The alley was a gullet of darkness, swallowing me whole. Behind the academy wall, shouts and clamoring bells formed a dissonant symphony of pursuit. I ran, my boots slipping on wet cobblestones, the afterglow of the magical explosion still clinging to me like faint, dying embers. Each frantic heartbeat pumped more unstable energy through my veins.
I had no plan, only instincts honed in a past life of campaigning: move, find cover, assess.
The capital at night was a different beast. The grand avenues and illuminated promenades of the noble districts were not for me. I dove into the labyrinth of service lanes, back alleys, and covered markets that smelled of rotting produce and cheap lamp oil. This was the city's underbelly, where the light of the magnificent magical streetlamps didn't reach.
The holy power within me was a liability. In the dark, I was a flickering beacon. A surge of panic when a stray cat screeched made my left hand ignite with a soft, golden flame for a full five seconds. I smothered it against my cloak, leaving a smoldering, star-shaped burn in the wool.
I needed to get off the streets. But where? An inn required coin and records. The home of a noble ally was the first place they'd look. The Church's reach was long, and the Crown Prince's interest was now a deadly thing.
Lucian's words about the "undercity" echoed in my memory. The sewers, the forgotten spaces. However, it was likely that the gate I'd used was already under surveillance.
A new sound joined the distant hunt—the rhythmic, marching tread of the City Watch, spreading out in a coordinated search grid. They were being mobilized. My little magical explosion had graduated me from a troublesome noble to a public threat.
Desperation sharpened my senses. My fate-sight, usually a subtle overlay, flared in the pressure. The threads around me became vivid. Most were the dull, grey strands of sleeping citizens. But several bright, seeking threads of harsh white (Church) and imperial gold (Crown) were weaving through the district, methodically tightening a net.
One thread, however, glowed a steady, deep blue. It was thin but resilient, and it didn't search—it pulsed, like a slow heartbeat, from a fixed point not far away. A thread of calm. A potential sanctuary.
I had nothing to lose. I followed it.
It led me to a dead-end alley stacked with empty barrels. The blue thread emanated from behind a faded, peeling poster for a traveling troupe. I pushed the poster aside. There was a door, old and stout, its iron fittings rusted. No handle, just a keyhole.
The blue thread led directly through it.
I had no key. But the power in me, reacting to the thread's inviting resonance, hummed in response. I placed my palm flat against the weathered wood. I didn't push power out; I let a tiny, questioning trickle seep into the grain, a knock made of light.
From within, a series of complex, metallic clicks answered. The door swung inward an inch, revealing darkness.
I slipped inside, pulling the door shut. The locks re-engaged with a solid thunk.
Silence. Thick, velvety darkness, smelling of dust, old paper, and… ink.
A flame sputtered to life across the room. A candle on a cluttered desk illuminated the face of the elderly man who had lit it.
He was elderly, with a wild mane of white hair and eyes magnified by thick, smudged spectacles. He wore a scholar's robe stained with mysterious chemicals. Around him were piles of books, scrolls, strange artifacts, and half-dismantled clockwork devices. This was no safe house. It was a smuggler's den for knowledge.
"You're early," he grumbled, his voice like pages rubbing together. "The appointment was for the third bell after midnight. And you're glowing. Literally. Turn it down, girl, unless you want the Justiciars knocking."
I clenched my fists, trying to will the residual glow in my skin to fade. "You were… expecting me?"
"Not you, specifically. A disturbance. The thread I left in the ward-stone was keyed to resonate with major thaumic upheavals in the academy's foundation. You triggered it. Dramatically." He peered at me. "You're the Thorne girl. It was you who discovered my marker among the stacks. Alaric. Retired surveyor, current keeper of inconvenient truths." He gestured to a rickety chair. "Sit. Before you explode and ruin my first editions."
His name was the man Lucian had told me about. My ally's ally. I sat, my body trembling with adrenaline and strain.
"The Church and the Watch are searching for me," I said.
"Obviously. They're searching for a rogue sorceress or a demon-tainted noble. They are not, as yet, searching for a saint. Which is what you are, unless my instruments are lying." He tapped a complex brass device on his desk, which had a needle pointing firmly into a gilded quadrant. "The energy signature from your… incident… was chaotic, but its core frequency is a match for historical Saint artifacts in my collection. This is a near-perfect match to one artifact in particular. He shuffled through a pile and slid a faded parchment toward me.
It was a sketch of a young woman with kind eyes and simple robes. The caption read: Saint Selene, Age 17, First Manifestation.
My face from a past life stared back at me. The resemblance to my current face was uncanny, separated only by the weight of years and tragedy.
My breath caught. "How…"
"I study what the Church buries. The Saint's lineage, her true history, and the inconsistencies in the official narrative. Your sudden appearance, your magical signature… it's either the most elaborate hoax in history or a miracle." He leaned forward, his spectacles gleaming. "I believe in miracles. They're just unexplained science. Why are you here?"
The directness was a relief. "They were sending me to a cloister at dawn. I can't… contain this." A wisp of gold escaped my lips as I spoke, coiling in the air between us.
Alaric watched it, fascinated. "No, you can't. The power is symbiotic. It responds to your emotional and spiritual state. Fear, anger, and despair—they fuel it, but they also corrupt its expression. That's why your explosion was part frost, part light. You're trying to cage a star with your bare hands. You need to learn to direct it. To give it a channel, or it will use you as one, with catastrophic results."
"Can you teach me?"
"Me? Goddess, no. I'm a theorist. A cartographer of magic. I can tell you what you are and where you need to go. The 'how' requires a practitioner." He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a small, flat case. Inside, on faded velvet, lay a simple silver pendant: a circle bisected by a vertical line. The convergence sigil. "This was hers. To Selene. It's a focus. It won't control the power, but it will direct it along a preferred path. Like a lightning rod."
He handed it to me. The moment the silver touched my skin, the chaotic, bubbling energy within me stilled, just a fraction. It didn't diminish, but it organized, flowing toward the pendant like iron filings to a magnet. The constant, painful pressure in my chest eased into a steady, powerful hum.
"Thank you," I breathed, the first moment of real relief in days.
"Don't thank me. I'm saving my library. Now, you can't stay. This place is warded against scrying, but not against a battalion of Templars kicking the door down. You need to reach the Northern Duchy."
"The Duke," I said.
"The Duke," Alaric confirmed. "He's the only political power with the will and the means to shield you now. And according to my sources, he's already making a nuisance of himself at the academy gates, which is the only reason the full might of the Church isn't already here. He's your diversion and your destination." He stood, moving to a large map of the capital nailed to the wall. "The main gates are watched. The river is patrolled. Your only route is through the old trade tunnels beneath the artisan's quarter. They come out near the northern road. Here."
He marked a spot. "I'll give you the key to the grate. After that, you're on your own. You have until dawn before they consolidate their search beyond the inner districts."
He pressed an old, iron key into my hand along with a small pouch of firm travel bread and a water skin. "The pendant will help stabilize you, but it's not a cure. When the full manifestation comes—and it will—you must be somewhere it can be seen as a blessing, not a threat. Alternatively, you could be in a location so remote that no one sees it at all. Now go."
I stood, the weight of the pendant a comforting anchor over my heart. "Why are you helping me?"
Alaric's wrinkled face softened. "Because the world is built on lies, girl. Every now and then, truth deserves a chance to prevail. Go. Be that chance."
I slipped back into the alley, the key and the pendant cold against my skin. The blue thread from Alaric faded behind me. Ahead, the night was vast and dangerous, but for the first time, I had a direction, a tool, and a sliver of hope.
The net was closing, but I was no longer just fleeing. I was navigating.
And beneath my ribs, the holy power, now focused by Saint Selene's own pendant, pulsed in time with my steps, waiting for its moment to shine.