The Crooked Quill occupied that perfect middle ground between respectability and discretion—clean enough for officers to frequent without tarnishing their reputations, disreputable enough that conversations held within its walls weren't likely to reach aristocratic ears.

  The painted sign above the door featured a quill that appeared to be writing by itself, though years of weathering had blurred the enchantment into obscurity.

  Captain Dureforge awaited us in a private back room that smelled pleasantly of pipe smoke and less pleasantly of whatever had been spilled on the floorboards over decades of military conspiracies. Her metal hand tapped an impatient rhythm on the scarred table.

  "Based on your expressions," she observed dryly as we entered, "I assume court went precisely as well as stepping barefoot into a nest of angry scorpions."

  "Your metaphors grow more colorful with each passing hour, Captain," I replied, dropping into a chair with far less grace than I'd maintained at court. Now that we were relatively safe, the strain of maintaining appearances had left me exhausted. "Were you watching?"

  "Didn't need to. The palace guards' rotation shifted twice during your audience—standard procedure when someone of interest appears at court." She flexed her metal fingers meaningfully. "I still have contacts in the royal guard who remember which officers actually bleed for the realm versus those who merely profit from it."

  "Mourne's detection equipment nearly penetrated our countermeasures," Morgana added, arranging herself precisely in a chair that had clearly never known mathematical alignment. "Eighty-three percent probability that he obtained partial readings despite our interference."

  Dureforge's eyebrows rose fractionally. "You actually quantify everything, don't you?"

  "Precision improves outcomes," Morgana replied without inflection.

  Circe bounced around the room, examining dusty bottles behind the bar and poking at the faded paintings that adorned the walls. "This place has delicious energy residue! Like licking history off the walls—not that I would, that was just metaphorical, though I did try that once in an ancient temple and saw the most extraordinary purple elephants for three days straight—"

  "Circe," Hekate's gentle admonition brought the alchemist's rambling to a merciful end.

  Willem latched the door behind the Sisters, then took up position beside it like the veteran sentinel he was. "We've picked up shadows," he reported. "Two observers followed us from the palace—one taking the rooftops, another blending with the market crowds."

  "Phoenix containment specialists," Morgana confirmed, closing her eyes momentarily to calculate. "Eighty-nine percent certainty based on movement patterns and coordination protocols."

  I rubbed my temples, where a headache had been building since leaving the palace. The currents beneath the city never stopped calling to me now, their whispers a constant background noise only I could hear. "So I've graduated from person of interest to actively surveilled target. Splendid."

  Captain Dureforge leaned forward, her face carved with lines of concern that military stoicism couldn't entirely conceal. "My sources confirm what your... specialists... have suggested. Project Wellspring isn't just about finding new energy sources—it's about redirecting existing ones. They're attempting to save the palace convergence by channeling energy from other sites."

  "Robbing smaller villages to feed the capital," I translated.

  "With potentially catastrophic consequences," Sister Hekate added, her voice dropping into its ancient cadence. "The currents form a interconnected network. Forcible redirection disrupts natural balance, causing cascading failures throughout the system."

  Circe bounced nervously on her chair, her eyes cycling through shades of agitated purple. "It's like trying to reroute a river by punching holes in the ground! Might work for a little while, but then whoosh! Everything goes sideways and you're drowning in your own clever solution!"

  "The Lord Chancellor's private reception presents both danger and opportunity," Morgana observed, fingers arranging probability tokens in complex patterns. "Seventy-three percent likelihood they will reveal specific details about their methods and objectives, believing recruitment has high probability of success."

  "Information we need," I acknowledged, "but at considerable personal risk." I turned to Dureforge. "What's your assessment, Captain? You've dealt with Phoenix operations longer than I have."

  Her metal hand stilled its tapping. "They want to turn you into a tool—a dowsing rod for magical energy at best, a laboratory specimen at worst. The reception will be staffed with their people, the wine likely containing compliance agents to make you more... receptive to their proposals."

  "Delightful," I muttered. "And declining the invitation would only accelerate their timeline for 'alternative acquisition methods.'"

  "Precisely." She reached into her jacket and withdrew a folded parchment. "However, I've received orders that might provide a temporary shield."

  I took the document, noting the royal seal. Inside was a formal requisition for military intelligence regarding southern border activities—specifically requesting my presence at headquarters for a detailed briefing.

  "This is genuine?" I asked, surprised.

  "Completely legitimate. Border security concerns have indeed risen to levels warranting official inquiry." Dureforge's smile held no warmth. "The fact that this inquiry happens to coincide with Phoenix interest in you is... fortuitous timing."

  I examined the order more carefully. "This requests my presence immediately following my court appearance, which would make attending the Chancellor's reception impossible without directly contravening a military directive."

  "A bureaucratic shield," Dureforge confirmed. "Temporary, but it provides breathing room to formulate a more permanent strategy."

  I glanced at Morgana, who was already calculating probabilities. "An effective delay tactic," she agreed. "Phoenix operations typically avoid direct confrontation with military authority—eighty-four percent probability they will defer rather than escalate."

  The solution seemed almost too neat. "And you just happened to have this ready?"

  "I requested it," Dureforge admitted. "When it became clear the Phoenix was targeting you specifically. Military needs superseding political interests is one of the few protections left in this kingdom."

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I felt a surge of gratitude toward this gruff, practical woman who'd gone out of her way to shield a minor noble who'd once served under her command. It was a reminder that honor still existed in some quarters, even as institutions crumbled around us.

  "There's something else we need to address," I said, turning to the Sisters. "The archives—I need access to historical records about the convergence beneath the palace, and about my family's connection to it."

  "Historical research at this juncture presents significant risk," Morgana cautioned. "Library activities are monitored for subjects of interest."

  "There are alternatives to the public archives," Sister Hekate suggested. "The Covenant maintains its own historical repositories, though less comprehensive than royal collections."

  I shook my head. "We need primary sources—original documentation of how the palace convergence was established and how it connects to other current systems. If the Phoenix is attempting to redirect energy flows, we need to understand how they were originally created."

  "Why?" Dureforge asked bluntly.

  "Because my bloodline apparently had something to do with creating them," I replied. "The Sisters and Magistra Vale have hinted at it, but no one's been forthcoming with details. If I'm to have any chance of understanding what's happening to me, I need to know what my ancestors did."

  Dureforge considered this, then nodded. "There's a secondary archive in the east wing of the palace. Military records primarily, but they include historical accounts of infrastructure development—including magical infrastructure."

  "Which would normally be inaccessible to someone of my rank," I pointed out.

  "Normally," she agreed. "But your new orders include authorization for research pertinent to your briefing. Border security includes magical boundary systems, after all."

  Willem gave a soft chuckle. "Creative interpretation of military directives, Captain. I approve."

  "I can guide you there," Dureforge continued. "My clearance will handle most questions. The Sisters should remain at distance—their presence would raise too many flags."

  "I'll accompany Lord Greywers," Morgana stated rather than suggested. "Statistical analysis indicates a seventy-seven percent probability of detection systems within the archives—systems I can better counteract through proximity."

  Dureforge's eyes narrowed, but she didn't argue. "The rest remain here. We'll return before sundown."

  Circe looked ready to protest, but Hekate placed a restraining hand on her arm. "The Captain's assessment is sound. Our combined presence would draw unwanted attention. Sister Morgana's abilities are best suited to this particular endeavor."

  With that settled, I rose to leave, but Hekate caught my sleeve. "A word of caution, Lord Greywers. The knowledge you seek may reveal uncomfortable truths about your lineage. The Ley Line Walker bloodlines did not always use their gifts as the Covenant would prefer."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning power corrupts regardless of its source," she replied gravely. "And those who walk between worlds often forget their obligations to this one."

  ***

  The eastern archives smelled of dust, leather, and secrets. Unlike the grand public library with its soaring ceilings and ornate reading rooms, this repository occupied a warren of interconnected chambers deep within the palace's older sections.

  Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with bound volumes, scrolls, and folios organized according to some arcane system comprehensible only to the gaunt archivists who haunted the narrow aisles.

  Captain Dureforge's military clearance gained us entry with minimal questions, though the chief archivist—a skeletal man with spectacles that magnified his eyes to insectile proportions—regarded Morgana with undisguised suspicion.

  "Military research only," he reminded us with the fervor of a priest defending sacred texts. "Historical infrastructure records are in Section Fourteen-B. Magical boundary documentation requires additional clearance forms, which I've taken the liberty of preparing."

  He pushed a stack of paperwork toward us with the air of someone who considered bureaucracy the highest form of security.

  "Thank you for your thoroughness," I said, signing where indicated without bothering to read the dense text. In my experience, archive permissions were like ladies' corsets—designed to restrict access while maintaining the appearance of flexibility.

  Once the formalities concluded, we were led to a reading room furnished with a heavy oak table and uncomfortable chairs apparently designed to discourage extended research. Morgana immediately placed several small objects at the corners of the table—probability anchors disguised as common items like inkwells and paperweights.

  "Detection countermeasures," she murmured when the archivist departed. "They'll create statistical uncertainty around our specific areas of interest."

  Captain Dureforge positioned herself near the door, metal hand resting casually near her sword hilt. "We have two hours before suspicions rise. Make them count."

  With Morgana's guidance, I requested volumes that seemed innocuous enough individually but would collectively reveal what we sought. Military records of palace renovations from three centuries prior. Engineering assessments of foundational integrity following the Great Tremor of 451. Boundary maintenance protocols from the early days of the kingdom.

  "Start with these," Morgana suggested, indicating a set of leather-bound journals. "Engineer-Mage Thaddeus Corrington's field notes during the reign of King Alaric II. He supervised major renovations to the palace foundations."

  I opened the first volume carefully, its pages brittle with age. Corrington's handwriting was precise but tiny, as though conserving paper even in his personal notes. Diagrams and calculations filled the margins, showing structural adjustments to accommodate what he referred to as "energy conduits" beneath the palace.

  "Here," I said, pointing to a passage. "Corrington mentions consulting with 'Pathfinder Greywers' regarding optimal flow patterns for the new convergence chamber."

  Captain Dureforge leaned over my shoulder. "Your ancestor?"

  "Must be." I turned the page to find a detailed illustration of a circular chamber constructed directly beneath what would now be the throne room. The drawing showed channels carved into the stone floor, inlaid with crystalline materials that formed patterns similar to those the blue serum had left on my skin. At the center stood a figure holding what appeared to be a staff or rod, directing energy into the channels.

  "The original convergence was artificially created," I realized. "My ancestors helped design it."

  "Not created," Morgana corrected, examining the diagram. "Enhanced and directed. The natural currents were already present, but scattered across a wider area. This shows how they were concentrated for more efficient access through crystalline conduits."

  I continued reading, flipping pages with increasing urgency as the picture became clearer. "Corrington writes about 'the Greywers technique' for current harmonization. Apparently, my family had developed methods for guiding energy flows without disrupting their natural patterns."

  "Which explains why the Phoenix wants you," Dureforge observed grimly. "If your bloodline created these systems, you might know how to repair or redirect them."

  "Except I don't," I said in frustration. "Whatever knowledge my ancestors had has been lost—or deliberately hidden—for generations."

  Morgana pulled another volume from our stack—a military assessment of magical boundaries dated nearly a century later. "Perhaps not entirely lost. Look here."

  The document detailed what was euphemistically called "The Ley Line Walker Reformation"—a systematic program to remove practitioners of old magical techniques from positions of influence. What it actually described was a purge, with bloodlines like mine stripped of their authority and their knowledge classified as state secrets.

  "They feared our abilities," I murmured, scanning accounts of Ley Line Walker families being "pensioned off" to remote estates away from major convergence points. The Greywers name appeared repeatedly, first as respected advisors, then as potential threats to be contained.

  "The commercialization of healing magic required controllable resources," Morgana explained. "Ley Line Walker techniques were too individual, too dependent on bloodline abilities that couldn't be standardized or mass-produced."

  "So they buried the old methods and built wells instead," I concluded. "Drilling into the currents rather than working with them."

  Dureforge's expression darkened. "And now they're facing the consequences. The wells are failing because they've disrupted the natural flow patterns."