THE FRAUD OF FATE

Chapter 2: Star-Crossed Skepticism

“We’ve got a kingdom to save. Apparently.”

The words felt like lead on Cassian’s tongue the moment the carriage door clicked shut, sealing him into a world of velvet seats and the suffocating scent of Saphielle’s expensive perfume.

“You look like you’re about to vomit,” Saphielle remarked, not looking up from a leather-bound ledger. “Try not to do it on the upholstery. This carriage costs more than your shop and everything in it.”

“It’s the suit, Saph. It’s too tight. How do you people breathe in these things? I feel like a sausage in a silk casing.” Cassian tugged at the high, stiff collar of his midnight-blue tunic. “And why are we going to the Academy? I thought the deal was I help Alistair, not give a guest lecture to a bunch of snobs in white robes.”

“It’s the Midsummer Gala,” she said, finally looking at him with a gaze that could wither a cactus. “Every Oracle, Seer, and Prophet of rank will be there. Alistair wants you seen. He thinks if the public sees a ‘man of the people’ rubbing shoulders with the elite, it’ll settle the unrest regarding the recent… lack of clear omens.”

“So I’m a mascot. A lucky rabbit’s foot in a fancy coat.”

“You’re a distraction, Cassian. Try to be a quiet one.”

The Oracle Academy loomed ahead, a sprawling masterpiece of white marble and floating spire-lights that defied gravity and common sense. As they stepped out of the carriage, the hum of magical resonance hit Cassian like a physical wall. It made the hair on his arms stand up.

“Sweet spirits of the abyss,” Cassian hissed, stumbling. “Is the air always this twitchy here? It feels like I’m walking through a static rug.”

“That’s the ambient mana, you idiot,” Saphielle whispered, grabbing his arm to steady him. “Keep your head up. Smile. Look like you’re contemplating the mysteries of the universe, not wondering if you can steal the silverware.”

“Hey, I have standards. I only steal from people who can afford to lose it. These people? They can definitely afford it.”

They entered the Grand Ballroom, a cavernous space where the ceiling was enchanted to look like a swirling nebula. Hundreds of guests drifted through the room, their robes shimmering with enchantments.

“Saphielle! You’ve finally returned from the gutters.”

A tall, blonde man with hair so perfectly coiffed it looked like a sculpture glided toward them. He wore a silver circlet and a smirk that suggested he’d already decided everyone else in the room was beneath him.

“Zephyr,” Saphielle said, her voice dropping ten degrees. “I see your ego still requires its own zip code.”

“And I see you brought a guest,” Zephyr said, his eyes raking over Cassian with blatant amusement. “Is this him? The ‘Street Seer’ Alistair is so enamored with? I must say, the tailor did a decent job of hiding the smell of cheap incense.”

“I prefer ‘olfactory ambiance,’” Cassian chirped, offering a hand that Zephyr pointedly ignored. “And you are? Let me guess. Senior Vice President of Looking Down on People?”

Zephyr’s smirk didn't flicker. “Zephyr Starseer. Chief Analyst of Celestial Movements. I deal in the movements of stars, not the movement of… whatever it is you do.”

“I deal in results, Zephyr. Stars are a bit far away, aren’t they? Hard to get a straight answer out of a ball of gas.”

“Alistair claims you have a ‘knack,’” Zephyr said, raising his voice just enough to draw the attention of the surrounding Oracles. “But I’ve looked into your records, Cassian. There are no records. No Academy training, no lineage, no resonance signature on file. You’re a ghost. Or a very lucky liar.”

“I’m just a guy who listens,” Cassian said, his pulse beginning to thrum in his ears. The crowd was closing in. He could see the judgment in their eyes—the cold, calculating stares of people who spent their lives looking for ‘truth’ and found him wanting.

“Then let’s test that hearing,” Zephyr challenged, his voice ringing out across the ballroom. The music faltered, and even the floating lights seemed to drift closer. “A dual divination. Right here. Right now. A simple demonstration of skill for our esteemed colleagues.”

Saphielle stepped forward, her hand tightening on her staff. “Zephyr, that’s enough. He’s under Alistair’s personal protection.”

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt him, Saphielle. I just want to see the ‘Great Divinor’ in action. Unless, of course, the spirits are feeling shy tonight?”

Cassian felt the sweat start to itch under his collar. He looked at Saphielle. She looked like she wanted to murder Zephyr, but she also looked like she was waiting to see if Cassian would break.

“A dual divination,” Cassian repeated, his mind racing. “And what are we divining? Who’s going to have the most boring conversation tonight? Because I’m putting my money on you.”

The crowd tittered. Zephyr’s eyes flashed with irritation.

“A localized event,” Zephyr said, gesturing to the room. “The next three minutes. Tell us something that will happen in this room, with absolute certainty. I’ll do the same. We’ll see whose ‘vision’ holds more weight.”

Zephyr closed his eyes, his hands weaving a complex pattern in the air. A soft blue glow began to emanate from his fingertips. “I see… the North entrance. In exactly eighty seconds, a courier will arrive with a message for the High Chancellor. It will bear a red seal.”

The Oracles nodded, impressed. It was a classic calculation of logistical probability mixed with a touch of foresight.

“Impressive,” Cassian said, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. “Very… mathematical. A bit dry, though. Very ‘accountant of the gods.’”

“Your turn, fraud,” Zephyr sneered, the blue glow fading. “What do your ‘spirits’ tell you?”

Cassian felt a wave of genuine panic. He looked around the room, his eyes darting frantically. He wasn't looking for spirits. He was looking for anything. He saw the High Chancellor sipping wine. He saw a woman in a green dress laughing too loudly.

Then, his eyes drifted upward.

The Great Chandelier—a massive construction of enchanted glass and heavy silver—hung directly over the center of the ballroom. It was a marvel of art and magic. But Cassian’s eyes weren't on the glass. They were on the ceiling mount.

A tiny, almost imperceptible puff of plaster dust drifted down, caught in the light of a nearby floating orb. One of the silver bolts holding the main chain looked… tilted. Just a fraction. And the magical resonance Saphielle mentioned? It was humming. The vibrations of the music, the hundreds of people, the ambient mana—it was all converging on that one structural point.

Cassian felt a familiar thrill. It wasn't magic. It was the same instinct that told him when a mark was about to reach for their wallet or when the guards were about to turn a corner. It was physics and bad maintenance.

“Well?” Zephyr prodded. “The clock is ticking.”

Cassian suddenly clutched his head, letting out a sharp, theatrical gasp. He stumbled back, nearly knocking over a tray of champagne.

“The resonance!” he cried, his voice dropping into that gravelly baritone he used for Mrs. Gable. “It’s… it’s screaming! A shadow! A weight! The light itself is about to weep!”

“Speak plainly, man,” an older Oracle barked.

“The center!” Cassian pointed a trembling finger toward the middle of the floor, which was currently occupied by a group of dancing nobles. “The stars are angry! They’re falling! Clear the center! Now!”

“He’s lost his mind,” Zephyr laughed. “The stars are falling? Is that the best you can—?”

CRACK.

The sound was like a gunshot.

The ballroom went dead silent. Everyone looked up.

Another crack followed, louder this time. The massive chandelier groaned, its silver chains screaming as the primary bolt sheared straight out of the ceiling.

“MOVE!” Saphielle shouted, her voice breaking the spell of shock.

The nobles scrambled. A woman shrieked as she tripped over her own hem, but her partner dragged her clear just as the entire three-ton structure gave way.

The crash was deafening. Thousands of glass shards exploded across the marble floor like shrapnel. A cloud of dust and ancient plaster billowed upward, obscuring the view.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the ringing in everyone's ears.

Cassian stood at the edge of the debris, his hand still pointing dramatically at the wreck. He was shaking—not for the performance, but because he’d actually been right.

“My… my heavens,” the High Chancellor gasped, clutching his chest. “He… he saved us.”

Zephyr stood frozen, his mouth hanging open. The courier he’d predicted arrived at the North entrance just then, waving a red-sealed letter, but no one cared. All eyes were on the man in the tight blue suit.

“The spirits…” Cassian wheezed, wiping a bit of real sweat from his brow. “They’re very… very loud today. I told you. The light would weep.”

Saphielle moved toward him, her expression unreadable. She looked at the wreckage, then up at the ceiling, then back at Cassian.

“That was…” she started, her voice low. “That was quite a performance, Cassian.”

“I do what I can, Saph,” he whispered back, his bravado returning as he saw the crowd beginning to murmur in awe. “You saw it. I’m a hero. A genuine, fifty-thousand-gold-piece hero.”

Saphielle leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she looked at his face. She didn't look impressed. She looked dangerous.

“Funny thing, though,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the growing chatter of the guests. “I noticed something while everyone else was looking at the floor.”

Cassian’s smile faltered. “Oh? And what was that?”

“You weren't looking at the 'stars,' Cassian,” she said, her gaze flicking to the ceiling and then back to his eyes. “You were looking at the bolts. Five seconds before you even opened your mouth, you were staring at the structural mount. You didn't see a prophecy. You saw a maintenance failure.”

Cassian felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his spine. He maintained his theatrical pose, but his voice was a desperate hiss.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. The spirits work in mysterious ways, Saph. Sometimes they work through… hardware.”

Saphielle didn't look away. “You’re a fraud. A dangerous, incredibly lucky fraud. And now, thanks to that little stunt, the entire Bureau thinks you’re the Second Coming of the Great Seer.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It means,” she said, straightening his collar with a sharp, aggressive tug, “that when the real threat comes—the one Alistair is worried about—they’re going to expect you to see it. And if you don't? They won't just audit you, Cassian. They’ll execute you for treasonous incompetence.”

Cassian looked at the cheering crowd, then at the shattered glass, then back at Saphielle’s cold, hard eyes.

“Well,” Cassian muttered, his stomach finally doing that flip he’d been dreading. “I don't suppose there’s an exit in the back?”

“Smile, Cassian,” Saphielle said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness as the High Chancellor approached them with open arms. “You’re a hero now. Try to look like you aren't imagining your own head on a pike.”