The lull after the affinity test was deceptive. Silas used it. He invested his silver crowns not in finery, but in information and preparation. He commissioned a sturdy, unremarkable leather vest with hidden pockets from a tailor who asked no questions. He bought a well-balanced, non-magical hand-axe and a whetstone, learning its heft and edge. He paid a retired Guild scout for basic lessons in tracking, trap-detection, and wilderness survival—skills utterly unrelated to magic, but fundamental to staying alive.He also studied his fellow Branch C members. He learned the Pottery-Talker (whose name was Pell) wasn't mad; he had a hyper-sensitivity to minute vibrations and flaws, "hearing" stress fractures before they happened. The Almond-Water woman, Liana, could actually purify water of specific toxins by altering its pH minutely. They weren't powerless; their powers were just trapped in useless-seeming applications. Silas began to see them not as defects, but as specialists without a p

The underbelly of the Grand Baths was a realm of dripping stone, swirling steam, and the deep, rhythmic heartbeat of the earth. Theron led them down a narrow stair, holding a lantern that threw wild shadows on wet brick. The air grew thick with the smell of sulfur and heated stone."The fusion repair is about fifty paces in, where the main inflow from the east spring meets the old cistern," Theron explained, his voice echoing. "The earth-mage, Master Durn, said it was a simple job. He stabilized the crack with a calcification spell."Silas's [Empathic Diagnostics] was on high alert. The further they went, the more he felt a subtle, wrong vibration in the air—a high-pitched hum just at the edge of hearing. It was the same frequency he'd felt in the buoyant water, but amplified. A knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach—this was a confined space, and they were dealing with an unstable magical reaction. But his voice, when he spoke, remained firm. "The hum is getting stronger. We're clo

The Hall of Records was pandemonium. Scholars and clerks ran between towering shelves, grabbing scrolls and ledgers only to watch in horror as the ink on them shimmered and dissolved into faint, grey smudges. The air smelled of panic, old paper, and a strange, ozone-like emptiness. In the center of the chaos, Guildmaster Torvin stood like a stone in a river, his face grim."About time," he grunted as Kaela's group entered. "It started in the east wing, section for property disputes. Now it's in the main Guild contract archives. It's not random. It's following a pattern."Silas's senses were assaulted. His [Empathic Diagnostics] was overwhelmed by a sucking void, a profound sense of absence where meaning should be. It felt like listening to a lie so complete it erased the truth. His [Eyes of the Root Cause] saw nothing physically wrong with the parchments. The anomaly was metaphysical, targeting the information itself."What pattern?" Kaela demanded, already summoning a diagnostic sphe

Inside the Spire's field, the world became a sterile nightmare. The sounds of the city muted into a uniform, distant hum. Shadows fell with geometric precision. Silas's own breath seemed to sync to a metronome only he couldn't hear. The pressure to think in a straight line was immense.Hargin cursed, fiddling with a brass divining rod. "My tools are giving me perfect, useless readings. Air density: constant. Magical potential: zero. It's like reading the specs of a void."Pell was breathing heavily, leaning against a wall. "The song... it's inside my head now. It's trying to make my heartbeat match its rhythm."Lyra looked pained. "The life... it's so quiet. It's not gone, it's... suppressed."They reached the Spire's base. There was no door, only a seamless surface of black glass. Hargin scanned it. "No seams, no hinges, no magical lock. It's not meant to be opened. It's a monument."< LOGIC-LOCK PRIME. PARADOXICAL PATH... SEARCHING FOR

The journey to the Verdant Pool was tense and silent. Silas's core team—Lyra, Pell, Hargin, and Liana—traveled together, a unit of shared purpose. Sir Alaric rode ahead, a solitary figure of gleaming disapproval, accompanied by two of his own, silent retainers.The Whispering Woods lived up to their name, but the usual sighs of wind through pines were now punctuated by strange, rhythmic clicks and hums. They found a fox hunting; it moved in a straight line, pounced with mechanical precision on a mouse, and then stood still, as if waiting for its next programmed action. The sight filled Lyra with palpable sorrow.The Verdant Pool was not a pool, but a vast, sun-dappled clearing centered around a small, crystal-clear pond. At its heart stood the Weeping Willow, but it was unrecognizable. Its once-flowing, chaotic curtain of branches had grown rigid, forming a perfect, geometric dome of interlocking leaves. Its trunk was etched with spiraling patterns that looked grown, not carved. The a