The list came back with more names than space.
Lyr pinned it to the board in the quiet room with a little more force than necessary.
"Everyone wants to die heroically under Third Chapel," she said. "Very inconvenient."
Halvar, arms folded, stood in front of the board like a judge.
The room smelled of chalk and tiredness. Chapel overlay hummed faintly along the walls, and the Herenvale shard sat on its small cloth on the central stone, a quiet reminder.
Doris stared at the list.
It had grown.
Maevra. Halvar. Lyr. Orane. Serais. Ren. John. Doriane.
Those had been there before.
Now there were more:
Tessa. Merrit. Elian. Kael. Two junior ward-mages whose names Doris only half recognised. Three students who had apparently decided "sanctum descent" sounded better than exams.
"No," she said aloud, pointing at the last cluster. "Absolutely not."
Lyr sniffed. "You may find this difficult to believe," she said, "but people don't always listen when I say 'no.'"
"Then say it louder," Orane said from the doorway. "Or with a sword."
She stepped in, armor creaking, hair pulled back, face set in its usual faint scowl. Tessa and Merrit shadowed her; both looked
disappointed already, as if they sensed what was coming.
Halvar tapped the list.
"We need eight," he said. "Not counting the small army waiting upstairs to pull us out by the ankles if we scream. Eight in the sanctum shell at any given time. More than that, we start interfering with each other's lines."
"Eight," Lyr repeated. "We already have eight without adding any of the eager idiots." She ticked them off. "Maevra, Halvar, me, Orane,
Serais, Ren, Doriane, John. That's eight. Everyone else can go away."
"Everyone else can't go away," Orane said. "I need at least two wardens in the field who know how to move in close quarters and drag
academics out of falling holes. Tessa and Merrit have trained on the simul more than anyone."
Halvar rubbed his temples. "We can rotate wardens," he said. "Two at a time. They're part of the eight. Veteran core stays constant."
"Which means someone else doesn't go," Lyr said.
All eyes slid to Ren.
He raised both hands. "I'm not volunteering to die," he said. "I'm volunteering to keep your inventories accurate."
"We need you in the corridor," Halvar said. "Not inside the shell. You're our line to the surface. If we lose you down there, we lose the person who understands how many people we can afford to move and how many we can't."
Ren looked almost relieved. Almost.
"I'll stay topside," he said. "Counting things. Trying not to count you."
"What about Elian?" Serais's voice came from the other side of the room; he'd entered more quietly than his robes suggested. "He's been in every chapel drill. He hears the overlap. If the sanctum starts parroting Paragon language, I want someone down there who can recognise the words before the walls do."
Doris glanced toward Elian.
The young priest stood near the door, hands clasped, gaze on the floor.
He looked like he wanted to vanish and also like he'd be offended if she let him.
"He's good," she said. "But he's green. One misstep and the sanctum will swallow him whole."
Elian lifted his head.
"I know the risk," he said quietly. "I still want to go."
"No," Serais said immediately.
Elian flushed. "You brought me to the chapel drill," he said. "You let me stand in the nave when the hymn twisted. You said I needed to
know what I was asking the stone to do. Now you're saying I'm not good enough to ask it to hold properly?"
"I'm saying," Serais replied, "that if I'm below, someone has to be above to keep the upper Choir from panicking and trying to 'help' by
improvising more verses."
He rubbed his face.
"You'll be more use topside," he said. "You know the crypt. You know the acolytes. They listen to you more than me because they're
terrified of disappointing you. Use that. Keep them singing the right words while I climb into the wrong place."
Elian's eyes glittered.
"That's not fair," he whispered.
"No," Serais said. "It's not. Neither are cracks. Grow up."
Elian flinched, swallowed, then bowed his head.
"As you command," he murmured.
Serais sighed and touched his shoulder briefly.
"As I ask," he corrected. "You have time yet. I'd like you to live long enough to be as bitter as I am."
The tension in the room shifted.
A little.
Halvar tapped the list again.
"Eight," he repeated. "Maevra. Me. Lyr. Orane. Two wardens—rotating, but only those who pass the simul without vomiting. Serais.
Doriane. John."
He circled each name with Chalk.
Ren's name he crossed out, only to rewrite it in the margin with corridor beside it.
He crossed out Elian entirely.
The three eager students got an X so dark the chalk almost scored the board.
Kael's name, halfway down the page, he hesitated over.
Doris frowned.
"Kael?" she said. "Why is Kael even on there?"
"Because I volunteered," Kael said from the door.
He leaned against the frame, trying for nonchalance.
He didn't quite manage it.
"You're a runner," Doris said. "Not a warden. Not a ward-mage. Not a priest. You shouldn't even be on this list."
"I'm also the only one who can sprint from chapel to tower to palace without getting lost," Kael said. "If something goes wrong down
there, you're going to need someone topside who knows every shortcut and isn't afraid to shove nobles out of the way."
"That's a reason to keep you out of the sanctum," Halvar said. "Not in."
Kael shrugged.
"Then keep me out," he said. "But don't be surprised when I show up at the door the moment you come back bleeding."
Lyr smirked.
"You're already on three other lists," she said. "Message relay. Emergency escort. Kitchen bribery. We need you too much up here."
Kael opened his mouth to argue.
Doris cut him off.
"Kael," she said. "You promised you'd be Brian's emergency ride if this tower ever cracked. You don't get to break that promise for the sake of bragging rights under a chapel."
He froze.
She'd never said it that plainly before.
"Right," he said after a moment. "Point taken."
He crossed his own name out with a quick, sharp motion.
"Happy?" he asked.
"No," Doris said. "But less angry."
Halvar exhaled.
"Good," he said. "We have our eight. We have our rotations. Next step: making sure you all have your affairs in order."
Flint, lurking in the corner, perked up.
"Affairs?" he said. "We get to have affairs? Why didn't anyone tell me? I'd have started seducing wardens weeks ago."
Orane rolled her eyes.
"Wills," Halvar clarified. "Letters. Instructions. If you don't come back, I want it on paper what you want done with your possessions, your students, your notes, your… unfinished grudges."
"That's grim," Lyr said.
"That's reality," Halvar replied. "We're walking into a sanctum that's been ignored since before most of us were born. I'm not going to
pretend that's safe. If you want to be offended, be offended at the people who built chapels on top of time bombs and then forgot where the fuses were."
Dorothy tapped her staff.
"I'll bring extra chalk," she said. "We'll write 'no' on as many bones as we can before we leave."
The will-writing did not happen in the quiet room.
It happened in the suite, which felt wrong at first and then, gradually, right.
Doris sat at the table with the ledger, a separate sheaf of parchment, and a quill that felt heavier than it should.
Mara bustled in the corner, pretending to fuss with stew and really listening. Edrin sat by the window, watching the city as if it might change shape if he looked away. Dorothy dozed upright in her chair, staff across her lap, one eye always slightly open.
Brian, tired out from a morning of trying and failing to crawl, slept in his cradle under the chalk house.
John stood behind Doris, one hand on her shoulder.
"This is ridiculous," she said.
"Yes," he replied.
"I'm not old enough to write a will."
"No one is," he said.
She glared at the blank page.
"You first," she said.
"I'll copy," he said. "We've been copying each other's bad decisions for years."
She snorted despite herself.
Then she began.
If we don't come back from Third Chapel…
Her hand paused.
She crossed out don't and wrote fail to
instead.
It felt no less final.
She continued:
…this is what I want done.
She wrote in fits and starts.
Possessions were easy.
Her tools to Lyr.
Her trade notes to Ren.
Her cooking pot to Mara, with a note that said you're the only one who can make this behave.
Her diagrams—sanitized for cult usefulness—to Halvar, with a plea not to let anyone "optimise" them.
Then came the harder parts.
What to do with Brian.
She stared at the page until the ink blurred.
John's hand tightened on her shoulder.
"We decided this," he reminded her softly. "Last night."
"I know," she said. "Writing it makes it real."
She wrote anyway.
Brian stays in the tower as long as it keeps him safer than the palace or the roads. Primary guardians: Mara and Edrin Aetheris, if alive and able. If not: Dorothy. (Yes, Dorothy, you're reading this and swearing. Too bad.) Flint to stay in his orbit; Kael to teach him when to run and when to stand.
She added, smaller:
Maevra to have veto over any attempt by Crown or Church to remove him against his will. If she's not here, Halvar. If he's not, Serais. If none of them are, Brian is old enough to decide himself and gods help the
world.
Her throat tightened.
She signed the bottom and pushed the page away before she could smudge it with tears.
"Your turn," she told John.
He picked up the quill.
His handwriting was blockier, more practical.
He left fewer jokes.
If I don't come back from Third Chapel, give the following to the following:
His list was shorter.
His sword to Orane.
His old traveling cloak to Kael—"you'll need it more than I do."
His field notes on "things that feel wrong" to Halvar and Serais, with a note: Use these to listen better next time. Don't tell me 'I told you so' in the afterlife.
Then:
Brian: as Doris wrote. I don't improve on her. Mara, Edrin, Dorothy, Flint, Kael—you've all been idiots and saved my life at least once. Please keep doing that for him.
And smaller, at the bottom:
If he ever becomes something like an anchor, remind him that anchors can refuse. It's not his job to die for people who won't listen. It's his job to decide what he stands for. Make sure he knows that before anyone tries to write it on him.
He set the quill down.
His hand shook.
Mara came over, read over Doris's shoulder, then cuffed John lightly.
"You're not allowed to die," she said. "I've just started liking you."
"You've liked me for years," he said.
"I've tolerated you," she corrected. "Don't get full of yourself."
Edrin took the pages and read them too.
His eyes were damp when he handed them back.
"This is worse than Herenvale," he said quietly. "At least then I didn't have to watch my children plan their own funerals."
Doris reached for his hand.
"Then help us come back," she said. "Tell us where you stepped wrong."
He squeezed her fingers.
"I already have," he said. "You're doing things we never considered. Listening where we insisted on talking. Refusing where we grabbed. Bringing a child instead of hiding him."
"That last one still feels like madness," John said.
"Yes," Edrin said. "Better madness. The other kind killed a town."
Later, when the wills were folded and tucked into a small wooden box Dorothy claimed she'd guard with curses, Doris took Brian down to the quiet room alone.
No drills.
No sanctum overlay.
Just baseline.
Halvar had given her the key with one raised eyebrow and no questions.
The room greeted them with a soft hum.
"Hello," she murmured, locking the door behind her. "It's just us."
Brian wriggled in her arms, grabbing at her braid.
She sat cross-legged in the center, the Herenvale shard between her knees, Brian on her lap facing the wall.
"You need to know this place," she told him. "Not the way I knew sanctums. The way we know quiet."
She guided his small hand to the stone.
He patted it, laughed at the texture, then tried to lick it.
She gently redirected.
"No, little storm," she said. "We don't eat walls. We ask them."
She flattened her own palm beside his.
The hum steadied.
She didn't reach for chapel or sanctum.
Just the simple, deep note they'd carved into this room over weeks of practice.
"This," she whispered, "is home pattern. Tower. House. Chalk. Tea. People who swear too much. If something tries to pull you somewhere it doesn't feel like this, you yell. You laugh. You say no. Understand?"
He burbled.
She imagined he did.
The hum recorded the moment.
Baseline plus his small, chaotic echo.
Another layer in the pattern.
Another reference point for the sanctum to compare itself against later.
She leaned her forehead against the stone.
Fear sat in her chest like a rock.
Underneath it, something else: resolve. Anger. Love. Memory of her grandfather's regret and her father's story.
And the tiny, bright thread that kept surprising her: hope.
Not that everything would be fine.
That it might be better.
If they survived.
"Ledger," she whispered, even though the book wasn't in the room.
The wall vibrated in something like agreement.
Flint found John on the outer parapet that evening, leaning on the low stone wall, staring out over the city.
The air was cold and smelled of river and chimney smoke.
From here, they could see Third Chapel's dome, squat and familiar, slate roof catching the last of the light.
"You look like you're practicing dramatic brooding," Flint said. "Very scenic. Ten out of ten."
John didn't look away from the skyline.
"Do you ever shut up?" he asked.
"Occasionally," Flint said. "Usually when I'm about to do something stupid."
He hopped up onto the wall, perched like a crow, knives hidden but present.
"You wrote your will," he said.
"Yes," John said.
"Do I get anything?" Flint asked.
"My undying appreciation," John said.
"Useful," Flint said dryly. "Doesn't keep you warm at night."
"You can have my old boots," John said. "If you can pry them off my corpse."
Flint swung his legs.
"I don't like this," he said.
"You never like anything that isn't sharp," John replied.
"I like some people," Flint said. "Against my better judgment. You. Doris. The small loud one. I don't like the thought of you walking into a hole under a chapel where the walls have opinions."
"They have opinions up here too," John said. "At least down there I'll be looking at them, not guessing."
Flint side-eyed him.
"Is there anything I can say," he asked, "that would make you not go?"
"No," John said.
"Good," Flint said. "Because I wasn't going to say it. I just wanted to check if I needed to invent a speech."
He flicked a pebble off the wall.
It vanished into the narrow run that separated tower from lower roofs.
"You know," Flint said casually, "if you die, I'll pretend to be haunted. I'll tell Brian your ghost lurks in the pantry judging his snack choices."
John snorted.
"Tell him I approve of anything his grandmother cooks," he said.
"I'll tell him you hate soup," Flint replied. "Just to spite you."
He sobered slightly.
"Seriously," he said. "Don't die. If this goes wrong, I'll have to be responsible. No one wants that."
John's throat tightened.
He turned, resting his back against the parapet.
"I'm more worried about leaving Doris with that sanctum than about dying," he admitted. "If I'm not there to help her say no…"
Flint hopped down.
"She'll say it louder," he said. "She did before you ever turned up, remember? You're not her only anchor. You're just her favorite."
John blinked.
"Did you just say something… nice?" he asked.
Flint shuddered dramatically.
"Don't tell anyone," he said. "I have a reputation."
Night fell.
The tower condensed into pools of light and shadow.
In the suite, the house symbol and the crooked star watched over a tangle of sleeping forms.
Doris lay on her side, Brian between her and the wall.
John lay on his back, one arm flung over his eyes.
Mara snored in the chair.
Edrin muttered in his dreams.
Flint sprawled under the window with knives within reach.
Dorothy sat unmoving, eyes closed, staff across her knees.
The Herenvale shard rested on the table, wrapped in cloth.
The ledger lay beneath it, yesterday's lines still damp.
Under Third Chapel, the sanctum shell listened.
It tasted the new pattern from the quiet room: baseline plus shard plus child plus refusal.
It did not understand "will" or "audience" or "envoy."
It understood strain.
It understood choices.
The Paragons had given it one song: crack, burn, purify.
The tower offered another: hold, refuse, remember.
Soon, the people whose names were circled on Lyr's board would walk down into its range and speak to it directly.
Who walks below.
Who stays above.
Who writes.
Who remembers.
Between breaths, between bells, between stories, the line waited.
Morning would bring chalk and maps and final drills.
Soon, they would descend.
For now, in a house drawn in chalk under an old tower under a hungry sky, a child slept with his hand curled around his mother's shirt.
The stones, for all their age and weight, listened to that small grip as carefully as they listened to any hymn.
They remembered Herenvale.
They remembered bells.
They remembered laughter.
Tomorrow, they would hear footsteps.
Tonight, they hummed.
The crack had not yet opened.
The choice had not yet been made.
The line, marked and signed and stubborn, held.