The journey back to my lands should have been unremarkable—a minor noble returning to his modest holdings after the obligatory court appearance. Nothing worthy of note. Nothing that would draw unwanted attention.

  Of course, when you're traveling with three unconventional "nuns" and an uncomfortably perfect spy assigned to observe them, unremarkable becomes somewhat aspirational.

  "She's watching us again," Willem muttered as he adjusted our wagon's position on the rutted northern road. "Hasn't taken those empty eyes off the Sisters since we left the city gates."

  I glanced back to where Sister Wrenna rode in solitary dignity, maintaining perfect posture despite the jolting road. Her horse never seemed to stumble, her robes never gathered dust, and her serene expression never faltered. The effect was profoundly unsettling.

  "Let her watch," I replied quietly. "Every moment she spends scrutinizing the Sisters is a moment she's not focused on me."

  Willem grunted. "Still don't like having a Phoenix spy at our backs."

  "Better where we can see her than reporting from the shadows. Besides, she's as much hostage as observer."

  The arrangement had been carefully negotiated. Sister Wrenna would accompany us to my keep to "facilitate preparations" for the Phoenix research team scheduled to arrive the following week. In theory, she would observe the Sisters' treatment methods and ensure they didn't interfere with future Phoenix procedures. In practice, she was there to assess my abilities and report back to Whitehall.

  Morgana rode ahead, calculating optimal routes that would minimize unwanted attention. According to her probability assessment, the northern road presented the lowest risk of complications—seventy-two percent favorable outcome versus fifty-eight percent on the main highway.

  "We need to maintain certain appearances," she'd explained quietly before we departed. "Sister Wrenna must observe enough to satisfy her reporting requirements, yet remain unaware of our true preparations. The northern road offers optimal surveillance blind spots."

  What Morgana hadn't mentioned was how the northern road followed ancient energy pathways more closely than any modern thoroughfare.

  As the miles passed beneath our wheels, I found myself increasingly aware of the currents flowing beneath us—sometimes distant whispers, other times insistent pressure against my awareness.

  "The road feels... different," I said to Willem as we crested a hill overlooking a valley I'd traveled a dozen times before. "Like it's watching me somehow."

  "Old paths remember old blood," Hekate murmured from the wagon bench behind us, her pale eyes fixed on something beyond physical sight. "These routes followed the currents long before stones were laid atop them."

  I'd noticed how the blue patterns beneath my skin responded to certain stretches of road—pulsing stronger where the currents ran close to the surface, fading where modern construction had disrupted the natural flows. Ever since the temple chamber activation, my awareness had sharpened further. Not enough for meaningful manipulation, but sufficient to sense the difference between natural pathways and artificial ones.

  Our second day on the road brought unexpected confirmation of my developing sensitivity. At a fork where the northern road split toward Crosswater Village, I found myself guiding our wagon left without conscious decision—a choice that prompted Sister Wrenna's first direct communication.

  "The eastern path is more direct to your lands, Lord Greywers," she observed, her perfect voice carrying neither question nor accusation, merely clinical interest.

  "This route avoids the Blackwater Marsh," I replied, the excuse ready on my lips. "Spring rains make the eastern road treacherous this time of year."

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  It was a plausible explanation, one that satisfied her immediate curiosity. But the truth was something I barely understood myself—an instinctive response to currents I sensed but couldn't yet consciously map. The western fork followed a stronger flow, one that resonated with the patterns in my blood.

  "You felt it," Circe whispered excitedly when Wrenna had dropped back again. "The convergence point ahead! Like a lovely little pool where all the tiny streams come together! Not as grand as the palace nexus, obviously, but much healthier—all bubbly and fresh instead of overworked and stretched too thin!"

  Morgana nodded, her amber eyes studying me with analytical precision. "Unconscious path selection without prior knowledge. Statistical probability of random selection: approximately fourteen percent. Bloodline activation continues to progress despite minimal formal training."

  "Impressive or concerning?" I asked.

  "Both," Hekate answered for her. "Natural awakening proceeds at its own pace, following ancestral memory rather than structured protocol. The dangers and advantages both stem from this unpredictability."

  The "dangers" became apparent that evening when we made camp beside a small roadside shrine—one of many such monuments erected centuries ago for travelers seeking divine protection. As I helped gather wood for the fire, my hand brushed against the shrine's weathered stone base, and something surged through me like lightning.

  Blue patterns flared across my skin, bright enough to illuminate the gathering darkness. The ground beneath the shrine seemed to pulse in response, ancient currents answering the call of my blood with eager recognition.

  I stumbled backward, willing the patterns to fade before Sister Wrenna could witness the display. Too late—her perfect eyes had already locked onto the fading blue lines visible at my wrist where my sleeve had ridden up.

  "An interesting reaction, Lord Greywers," she observed, gliding toward me with unnatural grace. "The Phoenix research team will find your sensitivity levels quite promising."

  "A temporary flare," I replied, forcing casualness into my voice. "Happens occasionally since the serum exposure. My specialists assure me it's a normal part of the integration process."

  Sister Morgana materialized beside me, probability tokens held discreetly in her palm. "Random activation during recovery presents no cause for concern. Seventy-eight percent of similar cases demonstrate periodic pattern manifestation without significance."

  Wrenna's serene expression revealed nothing, but something in her posture suggested disbelief. "The Phoenix Collective has extensive experience with serum response cases. Pattern manifestation typically indicates underlying system interaction, not merely cosmetic symptoms."

  "Different methodological frameworks often produce divergent interpretations of identical phenomena," Morgana countered smoothly. "Statistical analysis suggests multiple valid explanatory models."

  As the two engaged in their carefully coded battle of expertise, I felt the currents beneath the shrine continuing to respond to my presence—subtle vibrations that only I seemed to notice. The shrine hadn't been placed here by accident. It marked a minor convergence point, a place where multiple currents intersected naturally.

  That night, after the others had settled into sleep, I found myself drawn back to the shrine. Under the light of a half-moon, I pressed my palm against the weathered stone once more, this time prepared for the response. The blue patterns emerged more gradually, a controlled glow rather than explosive illumination.

  "Communion with convergence points accelerates attunement," Hekate said softly, approaching from the shadows. "But risks premature activation without proper training."

  I didn't ask how she'd known I would come here. The Sisters had ways of anticipating needs and actions that I'd stopped questioning. "What would happen if I continued? If I tried to actually interact with the currents rather than just sense them?"

  "Success or catastrophe," she replied with typical directness. "The currents respond to blood recognition but require trained guidance. Like a horse that knows its rider but not the destination."

  "My ancestors managed it."

  "After years of instruction by those already skilled in the art," she reminded me. "Not through desperate experimentation while being hunted by those who would exploit their gifts."

  She was right, of course. Whatever abilities lay dormant in my blood, forcing them to awaken prematurely served no one—especially not when Phoenix observers cataloged every unusual reaction.

  "Get some rest," Hekate advised, her formal cadence softening slightly. "The road ahead follows stronger currents that will test thy restraint further. Sleep provides necessary distance from their call."

  Sleep came fitfully, my dreams filled with blue pathways stretching across landscapes I'd never seen yet somehow recognized. I walked them with practiced ease, something in my blood remembering journeys taken by ancestors long dead.