Preparing for court while hiding from the Phoenix Collective proved more challenging than expected. Willem spent an hour pressing my formal attire with an iron heated on a coal brazier, all while muttering about the indignities of noble service.

  The Sisters had relocated us to yet another safe house—this one disguised as a failing candle shop in a district so unremarkable even the tax collectors seemed to have forgotten it.

  "Stop fidgeting," Willem growled as he adjusted my collar for the third time. "Bad enough you're walking into a nest of vipers without looking like you slept in a stable."

  "I did sleep in a stable," I reminded him. "Two nights ago, when Phoenix patrols forced us to abandon the baker's attic."

  He grunted, the sound containing multitudes of disapproval. "All the more reason to present yourself properly now. Nobility is half appearance, quarter birthright, quarter swordwork."

  "And nothing for actual character? How depressingly accurate."

  The previous night's preparations had been exhaustive. Sister Morgana had calculated optimal responses to various recruitment strategies, Circe had insisted I memorize the effects of her various "emergency measures," and Hekate had guided me through meditative exercises to help control my reaction to the palace convergence. Captain Dureforge, meanwhile, had provided a detailed map of palace escape routes, her knowledge of the building's layout suspiciously comprehensive for a border officer.

  "Remember," she'd said, metal fingers tapping a particular corridor on her hand-drawn schematic, "service passages connect the Azure Room to the eastern garden. If things go sideways, that's your cleanest exit."

  Now, as Willem finished his fussing, I checked my various hidden tools one final time. Circe's protection vial tucked into my sleeve cuff. Morgana's probability token nestled in my breast pocket. Hekate's warding charms sewn into the lining of my formal jacket. And, of course, Dureforge's slender blade disguised as decorative noble regalia at my hip.

  "You look like a man heading to his execution," Willem observed, stepping back to assess his handiwork.

  "There's still time to run," I replied, only half-joking. "I hear the Free Cities are lovely this time of year."

  "And leave your mother to face whatever comes? Not your style." Willem's weathered face softened slightly. "Besides, running just makes a shorter hunt."

  He was right, of course. Running would only confirm the Phoenix's suspicions while abandoning everyone under my protection. Better to face the Chancellor directly and learn what he truly wanted—even if it meant walking knowingly into danger.

  An hour later, I approached the palace's western entrance, the one reserved for nobles attending official appointments rather than public audiences. The guards wore the royal purple and silver rather than Phoenix white and gold, but I had no illusions about where their orders originated.

  They checked my invitation with practiced efficiency, running detection devices over my person that hummed when passing over certain points. Hekate's wards seemed to be working—the devices registered something, but not enough to trigger concern. One guard frowned briefly at his instrument before waving me through with a stiff bow.

  The palace corridors felt different from my previous visit. The currents beneath the floors pulsed more strongly, or perhaps my perception had sharpened. Either way, I could sense the convergence beneath the palace like a heartbeat—steady but somehow labored, as though struggling against constriction.

  A palace steward guided me through administrative wings I'd never seen during public court functions—offices where the actual business of governance transpired behind the theatrical performances of royal audiences. Clerks scurried between rooms carrying stacks of documents, while minor officials huddled in alcoves exchanging hushed conversations.

  The Azure Room occupied the southeastern tower's second floor, directly above what I now knew was an access point to the Central Chamber. As we approached, I felt the currents intensify—no longer background awareness but insistent pressure, like standing in a swift-flowing river.

  "Remember," I told myself silently, "observation, not manipulation. Feel but don't respond."

  The steward announced me with understated formality, then stepped aside to reveal a circular chamber designed to impress without appearing to try.

  Unlike the ostentatious grandeur of the throne room, the Azure Room employed subtle wealth—furniture crafted from rare woods, wall hangings of such fine quality they seemed to capture light itself, and delicate crystalline fixtures that reminded me uncomfortably of the conduits in the Balance Chambers.

  Lord Chancellor Whitehall rose from behind a desk inlaid with silver patterns that, I now realized, mirrored the current flows beneath us.

  No coincidence, that. His white hair and immaculate appearance remained unchanged from court, but in this more intimate setting, I noticed details previously missed—the calculating intelligence behind his cordial expression, the way his eyes assessed my every movement.

  "Lord Greywers," he greeted me, voice cultured and modulated to perfect pitch—the sound of a man who'd spent decades ensuring every syllable conveyed precisely what he intended. "I appreciate your decision to accept my invitation. Recent events have created significant... concern within certain circles."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  I clasped his hand briefly, noting his firm grip. "Your message suggested refusing would be unwise."

  A thin smile that conveyed amusement without warmth. "Directness. Refreshing, if unconventional for court. Please, be seated."

  As I settled into the offered chair, I noticed two other occupants of the room. Dr. Sebastian Mourne stood by a side table laden with scientific instruments, his silver-tipped cane resting against the wall nearby. Beside him was a woman I didn't immediately recognize—tall and elegant in traditional healer's robes, her serene face marked by an unsettling perfection.

  "You've met Dr. Mourne, of course," Whitehall continued, resuming his seat. "And this is Sister Wrenna Bloodvow, our specialist in traditional healing methodologies."

  The woman inclined her head with practiced grace, but something about her made my skin crawl. Her serenity seemed manufactured rather than genuine—a mask rather than a natural expression.

  "I would have thought the Phoenix Collective preferred modern techniques to traditional ones," I remarked.

  "Progress doesn't require abandoning all tradition," Whitehall replied smoothly. "Merely adapting it to serve contemporary needs."

  I felt the currents pulsing stronger beneath us—a direct response to my proximity to the Central Chamber. Hekate's warnings echoed in my mind as I consciously dampened my reaction, preventing the blue patterns from manifesting visibly.

  Mourne stepped forward, his voice carrying the enthusiastic pedantry of an academic who rarely encounters resistance. "Fascinating recovery pattern you've exhibited, Lord Greywers! Most subjects—er, patients—experience catastrophic cellular degradation without immediate specialized intervention. The compound's interaction with your particular physiological makeup presents extraordinary research potential."

  "The Royal Corps field treatment proved adequate," I replied with deliberate blandness.

  "Adequate? Hardly!" Mourne's eyes widened behind his spectacles, genuinely offended by my understated response. "Standard military protocols lack the sophistication to address xenoalchemical contamination of this magnitude. By all scientific principles, you should have developed at minimum Stage Three transformation symptoms within forty-eight hours of exposure."

  "Perhaps I was lucky."

  "Perhaps," Whitehall interjected, his measured tone a stark contrast to Mourne's animated fervor, "you possess certain qualities that made natural recovery possible. Qualities that might benefit from proper understanding and development."

  And there it was—the opening gambit in their recruitment attempt. I maintained neutral expression while Circe's amber vial seemed to burn against my wrist, a reminder of the protections I carried.

  "I'm afraid I don't follow, Lord Chancellor. What qualities would those be?"

  Whitehall exchanged glances with Mourne before continuing. "Lord Greywers, let us dispense with the customary circling. We know you were exposed to an experimental compound designed to identify specific bloodline traits. We know you've successfully integrated that compound in ways most recipients cannot. And we know you've recently taken interest in certain historical infrastructure beneath the city."

  "Your surveillance is impressively thorough," I observed dryly.

  "The security of the realm requires vigilance," he countered, each word precisely weighted. "Particularly regarding matters of critical magical infrastructure."

  I leaned back slightly, maintaining the appearance of a man mildly confused rather than desperately calculating exit strategies. "I wasn't aware that visiting religious sites constituted a security concern."

  Sister Wrenna spoke for the first time, her voice carrying an unnatural melodic quality. "The Temple of Celestial Harmony sits atop significant magical convergence points. Unauthorized interactions with such sites falls under royal jurisdiction according to the Treaty of Regulated Energies."

  Her perfect enunciation sent warning signals through my mind. No one spoke that precisely without deliberate effort.

  "I visited for morning meditation," I replied. "Hardly unauthorized interaction."

  "And yet," Mourne interjected, words tumbling over each other in barely contained excitement, "our monitoring arrays detected extraordinary energy fluctuations in the temple's foundation during your visit! Identical resonance patterns to those recorded beneath the palace archives just days prior! The statistical improbability of coincidental matching signatures is astronomical—my calculations indicate less than 0.0073% probability of random occurrence!"

  Whitehall raised a hand to silence further accusations, the gesture so subtle yet immediately effective. "Lord Greywers, we are not here to interrogate you. Quite the opposite. We believe your bloodline possesses capabilities that could prove invaluable to current energy stability initiatives."

  "Project Wellspring," I said, deciding direct acknowledgment might yield more information than continued evasion.

  The Chancellor's eyebrows rose slightly—the only indication of surprise in his otherwise composed demeanor. "You're better informed than expected. Yes, Project Wellspring represents our comprehensive approach to addressing certain... challenges in magical resource availability."

  "Resource availability," I repeated. "An interesting euphemism for wells running dry."

  A flicker of genuine emotion—annoyance, quickly masked—crossed Whitehall's face. "The situation is more nuanced than that characterization suggests."

  "Then perhaps you could explain the nuance," I suggested. "Since you've invited me here specifically to discuss it."

  Mourne nearly jumped forward, hands gesturing expansively, clearly eager to take control of the conversation. "It's a fascinating systemic paradigm shift! The conventional extraction methodology established through empirical development over previous centuries has encountered unforeseen sustainability limitations! Current depletion coefficients have accelerated beyond projected replacement capacities, creating cascading disruption potentials across all dependent service networks!"

  "Including healing magic," I noted.

  "Among other critical applications," Whitehall confirmed, his calm delivery a stark contrast to Mourne's breathless exposition. "The Phoenix Collective's responsibility extends beyond mere healing services to maintaining the magical infrastructure that supports the entire kingdom."

  I glanced pointedly around the Azure Room. "Including infrastructure beneath the royal palace."

  Whitehall's eyes narrowed slightly. "You understand more than you've acknowledged, Lord Greywers."

  "Understanding grows with observation," I replied. "The question remains: what exactly do you want from me?"