In a circur chamber nested high within the central tower of the Shardhall, the Veritas Spire was where truth is discussed, decisions were carved into stone, and power didn't just gather, it resonated.

  The walls were seamless crystal, faintly smoky with hints of violet and deep blue, flickering with ambient strands of Essentia that thread through like neural pulses. Slender windows stretched up toward the vaulted ceiling, letting in refracted light that shifted with the hour, making shadows dance like restless spirits.

  An oblong, polished obsidian table sat at the center, its surface etched with faint sigils and reactive glyphs that illuminated softly depending on who spoke. Around it were high-backed chairs made of duskwood and silver filigree, each one subtly different in carving to reflect the station of its occupant.

  The air hummed faintly. Not from sound, but presence.

  Shardhall Director Myral Vaesth sat at the designated head of the table, appearing like a schor who had seen the inside of too many cssified tomes and not enough sleep. Stocky in build, his thick hands were ink-stained at the knuckles and his fingers calloused, more used to turning pages than casting spells. His face was lined deeply, like a map of too many years spent chasing truths people didn’t want found.

  He had a permanently raised left brow that gave him a naturally skeptical look, paired with steel-gray hair swept back from a broad forehead. His eyes were hazel, but bloodshot from long nights and worse wine. A single vertical scar ran down the left side of his chin into his neck—not from battle, but from an experiment gone wrong, though no one talked about it.

  High Arcanist Anshar Velira’s presence to his left was like still water over deep pressure. Her skin was pale, not sickly but cool like moonlight over snow. Her hair, obsidian bck, fell straight to her mid-back, streaked with faint silver that glinted like woven starlight. Her features were symmetrical to the point of uncanny: high cheekbones, a sharp widow’s peak, and eyes the color of cut sapphire, faceted and cold. Her gaze didn't rest on people so much as pass through them, calcuting, dissecting.

  She wore the robes of her office—shimmering silver trimmed in deep amethyst—but without excess ornament. The authority she wielded didn't come from trinkets. When she spoke, her voice is precise, measured, with the inflection of someone who does not repeat herself. When she listened, she didn’t blink.

  Normally reserved for policy debates or minor discoveries, the Veritas Spire generally sat empty, wards and sigils keeping it in pristine condition. And with the Shardhall having existed for just over 800 years, the Veritas Spire’s use had waxed and waned as changes occurred that would affect both Tavelyn and magical discoveries as a whole.

  This day was different. One discovery, already sending ripples throughout Velkarin, had taken precedence over all others: Dane Walsh, the Ashkaari.

  As with a discovery of this magnitude, even the intellectual importance of the venerated High Arcanists of the Shardhall were not enough to contend with the effects the Ashkaari would have for Tavelyn. Being the origin point of their new visitor, the world’s eyes were on the Mageocracy, ruled by the Council of Nine, and wondered how they would move forward with the potential for such power, or total annihition. Most in Tavelyn, and many outside of the kingdom, looked to those in the Shardhall for their trusted guidance through what many believed to be the end of days. The High Arcanists were renowned for their level-headedness, and if the situation called for it, their unyielding power.

  Yet, the Council of Nine could not sit idly by. As the rulers of Tavelyn, the Council were required to be involved.

  Directly across from Velira sat Councilor Aethryn Solivar, often called the conscience of the Council, a man known for measured judgment and quiet diplomacy. His mastery of temporal and insight magics provided him with fragments of the future, but calling upon his skills for any length of time left him drained.

  Councilor Solivar was handsome in a quiet, thoughtful way. He had the kind of face that looked like it was always on the verge of saying something wise with ash-blond hair neatly combed back, and a short, well-groomed beard that was just starting to go white at the chin. His eyes were pale green, soft with thoughtfulness but hardening when challenged. His nose was slightly crooked—an old break left untouched, maybe from a younger, wilder life. His skin had the weathered tone of someone who walked the city without an escort and who’d seen the faces of its people and remembered their names.

  His dress was modest for a Councilor, favoring dark blue robes with muted silver threading and a pel pin shaped like a fme enclosed in a circle—the Solivar family crest. When he spoke, others listened. Not because he demanded it, but because he made sense.

  At the far end of the table, unsurprisingly ciming the seat of prominence, sat someone who embodied the opposite of Solivar.

  If Velira was the scalpel, and Solivar was the peace bringer, Councilor Maerion Thaleth was the poisoned dagger hidden in a handshake. Tall and rail-thin, he moved like a reed in the wind, flexible, elegant, and hard to read. His skin was a dusky bronze, his features long and foxlike; angur jaw, narrow chin, and a smile that was always two seconds too early or too wide to be sincere.

  His bck hair was tied back tightly into a braid threaded with gold wire, and his eyes were burnished copper flecked with red. Not glowing. Just unsettling.

  He wore Council regalia, though his was lined with sharp contrast—deep emerald and sable with high, fred shoulders and ringed cuffs that glimmered with protective runes. He tapped his fingers when he talked, a soft, clicking rhythm like a clock running too fast.

  “Where is the Ashkaari now, and when do we expect it to be put down?” Thaleth asked expectantly.

  Velira’s jaw tightened. Solivar said nothing, but his knuckles whitened where they touched the obsidian table. However, it was Vaesth who spoke up first.

  “At this time, the Ashkaari, Dane Walsh, is being seen to by Shardhall staff,” the Director stated. “When he arrived, he was in no state to sit for the assessment or attunement testing. He is cooperative--”

  “And how do you know that it will continue to cooperate, Director?” Thaleth shot back. “You know as well as I that they are votile--a danger to not just Tavelyn, but to the whole of Velkarin!”

  “He has a name, Councilor,” Velira said, barely restraining her contempt. The nasally edge of Thaleth’s voice always felt like spears to her temples. “And I have touched his mind. At this time, he poses no threat to the Shardhall, to Tavelyn, or to the world.”

  Thaleth sneered. “And you expect me to believe that your surface-level reading is enough to justify providing succor to this--”

  Velira’s palm smmed onto the table. Her eyes narrowed, cold and cutting. “You would dare insinuate that I am unfit for this task, Maerion?” she hissed. “You, who have had your own secrets—your deepest, most damning truths—stripped bare by my threadwork? You, whom I’ve saved more than once with those same skills?” She shook her head, disgusted. “You are a fool.”

  For the briefest moment, everyone in the room saw the fear in Thaleth’s eyes. Not just at Velira’s fury, but at the memory of what she had seen.

  Everyone in Tavelyn’s high government, even those above her rank, had been subjected to her crystal-thread magic. With a word, Velira could unravel a life or elevate it to untouchable heights. Her readings were legend. Her silence was currency.

  Velira had seen everything. She knew everyone’s proudest achievements, their deepest shame, and had rooted out dark secrets even those assessed had long forgotten. With a word, the High Arcanist could ruin a life, or ascend it to great heights.

  Solivar finally spoke, his tone level and deliberate. “With High Arcanist Velira’s recommendation, I believe you have made the right decision, Director. When are the tests scheduled?”

  Vaesth turned to Velira.

  “Three hours,” she replied. “Schor Velsh is attending to him now. If the results are acceptable, she will lead ongoing testing and provide daily reports.”

  Solivar nodded slowly, gncing sidelong at Thaleth, who remained stunned and silent.

  “If I may ask,” Solivar continued, “why was the assessment deyed? Was he injured upon arrival?”

  Vaesth snorted. “No, Councilor. He smelled worse than the bottom of our sewer system.”

  Solivar blinked. “He is… a race with a pungent odor?”

  Velira shook her head. “No. He arrived in the Arcane Wastes and was immediately attacked by Essentia-twisted beasts. He was covered in blood and viscera. It was all I could do to remain composed when he stood before me.”

  “A little blood and gore from killing a few dead beasts is justification for providing to his every need?” Thaleth growled, easing his way back into the conversation.

  “No,” Velira replied coldly. “But killing forty-three of them, with only a knife and his bare hands, is.”

  Even the irascible Thaleth couldn’t keep the surprise from showing on his face.

  “Forty-three?” Solivar echoed, his voice low. “Gods above... that’s unprecedented.”

  “You seem to admire the Ashkaari,” Thaleth sniffed, gring at Solivar. “All this proves is how dangerous he is. He should be executed immediately.”

  “If we simply kill what we don’t understand, Councilor, we are no different than the beasts he survived,” Velira said, her voice like cold iron.

  “And may find ourselves sharing their fate.”

  Three sets of eyes turned to Councilor Solivar after that comment; two with quiet appreciation, and one with visible scorn.

  Before Thaleth could fire back another cutting remark, Solivar pressed on.

  “High Arcanist Velira,” he said, his tone measured but earnest, “this is an unprecedented circumstance—history in the making, you see. Would you permit Councilor Thaleth and me to observe the assessment? Not directly, of course,” he added quickly, a light chuckle smoothing the tension, “but from a secure, removed location. I admit, I am curious about this Dane Walsh.”

  The chamber fell into a thoughtful hush. It wasn’t uncommon for senior members of the Council or Shardhall to observe assessments, especially when new magical phenomena were involved. But this was different. This was an Ashkaari.

  Velira said nothing at first, her pause deliberate. She wanted them to wonder if it might be dangerous. Let them imagine how fragile even this fortress of knowledge could become under pressure from a foreign soul with unknown power.

  But in truth? She could perform the procedure in the middle of a riot during a thunderstorm and not miss a thought.

  Still, the performance had its uses.

  “It is not without risk,” she finally said, her voice crisp and composed. “But I will allow observation. Discreetly.”

  Director Vaesth gave a small nod, but the Councilors remained silent, watching Velira with a hint more respect.

  Velira turned her eyes to the sigil-lit table, considering her next words. “Schor Velsh will assist with the assessment.”

  A subtle lift of brows answered her. She rarely allowed apprentices to engage directly in such intimate proceedings.

  “Inari Velsh has shown exceptional proficiency with crystal-thread magic,” she continued. “Her methods differ slightly from my own—less forceful, more interpretive—but no less effective. She sees patterns where others only see fragments.”

  Five years ago, Velsh had been a quiet Novitiate, lost in her books and shadowed by doubt. Now she stood at the edge of ascension, handpicked by Velira for her nuance and promise.

  Still, there were levels to mastery.

  Velira had spent over a century honing her craft. She didn’t merely read minds, she walked through them. For the st forty years, she had refined her skill to the point where she could enter a subject’s memory like a ghost on a tether, observing not only the act, but the emotion, the context, and the truth behind the choice.

  She didn’t merely glimpse the soul—she walked beside it. That was what made her dangerous, and why the Kingdom of Tavelyn trusted her to judge the Ashkaari.

  With no further comments, Director Vaesth cleared his throat. “The Vanguard team that located Dane Walsh are waiting just outside,” he said. “I’ve asked them to personally report on their mission instead of the standard written report. Record orbs will be used to obtain the information.” He scanned the faces around the table before asking, “Any objections?”

  When none came, he tapped a sigil on the obsidian table, and moments ter they were joined by the Firespine Vanguard.

  Mage-Captain Relian Vos entered first, crisp in his formal deep crimson and bck uniform, the silver trim of his rank catching the refracted light of the Veritas Spire’s crystal walls. Behind him came Sira Velenn, composed as always, though she walked with the purposeful grace of someone who knew exactly how to be invisible when she chose. Kael Thorne moved like a tower on legs—calm, broad-shouldered, and steady. Last came Arwen Kallis, whose every step radiated irritation at having to stand before so many political figureheads who had likely never thrown a fireball in their lives.

  Each bowed or inclined their heads as appropriate, but none spoke until Relian did.

  “My lords and dy,” Vos began, his voice controlled but confident. “Per orders received from the Shardhall, our squad departed Azarien, dispatched to the edge of the Arcane Wastes. Within the first hour of reconnaissance, we identified an anomaly in the Essentia currents—evidence of multiple kills and ambient surge.”

  He paused, hands behind his back. “We identified the Ashkaari approximately two hours after entering the Wastes.”

  Councilor Thaleth leaned forward. “And he attacked you?”

  Vos shook his head. “He did not. Despite being surrounded by the corpses of over forty corrupted beasts—Mirrowolves, Shadestrike Panthers, Rimehowlers, and at least one Aetherhawk—he made no aggressive moves against us.” He paused. “Until he detected our recon mage, Sira, under full illusion.”

  Velira arched a brow. “He saw through you?”

  Sira stepped forward with a respectful nod. “Yes, High Arcanist. He not only sensed me while I was fully veiled but seized me mid-conversation with my squadmates...while my spear was drawn and prepared for a potential strike.” She said it without shame, only professional curiosity.

  Thaleth scoffed. “You let him touch you?”

  Sira’s expression didn’t flicker. “I had little choice, Councilor. And I am alive only because he chose not to do more.”

  A moment of silence followed. Kael’s deep voice filled it.

  “He was exhausted, bloodied. But he was still prepared to fight us all. He held back, asking for water.”

  “That’s the first sign of a maniputor,” Thaleth snapped. “Feigning civility to earn trust before striking.”

  Arwen exhaled through her nose. “Then he’s been feigning for hours. Badly.”

  Solivar’s eyes flicked to her. “Expin.”

  “He apologized for grabbing Sira. He apologized--twice.” She frowned, clearly irritated that this fact stuck in her brain. “Then he asked where he was, why everything looked so strange, and if we had any fried potatoes, of all things.” She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “And he called Aetherhawks ‘bat-bird-things.’”

  That earned a faint smirk from Kael, which vanished as he nodded toward the council.

  “Dane Walsh does not know where he is, who we are, or how he arrived, but he knows battle. He also knows restraint.” He met Solivar’s eyes. “And I would follow him into battle if it came to it.”

  Thaleth snorted. “You’re ready to make him a general?”

  “No,” Vos cut in, tone sharp but not disrespectful. “But he’s earned the right not to be treated like a rabid beast. He did not ask to be here. He did not attack until attacked. And the only moment of aggression came when he sensed a hidden threat.” He folded his hands behind his back. “Do not misunderstand--I believe he is dangerous. However, I also believe he is disciplined. I trust he will cooperate.”

  Velira nodded once, as if confirming something to herself. “The assessment will begin soon. We will know then.”

  Director Vaesth gnced toward the Record Orbs now glowing faintly near the chamber’s central pilr. “This testimony has been preserved. You are dismissed.”

  Each of the four bowed, but before they turned to leave, Solivar raised a hand.

  “Mage-Captain Vos,” he said. “One final question.”

  Vos paused. “Councilor?”

  “If this man had wanted to escape—if he’d fought you, truly—could you have stopped him?”

  Relian hesitated. Then, quietly: “No. Not without casualties.”

  Solivar nodded once. “Thank you.”

  The Vanguard exited the Veritas Spire in silence.

  When the doors sealed behind them, Thaleth scoffed and leaned back in his seat.

  “Well,” he muttered, “perhaps I will watch the assessment. Should be...illuminating.”

  As the doors closed behind the Vanguard, silence settled over the Veritas Spire once more.

  Councilor Thaleth rose, smoothing his sleeves with a sniff. “Let us hope your trust in him does not become another historical tragedy,” he muttered, then turned and swept from the room like a man convinced the verdict had already been rendered.

  Solivar followed more slowly. He paused beside Velira’s seat, offering her a gnce that was half warning, half reassurance.

  “If the Ashkaari is as he appears,” he said quietly, “then we may have been given more than a weapon.” His eyes narrowed just slightly. “But if he’s wearing a mask...don’t hesitate.”

  Velira gave him the barest nod. She didn’t need to promise. She never hesitated.

  Once Solivar had departed, Director Vaesth remained only a moment longer. He shuffled his papers together, eyes lingering on the spot where Vos had stood.

  “A living Ashkaari,” he murmured. “Not even the archives could have prepared us for this.” Then, with a heavy sigh and a tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he left her alone.

  The Veritas Spire dimmed, the ambient glow of its sigils pulsing in thoughtful silence. Velira sat motionless at the table, hands folded, eyes distant.

  She had felt Dane Walsh’s presence like a wild storm pressed under a soldier’s calm. Not false. Not malicious. But barely restrained. And there had been something else, too—flickering thoughts that had brushed against her probing spell like sparks from a flint. Irreverent. Blunt. And disturbingly...charming.

  Velira leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly.

  “Yes, Councilor Thaleth,” she murmured, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “I suspect the assessment will be most illuminating.”