Delightful," I sighed. "Any advice beyond 'don't start glowing in front of the assembled nobility'?"

  "Maintain minimal contact with the floor whenever possible," Hekate whispered, her archaic speech patterns temporarily abandoned for court propriety. "The extraction devices beneath the audience chamber will attempt to assess your connection to the currents."

  Before I could ask how one avoids touching floors while walking, the great doors swung open. The herald's voice rang out, announcing a series of minor nobles and petitioners ahead of me. I noticed the Sisters exchanging glances before they wordlessly separated, each moving toward different sections of the physicians' gallery that overlooked the main chamber.

  "They're positioning themselves for optimal coverage," Willem observed, his military training recognizing a tactical deployment when he saw one. "What exactly are we expecting to happen in there?"

  "With any luck, nothing at all," I replied. "But luck has been in short supply lately."

  When my name finally echoed through the vaulted chamber, I stepped forward with the practiced poise that had been drilled into me since childhood. Back straight, chin level, stride confident but not aggressive. The dance of court appearances was as choreographed as any battlefield maneuver, and often more dangerous.

  The audience chamber stretched before me like a theater designed by someone with delusions of divinity. Massive columns supported a ceiling painted with mythological scenes, strategic skylights creating the impression that divine light illuminated the royal dais.

  Courtiers lined the sides, their finery a riot of competing colors and styles that somehow managed to present a unified front of wealth and privilege.

  And above it all, on the dais where the throne usually dominated, stood a simple yet elegant chair. In it sat Lord Chancellor Dominic Whitehall, a man whose perfectly coiffed white hair and immaculate attire communicated more authority than a dozen royal symbols could have achieved.

  At his right hand stood a figure I immediately recognized from Vale's description—distinguished, bearded, carrying a silver-tipped cane that I knew instinctively was more than a walking aid. Dr. Sebastian Mourne, head researcher for Project Wellspring and the man who had dissected others like me in search of our secrets.

  "Lord Greywers," the Chancellor called, his voice carrying the precise tenor of command without shouting. "We welcome you to court. I trust your journey from the marches was uneventful?"

  The way he emphasized "uneventful" sent ice through my veins. Did he know about the mercenaries? The ambush? How much information did the Phoenix Collective share with its board members?

  "As uneventful as border roads ever are, Lord Chancellor," I replied, bowing with just the right degree of deference—enough to show respect for his office without suggesting I considered myself truly inferior. "Though I'm honored by your personal attention to my summons."

  A murmur rippled through the assembled courtiers. The Chancellor rarely conducted routine audiences himself. My presence had been elevated from administrative formality to political theater, and no one quite understood why.

  "Your duties as Knight-Protector naturally concern this council," Whitehall said smoothly. "Particularly given recent reports of unusual activity along the southern border."

  I maintained my neutral expression, though my heart accelerated. I'd prepared answers about routine bandit activity and resource allocation. "Unusual activity" suggested they knew far more than they should.

  "I've submitted detailed reports through military channels," I hedged. "Though I'd be happy to address any specific concerns."

  The Chancellor's smile never reached his eyes. "Dr. Mourne has been analyzing patterns of incursion along our borders. He's identified certain... distinctive elements in the southern marches."

  Mourne stepped forward, his bearing more scholarly than courtly, but no less dangerous for it. His cane tapped lightly against the marble floor as he descended a single step from the dais.

  "Lord Greywers," he began, his voice cultured and precise, "your recent reports mention raiders carrying unknown alchemical substances. I'd be most interested in hearing your firsthand observations of these materials."

  And there it was—the trap laid bare. They knew about the blue serum. They probably knew I'd been exposed. The question was: how much did they know about its effects?

  I felt a sudden warmth from one of Hekate's warding tokens concealed in my sleeve. A warning? Or protection activating? I couldn't be sure, but I took it as a signal to tread carefully.

  "My observations were limited," I replied. "The raiders carried glass vials containing a luminescent blue substance. When one broke during combat, it caused disturbing transformative effects on one of the raiders. I included these details in my report to Captain Dureforge."

  "Yes, Captain Dureforge," Mourne said, twirling his cane thoughtfully. "A most competent officer, though perhaps somewhat... independent in her judgments. I understand you were injured during this encounter?"

  The token in my sleeve grew warmer. Something was happening—some kind of detection attempt, perhaps. I shifted my weight, remembering Hekate's advice about minimizing contact with the floor. The currents beneath my feet surged in response, as though reaching for me.

  "A crossbow bolt," I confirmed. "Standard field treatment from the Royal Corps addressed it adequately."

  "Did it?" Mourne's eyes gleamed with predatory interest. "Fascinating. Our analysis suggests exposure to the substance might complicate conventional healing approaches. Yet you appear in exceptional health."

  I felt a presence at the edge of my awareness—Sister Morgana, her probability manipulation subtly altering the flow of conversation, nudging Mourne away from dangerous specifics. At the same time, something warm and steady emanated from where Hekate stood, strengthening the wards that protected me from whatever Mourne's cane was attempting to detect.

  "The Royal Corps may have its administrative shortcomings," I said with practiced self-deprecation, "but their battlefield medicine remains effective. I've always responded well to standard treatments."

  "Have you indeed?" Mourne smiled, and I was reminded of a serpent considering its prey. "Perhaps you'd permit my team to conduct a short examination? Purely for research purposes, you understand. The Phoenix Collective is developing enhanced treatments for our soldiers, and successful cases provide valuable data."