Morning in the tower was never silent.
Even here, in the insulated suite three wards thick and tuned to ignore the wider hum unless something went wrong, the day began with sound.
Soft slippered footsteps in the corridor.
Lantern shutters opening with a click.
Distant students muttering half-memorized incantations.
A bell somewhere above, chiming the first hour in tones too polite to truly wake anyone.
John rose before the bell finished.
The dream-front from the previous night had left a lingering tension in his spine, as though someone had pressed a cold palm between his shoulder blades while he slept. He stretched once, rolled his neck, and glanced
immediately at the cradle.
Brian slept.
Peacefully.
His arm was thrown above his head, fingers curled as if holding a piece of light he'd forgotten to drop. His breath came slow, even, unbothered.
The crooked chalk star above him flickered with harmless softness.
The room hummed low and steady; the lattice tuned carefully against intrusion.
Doris lay curled toward the cradle on the bed beside John, breathing quietly, exhaustion softened by the calm that had settled in after
the edge-threat had receded.
Dorothy slept upright in the chair by the door, head tipped back, mouth slightly open in a way she would vehemently deny if anyone
mentioned it.
John took a quiet moment to absorb the unbroken peace.
It felt earned.
It felt temporary.
He rose.
The day began properly once Brian woke, which he did with a loud yawn that tugged the corners of his cheeks into a small, startled O-shape.
Doris' eyes opened immediately.
"So?" she whispered.
"He's good," John said.
"Are you sure?"
Brian sneezed, smacked himself in the face with his own fist, and then frowned, deeply offended.
"He seems sure," John replied.
Doris let out a breath so long her shoulders shook.
Dorothy opened one eye. "If you two start crying at every sneeze, we will run out of handkerchiefs before midwinter."
"We're allowed relief," Doris said.
"You are," Dorothy agreed. "I'm allowed sarcasm."
Brian made a low whine of irritation until Doris scooped him up, at which point he immediately punched her collarbone in triumph.
Flint entered moments later, balancing a tray of breakfast items that looked suspiciously like they'd been stolen from three different
kitchens.
"Good news," he announced. "I come bearing contraband toast."
"You can't call it contraband if you took it with
permission," Dorothy said.
"I didn't," Flint replied cheerfully.
John sighed. "Flint."
"What? Orane said, 'Take something you can carry.' She didn't say from where."
"You're impossible," Doris muttered.
"That's why you keep me around," Flint said. "Annoyance is a defensive technique."
Breakfast passed with the awkward warmth of people recovering from fear.
Dorothy sipped tea.
Flint gnawed toast.
Doris fed Brian tiny spoonfuls of mashed fruit that mostly ended up on his sleeves.
John alternated between pacing the room and checking the ledger—unnecessarily, perhaps, but he found comfort in its weight and its clean, waiting pages.
Brian was fascinated by shadows this morning.
Not the ominous kind that lurked in wards or seeped under doors.
Normal shadows.
Every time someone moved, Brian's eyes flicked to the shifting dark behind them, as if the movement held a secret.
"What does he see in that corner?" Doris murmured, following his gaze.
"Nothing wrong with the lattice?" John asked Dorothy.
Dorothy tapped the wall lightly with her staff.
"No hooks," she said. "No cracks. He's just at that age."
"What age?" Flint asked.
"The age where everything is new and therefore suspicious," Dorothy said.
Brian cooed at the corner.
Flint shuddered. "I hate that."
Midmorning brought an unexpected knock.
A familiar one.
Three quick taps, pause, two slower ones.
"Kael," John said.
Flint opened the door.
Kael stepped in, looking more awake than anyone had a right to at this hour. He held a folded cloth bundle under one arm and a long, thin scroll case under the other.
"Apologies for coming early," Kael said. "But I have… something."
Doris stiffened slightly.
"Something dangerous?" John asked.
"No," Kael said. "Something confusing."
He set the scroll case on the table.
Then he unfolded the cloth.
Inside lay a small, flat object: a shard of stone, smooth on one side, jagged on the other, etched with a faint spiral symbol.
But it wasn't a chalk spiral.
It was darker, more geometric. A Voidborn pattern, unmistakably.
Doris's breath caught. "Where did you get that?"
"It was found in the Blue Wing stairwell," Kael said. "In a crack beside the third landing. A first-year tripped over it during morning drills."
John leaned in. "Is it active?"
"No," Kael said quickly. "Lyr tested it twice. It's inert. Dead stone. No hum."
Doris's fingers hovered just above it.
"But it shouldn't be here," she said. "This symbol—this is a Voidborn stabiliser sigil. We used them on field anchors and early warning
stations. They were never placed in Academy stairwells."
"Unless someone brought it," John said.
Kael nodded. "Exactly."
Dorothy rose from her chair, moving slow, deliberate. She studied the shard.
"Cut clean on the edge," she murmured. "Not broken naturally. This was carved deliberately from a larger piece."
"So someone chipped it off another structure," Doris said.
"Not just chipped," Dorothy said. "Harvested."
Flint made a face. "Harvested from what?"
Dorothy gave him a look. "The Paragons are trying to reconstruct Voidborn frames. That includes scavenging old pieces from anywhere they can find them. Tombs. Ruins. Or…"
She looked at Doris.
Doris went pale. "From old sanctums."
Kael frowned. "There are sanctums under the city?"
"Not intact ones," Doris whispered. "Most collapsed centuries ago."
"But the Paragons don't need them intact," Dorothy said. "They need samples. Shards. Anything that still holds an echo."
John straightened. "But this one is inert."
"Yes," Dorothy said. "Which means it is either a failed attempt—or planted."
The room fell silent.
"But why leave it where students could find it?" Doris whispered.
Flint raised a hand. "To freak us out."
John shook his head. "Not subtle enough for that. Paragons like meaning. This feels like a message."
"A hint," Dorothy said. "A breadcrumb."
Kael looked uneasy. "Should I tell Halvar?"
"Not yet," Dorothy said. "Let me look at it first."
She picked up the shard.
It immediately warmed against her palm.
Not heat.
Recognition.
Like stone remembering something.
Doris flinched. "Dorothy—"
Dorothy closed her eyes.
The shard flared faintly.
A thin line of light traced the spiral, then dimmed.
Dorothy inhaled sharply.
"Well?" John demanded.
Dorothy opened her eyes.
"They left this," she said quietly, "because they want us to follow where it came from."
Flint blinked. "Why?"
Dorothy set the shard down.
"Because," she said grimly, "someone is replicating Voidborn stabilisers inside the city—and they want Doris to find the rest."
Doris stared at the shard, feeling the slow thrum beneath her skin, the way the old patterns hummed in memory.
"They're calling to me," she whispered.
John clenched his jaw. "And we're not answering."
Dorothy's voice softened. "We have to, John."
John turned on her. "Why?"
"Because," Dorothy said, "they're not showing us power. They're showing us direction. And if we don't follow it, someone else will."
The shard lay on the table like a sleeping secret.
Brian gurgled.
Everyone turned sharply—
But he wasn't reacting to the shard.
He was staring at the corner again.
The shadow moved.
Just slightly.
Almost nothing.
Except everyone in the room saw it.
Except no one had touched a lantern.
Except there was no breeze.
Kael went pale. "Tell me you saw that."
Flint whispered, "Nope. No thank you. I'm leaving."
But he didn't move.
The shadow stretched.
Not toward Brian.
Toward the shard.
A thin strand of darkness reached, extremely slow, like someone dipping a fingertip into still water.
Dorothy's staff slammed into the ground with a crack.
The shadow snapped back like a yanked rope.
The hum in the room surged—
—then settled again.
Dorothy exhaled. "They're definitely calling you," she said to Doris.
"They can't have him," Doris said.
"They don't want him," Dorothy replied. "Not yet. They want you to come."
John scowled. "Then she won't."
Dorothy shook her head.
"They're not asking," she said softly. "They're predicting."
Doris's throat tightened. "Why me?"
Dorothy's gaze softened.
"Because," she said, "you're the only one who can read their mistakes."
Brian blinked up at them.
Innocent.
Unaware.
The chalk star above him glowed faintly.
They were quiet a long moment.
Then John closed the ledger with a soft, heavy sound.
"Write," he said.
Doris nodded.
She dipped a quill.
And began.