The tower felt taller that morning.
Not physically. The stones hadn't grown while everyone slept curled around stew and memories.
But the hum had shifted—longer, stretched, like a person standing on tiptoe.
Doris sensed it as soon as she opened her eyes.
The chalk house symbol above Brian's cradle glowed faintly in the dim light. The crooked star beside it answered with a softer pulse, the
two shapes talking in languages only the wardlines fully understood.
Brian snored.
Mara did not.
She was already up, hair twisted into a knot, sleeves rolled, stirring something in the dented pot over the spirit stove.
"Tea," she announced. "And something almost like porridge. Your Rector will have no excuse to faint in my presence."
"He doesn't faint," John muttered, sitting up. "He just forgets what chairs are for."
"Same illness," Mara said.
Edrin snorted awake on his pallet.
Flint rolled over and fell off his heap of blankets.
Dorothy didn't move—but her eyes were open, and that was warning enough.
Doris eased herself up carefully so as not to wake Brian.
The hum brushed against her skin like static.
"Something's different," she said.
Dorothy nodded toward the wall.
"Someone important is awake in the palace," she said. "And walking toward us."
John frowned. "You can feel that?"
"The wards can," Dorothy replied. "They squint when courtiers move in packs."
As if summoned, there came a sharp, official knock at the door: two short, one long, one short.
Not Halvar.
Not Maevra.
Ren.
"Of course," Doris sighed. "Envoys and ledgers. Perfect combination."
Ren Kaltan looked more polished than the tower people were used to.
He wore a dark, well-cut coat, ink stains scrubbed mostly off his fingers, hair tied back. Only the faint smudge on his jaw and the
papers clutched in his hand betrayed how little he'd slept.
"Good morning," he said, stepping inside and shutting the door firmly behind him. "I see we've invented a new kind of chaos in here."
Mara offered him a bowl.
He accepted without argument.
"The Emperor sent someone," he said between mouthfuls. "Well. Several someones. An informal delegation, they're calling it. To 'see with their own eyes the state of the Academy and the stability of the city's
foundations.'"
Flint made a face. "That's a lot of words for 'spy on you,'" he said.
"Yes," Ren agreed. "Maevra has already caged them in the north conference hall with tea, maps and Halvar's driest ward reports. They have a tight-lipped palace mage with them, and one of the Emperor's nephews for
decoration."
"Decoration?" John echoed.
Ren shrugged. "He's very pretty and very bored," he said. "The important one is the woman with the signet ring and the eyes like she's cataloguing the weight of every stone. Lady Arisel. The Emperor's 'advisor on
arcane matters.'"
"Paragon?" Doris asked.
Ren shook his head. "No," he said. "Old school. Court-trained. Probably thinks Voidborn are a charming myth and Paragons are peasants with bad taste in jewelry. That's its own kind of danger."
"Why are you here?" Dorothy asked.
Ren held up the papers.
"Because," he said, "the first thing Lady Arisel asked for, after her tea and her maps, was a precise, written account of last week's
chapel incident. With names. And Maevra would like those names to be spelled by
people who own them."
Doris's stomach tightened.
"Brian," she said.
Ren nodded. "She's heard enough rumor to know there was 'an anomalous resonance event' involving a child," he said. "Maevra's already framing it as 'unusual but controlled,' but if we try to pretend he doesn't exist, Arisel will smell blood. The Emperor sent her to verify we're not breeding private gods in the tower."
"We're not breeding anything," John muttered.
Mara snorted. "Speak for yourself," she said. "You bred just fine."
Doris glared at her.
Ren hid a smile.
"I need your consent," he said. "To name him in the report. To describe, in careful, technical, very boring language, what happened at
Third Chapel. And to specify the safeguards we are putting in place."
"What happens if we say no?" John asked.
"Then Maevra has to invent a fiction that is plausible enough to satisfy Arisel and vague enough to protect you," Ren said. "Which
will make Arisel suspicious, Halvar furious, and the Emperor curious. I don't
recommend it."
Doris rubbed her thumb over the edge of the table.
"I won't let them write him like a tool," she said. "No 'asset.' No 'resource.' No 'Aether node in human form.'"
Ren winced. "I wrote that last phrase once," he admitted.
"Burn it," Mara said.
"I did," Ren replied. "And then I drank until I couldn't see letters for a day. I've learned."
He laid the top sheet on the table.
"At present," he said, "the draft says: 'A male infant, offspring of tower-affiliated personnel, exhibited spontaneous harmonic resonance with the chapel field, coinciding with stabilising re-alignment of disrupted hymn pattern.'"
"That's already too much," Edrin said.
"That's just enough," Dorothy countered. "It says nothing they don't already suspect. It frames him as responding, not causing."
Doris scanned the lines.
Her own name.
John's.
Brian's, written as "Male infant (hereafter designated B.A.)."
"No initials," she said sharply. "If they want him named, they can use his name. Or mine. Or John's. No 'designations.'"
Ren nodded immediately. "Easy," he said, scratching out the letters. "No designations."
"And the phrase 'offspring of tower-affiliated personnel'?" John asked. "That stays?"
"It means 'child of people we already have to deal with,' not 'mysterious new factor from nowhere,'" Ren said. "It keeps him inside the
circle we control, in their eyes. That's safer than treating him like an unexpected meteor."
Doris took a breath.
"All right," she said. "You can write that he laughed and the bells changed. That it helped. That we are training to make sure it doesn't
happen by accident. That we're building… controls."
Her mouth twisted around the last word.
Ren's cheeks colored.
"I hate that word too," he said quietly. "But if we don't use it somewhere, Arisel will ask where it is. Better it comes from us, defined
on our terms."
He added, carefully:
Subsequent to the event, the Academy has instituted structured harmonic training in controlled environments, aimed at minimising
unintentional resonance events and ensuring that any future interactions occur under strict ward supervision.
Doris read it twice.
"It makes him sound like… like a leaky pipe," she said.
"It makes him sound manageable," Ren said. "To people whose first instinct around anything they can't quantify is to lock it in a
basement."
Mara snorted.
"They can try," she said.
Ren looked up from the page.
"They will," he said. "That's what this visit is. A test. He can't move the Emperor yet. But he can send eyes and ears and fingers and see
how we flinch."
John folded his arms.
"What does Maevra want from us besides a signature?" he asked.
Ren tapped the second sheet.
"She wants you in the room," he said. "Not with Arisel. Not yet. In the mirror chamber."
Doris frowned. "What?"
Ren smiled humorlessly.
"Tower tactic," he said. "We have a listening room adjacent to the conference hall. Ward-thin wall. One-way line. You can't see them. They can't see you. But you'll hear everything they say. And… feel… if they try to prod the lattice while they talk."
"You're turning us into lie detectors," John said.
"Yes," Ren said simply. "Better you know what they ask for now than read about it later in some law you had no say in."
Dorothy tapped her staff.
"I'll stay with the boy," she said. "Your parents can stand on either side of his cradle and glare at the walls. If the hum twitches wrong
in here, we'll shout."
Mara looked offended. "I do more than glare," she said.
"You also throw things," Dorothy said. "Very effectively."
Edrin sighed.
"We're already in this far," he said. "Might as well see how palace people lie."
Doris met John's eyes.
He nodded.
"All right," she said. "We'll sign your report. We'll sit in your listening room. And we'll see what the Emperor's eyes want."
Ren exhaled slowly.
"Good," he said. "Thank you."
He set the quill down.
Doris took it.
For a heartbeat, the weight of it felt like the Herenvale shard—small, heavy, full of consequence.
She signed her name.
Doriane Aetheris.
John followed.
Ren folded the pages, slipped them into a leather folder, and stood.
"They're scheduled for a full tower briefing at second bell," he said. "We should go now. I want you settled in the mirror chamber before Lady Arisel starts rearranging my maps."
He hesitated.
Then added, more quietly, "He's not in danger from them today. Not directly. They're not here with chains. They're here with questions. That's scarier, in some ways. But it means we still have room to move."
"Scarier?" Flint repeated. "I like how that's supposed to be calming."
Ren gave him a thin smile.
"If I wanted to calm you," he said, "I'd lie."
The mirror chamber felt like a throat.
Narrow, curved, lined with stone that had been polished smoother than the rest of the tower. A single, long bench ran along one wall. The opposite wall held no window, no ornament, only a faint shimmer in the stone where a wardline thickened.
Halvar stood with his hand on that shimmer when they arrived.
"Good," he said. "You're on time. They're not."
"That's something," Doris said.
Ren slid onto the bench with an ease that suggested he spent more time here than he'd like.
"You use this a lot?" John asked.
"Less now than in the war," Halvar said. "Then we listened to generals planning raids and nobles planning betrayals. These days, we mostly listen to administrators planning budget cuts."
"Arguably more dangerous," Ren muttered.
Halvar pressed his palm to the wall.
The ward shimmer brightened.
Sound bled through.
"…understand we are all on the same side, Lady Arisel," Maevra's voice came, a little flattened by stone but clear. "No one in this
tower wants cracks under chapels."
"I'm glad to hear it," another voice replied.
Cool.
Precise.
Female.
Doris could picture the woman without seeing her: composed, with a face that had never known a callus and a mind that had never known boredom.
"The Emperor shares your concern," Arisel continued. "He also shares the city's unease. People pray in those chapels. They expect solid ground beneath their knees. The report you provided"—a faint rustle of parchment—"is… detailed. And frankly alarming."
Ren flinched reflexively.
Halvar gave him a sideways look.
"You did fine," he murmured. "Let her be alarmed. Alarmed people listen."
"Paragons are alarming," Maevra said in the next room. "So are old anchors we've let too long without attention. I prefer honesty to
flattery in everything except tea."
A soft ripple of laughter.
Not Arisel.
Another voice—male, younger, amused.
"That sounds like you, cousin," he said. "You never did bother with flattery."
"The stones don't respond to it," Maevra said. "Why should I waste the practice?"
"Still," Arisel pressed, "the idea that a child—"
Here it came.
Doris held her breath.
"—a child's laughter could influence chapel resonance is… unprecedented."
"Elian's notes disagree," Serais's voice chimed in. "Infant cries and babbles have always had small effects on localized wards. We simply never wrote it down because we never had a Rector obsessive enough to demand that level of detail."
Halvar smirked.
Ren managed not to.
Arisel made a small, dismissive sound.
"I am not concerned with the usual minor fluctuations of domestic wards," she said. "I am concerned with the fact that your report
states that, during an active Paragon incursion aimed at corrupting Third Chapel's hymn, 'the harmonic signature of one infant responded with stabilising interference.'"
Her pronunciation of infant made it sound like an untested weapon.
Doris's fingers curled against her knees.
"Correct," Maevra said calmly. "We did not plan for it. We have adjusted our training to prevent it from happening unsupervised again."
"And yet you continue to keep the child within the tower," Arisel said. "Within reach of every ward, every anchor, every… potential crack."
"Moving him would not remove his resonance from the lattice," Halvar said. "He's imprinted. The stones know him now. Taking him outside our direct protection would only make him a louder target in a less controlled environment."
"In other words," Arisel said, "you do not trust the city to behave if it realises a child can soothe its walls."
"No," Maevra said. "I do not trust Paragons, desperate courtiers or frightened priests. My students and wardens, yes. The rest… we're
working on."
Ren glanced at John.
John's jaw was rigid.
Arisel shifted tack.
"The Emperor," she said, "is not blind to the risks you describe. He is also not blind to the potential described in these pages.
'Spontaneous harmonic stabilisation' is not a phrase one throws away lightly. His Majesty wishes to ensure that this… child… is being guided properly. That his gifts are not being neglected. Or… misused."
John made a noise like he'd bitten his own tongue.
Halvar shot him a warning look.
Maevra's reply was ice.
"The child is being guided," she said. "By people who understand both the tower and his lineage. He is not a project. He is not a
'node.' He is a person who happens to have been born where old lines cross. Any 'gifts' he has will be considered in that light."
"And his lineage?" Arisel asked softly. "The report is… coy."
Ren winced again.
Halvar sighed.
"We can confirm," Maevra said, "that one of his parents carries Voidborn resonance."
A small intake of breath.
Not Arisel.
The young male voice.
"Voidborn?" he murmured. "I thought they were all—"
"Rumor of extinction is greatly overstated," Arisel cut in. "Are you telling me you have a living Voidborn bloodline inside the tower and
you did not think to inform the Crown?"
"I am informing the Crown now," Maevra said. "Through you. As is proper. The bloodline is not a secret to us. It has been under Aetherion
protection for years. Paragons already know enough to hunt it. I see no advantage in adding palace gossip to their information."
In the mirror chamber, Doris's heart pounded.
Hearing it stated so plainly—Voidborn bloodline—in a room with palace ears made the air thinner.
Arisel was silent for a moment.
When she spoke again, her tone had changed.
Less dismissive.
Sharper.
"The Emperor will want guarantees," she said. "That this bloodline is loyal. That this child will not become a… rallying point for those who disagree with the Crown's policies."
"Such as Paragons," Serais said dryly. "Or certain noble houses who rather like cracks in other people's foundations."
Arisel ignored him.
"Would it not be safer," she continued, "to relocate the child and his family to a more… secure environment? One with more guards. More… discipline."
"You mean the palace," Maevra said.
Silence answered.
In the mirror chamber, Halvar murmured, "Here we go."
John's fists clenched.
"He thinks he canraise him," Arisel said finally. "To be a symbol of unity. A proof that old wounds can be healed. The child could have
every resource. Tutors. Ward-mages. Priests. Guards. He would never want for anything."
"Except a life," Halvar muttered under his breath.
Maevra's voice went flat.
"And what," she asked, "would happen to this 'symbol' if he decided he didn't agree with imperial policy? If he refused to be displayed on balconies? If he laughed when the wrong hymn played?"
"Then," Arisel said, "we would have the opportunity to guide him more firmly."
John surged to his feet before he realised he'd moved.
Halvar grabbed his arm.
"Not yet," the Rector hissed. "Listen."
Maevra's reply was quiet and deadly.
"I am not in the habit," she said, "of handing children to men who use words like 'firmly' when they mean 'obediently.' Nor to women who think of them as 'opportunities.' The child stays here. Under my wards. Under my rules. Under his parents' care."
"You forget yourself," Arisel said softly. "The Emperor—"
"—is not in this room," Maevra said. "And if he were, I would say the same. We are willing to cooperate. To report. To host your eyes
and ears. To invite His Majesty to observe controlled training when it is safe. But we will not surrender guardianship. If that is a condition, then we will have to manage the sanctums without imperial endorsement."
"Is that a threat?" Arisel asked.
"It's an assessment," Maevra said. "Ask Halvar how well the chapel held when politics stayed out of it. Ask Serais how many prayers it took to drown that crack hymn. Ask Ren how much it would cost to rebuild the temple district if we walk away."
Ren jumped slightly at being mentioned.
In the conference hall, he cleared his throat.
"My preliminary estimates," he said, "put reconstruction of a single collapsed chapel and its surrounding streets at approximately three years' budget for the imperial summer games. Multiply that by every district that sits over a neglected sanctum. That's before you factor in casualties, lost revenue, and civil unrest."
The young male voice whistled softly.
"Expensive symbols," he said.
Arisel sighed.
"The Emperor does not wish a rift with Aetherion," she said. "He values its services. Its history. Its… unique expertise. But he will not tolerate… secrets."
"And he is not entitled to all of them," Maevra replied. "We will give him what he needs, not everything he wants. If he wants more, he is
welcome to come sit in my quiet room and feel the cracks himself."
There was a pause.
Then the young man spoke again, hesitant.
"Lady," he said to Arisel, "perhaps… perhaps we could recommend a… compromise. The Emperor could… attend a demonstration. As Maevra suggests. Later. After the chapel sanctum is stabilised. It would be… a gesture
of mutual trust."
Arisel's voice cooled.
"You overstep, Highness," she said. "Leave negotiations to—"
"—people who think in ledgers and wards," he said, sharper than before. "I think in crowds. In stories. If word spreads that His Majesty
ripped a child from his parents' arms because the boy soothed a bell, that's not a tale that ends well. For anyone."
Doris blinked.
Unseen, an imperial nephew had just saved them an argument.
Maevra sounded almost amused.
"Your cousin has a point," she said. "Symbols cut both ways. Let us propose this: we proceed with our preparations for the chapel descent. We invite His Majesty to observe the aftermath—a stable sanctum, a calm chapel.
If, after that, he still insists on an audience with the child, we will consider it under conditions we set together. In the tower. Under my wards. With his parents present."
"And if he refuses?" Arisel asked.
"Then," Maevra said, "he can explain to his people why their chapels cracked because he demanded a baby and we said no."
Silence.
Long enough that even the stones seemed to lean in.
Finally, Arisel exhaled.
"I will convey your position," she said. "With all the nuance it deserves."
Which meant, Ren mouthed silently, with as much spin as I think I can get away with.
Maevra's reply was crisp.
"Do," she said. "Tell him the tower is willing to stand in the crack with him. Not under his heel."
Halvar lifted his hand from the wall.
The sound cut off.
The mirror chamber was suddenly very quiet.
John realised he was shaking.
Doris's nails had bitten crescents into her palms.
Ren let out a long, slow breath.
"Was that as bad as you feared?" he asked.
"Yes," John said.
"No," Doris said.
Halvar snorted.
"That went better than it could have," he said. "Arisel wanted a leash. She didn't get one. The nephew—whichever ornamental cousin he is—threw us a rope. Maevra didn't wrap it around her own neck. I call that a win."
"A small one," Ren said. "He still wants an audience."
"Later," Doris said. "After the sanctum. After we see whether we survive standing under his chapels."
John pressed his hand to the wall again.
The hum was jittery.
Not from Paragon work.
From argument.
From the tower listening to the people inside it draw lines.
"Ledger," he said softly.
Doris nodded.
"Later," she replied. "In the house, not in the throat."
Halvar clapped Ren on the shoulder.
"Go appease our guests," he said. "Tell Arisel I'll send her the updated Herenvale data when Lyr stops drooling on it."
Ren grimaced. "She'll ask why we didn't burn those records," he said.
"Tell her," Halvar said, "that some of us learn from our mistakes. And that it's hard to study ash."
Back in the suite, the hum felt different.
Not lighter.
Not heavier.
More… aligned.
Mara was stirring something aromatic on the stove.
Edrin was showing Brian how to tap the floor in a rhythm that amused the crooked star.
Dorothy looked up when they entered.
"Well?" she asked.
"They want him," John said.
"They can't have him," Doris added.
"For now," Dorothy said.
"For now," John echoed.
Mara looked at her daughter's face and put down the spoon.
"You argued," she said.
"Yes," Doris said. "Maevra argued louder."
"Good," Mara said. "I like her."
Edrin picked up the Herenvale shard from where it lay by the ledger.
"So do the stones," he said. "They like people who say no."
Doris went to the table.
She opened the ledger.
John leaned over her shoulder.
She wrote:
— Palace envoys in tower. Lady Arisel (arcane advisor) tried to suggest "relocating" Brian to palace "for guidance." Maevra said no. Offered cooperation, not custody. Imperial nephew surprisingly useful; pointed out
people don't like stories about kings stealing babies. Current status: Emperor wants audience "later," after chapel sanctum work. Terms to be negotiated. Child stays.
She paused.
Then added:
— Stones heard us say no. Important.
John took the quill.
— If we walk under that chapel and come back, we'll have leverage. If we don't… the Emperor will get his legend without us. Leverage depends on survival. Survival depends on sanctum. Sanctum depends on Herenvale shard, Brian's laugh, Doris's voice, Halvar's wards, Maevra's spine, Serais's
hymns, Orane's blades, Ren's numbers. All of us. Together. No single line holds this.
He underlined together.
Brian, as if on cue, squealed.
The chalk house symbol glowed.
The crooked star flared.
The hum wrapped around them all—Voidborn, listener, grandparents, knife goblin, old friend, stubborn Head, distant Emperor, hidden Paragons.
Under Third Chapel, the sanctum tasted the faint echo of the argument in the conference hall.
It did not know words like "Emperor" or "custody" or "audience."
It knew tension.
It knew choice.
It knew Herenvale's shard.
It knew a baby's laugh.
It began, slowly, to lean.
Not toward the Crown.
Not toward the cult.
Toward a new, fragile pattern forming in the tower: a house, drawn in chalk, stubbornly refusing to crack.
Old lines.
New echoes.
Soon, they would descend and test whether any of it truly held.
For now, they had envoys, arguments, stew, and a small, bright sound lodged in stone.
For now, the answer to imperial "insistence" was still no.
For now, the house stood.