Thornevald did not rage.

  He did not slam goblets.

  He did not argue with Vaeloria after she left the hall.

  He simply finished his breakfast.

  That was worse.

  Because when Thornevald went silent—

  Things moved.

  Deep beneath the throne hall, past carved roots and rune-sealed doors, the Arcane Munitions Command hummed to life.

  Torches burned blue.

  Ink glowed in etched circles.

  And two figures stood waiting.

  Princess Lirael.

  Princess Sylara.

  Not dolls.

  Not copies.

  His blood.

  His daughters.

  Both stood straight when he entered.

  “Father,” they said in unison.

  Thornevald studied them quietly.

  “You will be conducting a field test in the morning.”

  They did not ask against whom.

  They already knew.

  Behind him, attendants carried two objects.

  They were not bound in silk.

  They were not treated with reverence.

  They were sealed in iron.

  Two books.

  Not ancient.

  Not alive.

  Forged.

  The first crackled faintly.

  Blue lightning licked across its spine.

  The second pulsed low and slow.

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  Veins of dull amber ran through its cover like trapped roots.

  Lirael’s breath hitched.

  “Synthetic?” she asked carefully.

  “Refined,” Thornevald corrected.

  Sylara’s eyes sharpened.

  “Catalyst?”

  Thornevald’s gaze did not waver.

  “Human.”

  The word hung heavy.

  The room went quiet.

  Not shock.

  Not horror.

  Understanding.

  “The Stitchborne program was proof of concept,” Thornevald continued evenly. “But dolls are imperfect vessels.”

  He stepped closer to the lightning book.

  “This is controlled resonance. No will. No defiance.”

  He turned to Lirael.

  “You will wield the Lightning Forged.”

  Her fingers hovered over the book.

  It sparked as if recognizing intent.

  He turned to Sylara.

  “You will take the Earth Shift.”

  Sylara’s hand rested on the earthen tome.

  The floor trembled faintly in response.

  “Tomorrow,” Thornevald said, “you will test them.”

  “Against the dragon,” Lirael said.

  “Yes.”

  There was no anger in his voice.

  Only design.

  “If he is as valuable as the War Office suggests, he will survive.”

  “And if he does not?” Sylara asked.

  Thornevald’s expression did not change.

  “Then he was not worth destabilizing my empire.”

  They opened the tomes.

  And the air shifted.

  The lightning book did not whisper.

  It screamed.

  Cracks of white-blue energy ran up Lirael’s arm like veins trying to escape skin.

  She clenched her jaw but did not cry out.

  Sylara’s earth tome was different.

  It pulled.

  Heavy.

  Demanding.

  The ground beneath her feet softened and hardened at her command.

  Stone shifted.

  Marble cracked.

  The runes along the chamber floor glowed violently.

  These were not calamity books.

  They were imitations.

  Violent.

  Hungry.

  Manufactured.

  And unstable.

  Thornevald watched carefully.

  “Again,” he ordered.

  Lirael raised her hand.

  Lightning split the ceiling in a controlled arc.

  Sylara stomped once.

  The stone wall buckled inward like breath drawn by a giant lung.

  The room vibrated.

  The King nodded once.

  “Acceptable.”

  Lirael lowered her hand slowly.

  “Father,” she said carefully. “These feel…”

  She searched for the word.

  “Angry.”

  Thornevald’s eyes flicked toward her.

  “They are tools.”

  Sylara looked down at her palm.

  Small tremors still pulsed through it.

  “And if they turn?”

  Thornevald’s voice cooled.

  “They will not.”

  A beat.

  Then, softer.

  “The catalyst is bound. The resonance is contained.”

  He did not mention the failures.

  He did not mention the burnouts.

  He did not mention the first twenty-three attempts.

  He simply stepped closer to his daughters.

  “Vaeloria believes influence is power.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “I believe power is power.”

  He adjusted Lirael’s grip on the lightning tome.

  “In the morning,” he said quietly, “you will remind her.”

  Back in the upper castle, Derpy lay half-awake.

  Something felt wrong.

  Blight murmured in his mind:

  Energy spike. Deep below.

  Celica’s voice was tight.

  Two signatures. Artificial. Forced resonance.

  Derpy exhaled slowly.

  “They’re not done.”

  Elsewhere in the castle—

  Mk.3 stared at her hands.

  Mk.2 flexed her newly reattached arm.

  Mk.1 whispered to herself:

  “Friend hurt?”

  Mk.4 stood by the window.

  Watching the horizon.

  Feeling the air shift.

  And in her chest—

  Something tightened.

  Not loyalty.

  Not programming.

  Something closer to fear.

  The King turned to leave the War Office chamber.

  “Prepare the courtyard,” he ordered.

  “Make it official.”

  “Public?”

  Lirael asked.

  “Yes.”

  He paused at the door.

  “If the dragon sides with Vaeloria, I will not strike her directly.”

  His voice dropped to something colder.

  “I will dismantle her leverage.”

  He looked at his daughters one last time.

  “Break him.”

  The lightning book crackled in Lirael’s hands.

  The earth tome pulsed in Sylara’s grip.

  Above them—

  The castle slept uneasily.

  Below—

  The war faction sharpened its teeth.

  Morning would not be a discussion.

  It would be a demonstration.