We turtles know the currents of the world far better than the men who rule it.

  We have watched thrones rise and sink beneath the tides, watched rulers with proud shoulders bend under the weight of their own crowns. I have seen Councils gather in secrecy for matters they would never dare speak beneath the open sky.

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  The Veil watches — 11 months before The Convergence

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  By the time Grex had left Hortew's hall, the calm he usually wore felt thinner. He didn’t storm or pace; that wasn’t his way. But the rhythm of his steps was clipped.

  The truths he and Hortew unearthed would not stay hidden for long. They never do. They find their way into halls and councils, sharpened by tongues less careful than theirs.

  He passed the corridor leading to his quarters but turned instead toward the infirmary. “Secrets could wait. The boy could not,” he told himself as he slid the booklet inside his vest.

  The air began to blend the scent of crushed herbs, soot of burned twigs, and boiled linen. A familiar scent of the infirmary—sharp and clean—reminded him of how fragile the line between life and death could be.

  Iakob sat propped against his pillows, fingers twitching as if searching for something to hold. His eyes darted to the door the moment Grex entered, wide with questions he could not yet verbalize.

  Beside him sat Loti, sleeves rolled with her usual readiness. She had traded the castle infirmary for her inn years ago, yet here she was again, watchful as ever. The moment Grex saw her, something in his chest eased. If Loti was with Iakob, the boy was in steady hands.

  Loti looked up as Grex stepped through the door. Her pale face tightened into its usual scowl, though the glare in her telescope-wide eyes softened before snapping back. She rose, smoothing her skirts as if formality might hide how her pulse quickened.

  "About time," she muttered, the sharpness not quite masking something else—something she'd never admit, though half the castle had gossiped about it for years. Angry Loti, they called her, but her anger had never quite reached Grex.

  Grex rested a hand on Iakob's shoulder. "You'll be fine," he said, voice even but leaving no room for argument. "Who knew your skull was thicker than the castle walls?"

  Iakob gave a breathless laugh, half relief and half protest, touching the bandage at the back of his head. "Ha… not funny." But his shoulders eased, his eyes lingering on Grex as if to say: stay longer.

  Loti’s expression cracked into the faintest smile at the exchange.

  “I felt…” Iakob began, then faltered. His fingers twitched, circling in the air in the familiar motion. The shimmer came first, then the weight—Headhunter materialized in his grasp, its dark metal humming faintly with a power too old for the boy’s hands.

  He held it out to Grex, eyes pleading. “Look. Tell me if it’s… if it’s right.”

  Grex took the axe, the handle settling into his palm. For a moment, he said nothing, only studied the etched runes along its head, the faint pulse of Baku’s scale embedded at its core, steady. Yet inside him, Syl stirred uneasily. The weapon itself was sound but the relic’s presence was never simple, never safe. It radiated unease, a relic both alive and waiting.

  “You need rest, not riddles,” he said at last. “Loti will see to it.” Grex returned the weapon to Iakob’s grip.

  The boy nodded. Grex turned without another word. He had no answers yet—only the memory of Hortew’s warning ringing in his ears.

  By the time Grex reached his council chamber, the weight of the morning pressed heavier than hunger. He passed the kitchens, taking a heel of bread and a cup of strong coffee—his usual company when he needed to think.

  His chamber was a blend of stone and wood, softened by the touch of green. Potted herbs lined the sill beneath a narrow window, ivy crept along the shelves where few books rested, and the familiar scent of cedar hung in the air. It was as close to the forest as a castle room could manage.

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  Grex dropped into the chair, waved down a passing guard, and told him to summon Montzy. There would be questions to ask and answers to chase, and Montzy’s network was more reliable than horns or owls.

  He tore the bread, dunking it in his coffee between sips. Beyond the muted voice of Syl at the edge of his mind, the castle was waking. Armor clanked, banners unfurled, hooves and boots fell into their rehearsed rhythms. The Council of Cloaks was arriving—each delegate like a storm pretending to be ceremony.

  Montzy arrived not long after, a raven perched on his shoulder as always. To most, it was ornament, a sign of rank and loyalty. To Grex, it was something else entirely—a reminder that in Wolfpit, nothing that breathed was merely a decoration.

  Montzy leaned against the wall, casual as if he’d only strolled in from the kitchens. “Didn’t think I’d find you hiding in here. That your lunch?” he said, though his eyes were already scanning the courtyard.

  “Figured you’d be out there, polishing boots,” Grex teased and stepped to the sill.

  Montzy snorted. “Only if I can kick someone with them.”

  The courtyard below had become a stage. Every banner strained to outshine the next—silks and sigils fluttering with self-importance.

  The first to arrive had been Lord Garrick Vale and his small delegation of five conjurers from Thryvakk. They emerged from what looked like a bridge made of frozen rainbow light, stepping down from crystalline steps that sparkled with snow. Vale was all northern authority—ash-blond hair pulled back with costly leather and gray eyes detailing the courtyard with military precision.

  Lucient Armont followed, staff in hand, its crystal shard pulsing with inner fire. Thryvakk's former Grand Meister, now advisor, moved with the careful dignity of hard-earned survival.

  "The early birds!" Montzy began. His voice lowered. “They’ve started drilling their third, or maybe second tunnel, through a mountain. Few men, maybe less than a hundred… very efficient.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Rumors has it that they’ve been testing frost runes on living things. Rabbits and prisoners. All that for preserving soldiers."

  Then his eyes gazed at Lucient. "Still no word from his old circle." Montzy continued. “Old man’s no different. Home, castle, graveyard, Council. All that. Never strays. Nothing suspicious.”

  Grex made a low sound in his throat. “Hmm. The pattern’s too clean. And the fact you think nothing’s suspicious… makes it even more so.”

  Then came a giant mirror.

  It rose in the courtyard, tall as a tower door. Its ornate frame gleaming like it belonged in a celestial palace. Through its surface stepped Grand Meister Zangru Fenglai, each stride measured, precise, as though every step was a move in some grand strategy. Behind him floated a palanquin, borne not on shoulders but in defiance of gravity, hovering like a leaf on still water.

  Montzy whispered. “They’ve expanded the trade in magical items—shards and all. Forging without The Council sanction. Profitable… really profitable.”

  Grex’s gaze flicked to the floating palanquin, “Profitable secrets," he murmured, " They earn in silver now but gold—or blood—always settle the debt. The cost will eventually outweigh the gain."

  Montzy nodded, absently stroking the raven on his shoulder. “That’s the thing about cost. Most of them don’t know they’re already paying. What's your move?”

  "We need to know the items and their rarity—especially if any reached Wolfpit. Until then, we can’t act hastily.” Grex replied.

  The mirror winked out, leaving only the faint scent of incense curling in the morning air that reached even Grex's window.

  The arrival that followed was pure theater—Solavern and Magiting appearing almost simultaneously, as if they planned it to heighten drama. From a circle of white stones blazing with flame, Grand Meister Wynard Atmos stepped through the light, poured from the ground itself. His sun-burnished skin seemed to glow with inner fire.

  At the same moment, the delegation from Magiting emerged on the castle’s reflecting pond, shimmering into a spirit gate that lingered just long enough to let them pass. Grand Meister Dayang Marilag led them—her title "dayang" worn like a first name, like a shield, like a weapon rather than a jewel. Her long obsidian hair, fastened with a waterlily pin, spilled over warm, fair skin. Her movements carried a grace that made onlookers forget to breathe.

  Behind her walked advisor Prince Bantugan, every inch the royal figure despite the scuffed boots that whispered of real battles rather than parades. The tension that followed him was almost visible, like heat waves rising from summer stone.

  Montzy let out a low whistle as the two delegations stepped into the courtyard at once. “Now this one is more intriguing than the last Council meeting,” he murmured. He turned his attention from Wynard’s firelit stride to Bantugan’s shadowed presence, the fire already sparking between them. “Funny thing,” he muttered, “Some in Solavern are starting to whisper about Wynard’s brother. Talk of a release, dressed up as a gesture of unity.”

  "Wynard's brother abducted Prince Bantugan's sister. So, the prince risked his life to save her. Got pretty famous for that tale. Yeah, I'm sure he'd like to see him free." Montzy added.

  Grex knew that tale and more. To Bantugan, it would never be a gesture of unity at all, it was the opposite. And the Council would have to tread the matter with diplomatic precision.

  The tension was immediate, sharp as drawn steel. Wynard’s gaze cut toward Bantugan. Bantugan’s hand hovered near his belt, not yet reaching for steel but close enough to draw. The castle guards murmured, watchful, alert. The air between them seemed to warp, heat against heat, pride against pride.

  Montzy watched them size each other up, then his attention drifted to a raven that flew in the courtyard. While others watched the show, he watched the shadows. His birds had seen things the Council hadn't, and one observation in particular had been circling in his mind since dawn.

  “The raven we lent to Cedran has been roosting with the rest,” he muttered. “He never called it back. When I pulled its sight, I saw him in an inn… or thought I did." He paused. The raven on his shoulder shifted, feathers pulling tight.

  "There was a cloaked figure… or shadows. Couldn’t describe it much, but... That! Felt terribly wrong.”

  But Grex never heard the last of it.

  Pine needles scattered across Grex’s chamber floor, curling into smoke that carried a sharp cedar tang. By the time Montzy turned to Grex, the smoke was all that remained.

  Grex was already in the courtyard. His cloak swirled as if he’d walked through a storm, still catching the air from wherever he'd come from. His hands caught both men before fire could flare or steel could flash. “No duels,” he said evenly, voice carrying across the stunned silence. “Let me escort you both inside—preferably with both limbs intact.”