The Parliament of Currents was a wound carved into the living rock of the Athenaeum. A great circular amphitheater, its tiered benches descended toward a central floor where the fates of districts were debated. The air, thick with the scent of incense and damp stone, tasted of ozone from the temporal stabilizers humming just beneath the floor. Hundreds of Seers filled the seats, a sea of deep indigo and gold robes, their collective T-Minus displays a nervous, shifting constellation of blue and green light. Kaelen felt the press of them, the sheer weight of so many lives, and his own flickering red felt like a shout in a library.
He and Seraphina entered from a high archway, moving with the flow of delegates. Her hand rested for a bare second on his arm, a silent signal. Stay calm. Follow the plan. The price of their alliance was this public walk into the heart of the enemy’s power, a performance of normalcy that cost him every scrap of his TAC training to maintain. He was no longer an auditor; he was a target, and he had painted it on his own back.
Across the chamber, in the section reserved for foreign dignitaries, he saw him. Kellan Shaw, the lead engineer from the Cog-Mind Conclave, sat with a delegation in sterile charcoal-grey uniforms. Shaw was the man Seraphina had called a monster, the architect of systems that bled time from whole populations. He had a face of sharp, joyless angles and the pale grey eyes of a man who saw the world as a set of equations to be solved. A smug, knowing expression rested on his lips. He was a predator who knew the hunt was already won. Kaelen felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. That was the man whose logic had murdered the weaver.
— He doesn’t know, — Seraphina murmured, her voice a low current beside him, meant only for his ears. — He thinks he’s here to watch a surrender.
— He’s here to collect, — Kaelen corrected, his own voice a harsh whisper. He forced himself to break eye contact with Shaw, his objective not revenge, but survival. Their survival.
Then he saw Orion Vale, a splash of chaotic glitter and bright silks, moving through a cluster of junior adepts. The flamboyant Seer was a master of his own craft. He wasn't just talking; he was performing, his hands gesturing dramatically, his voice rising and falling. He was seeding the ground, planting the rumors they had agreed upon. Kaelen watched him, a grudging respect dawning. Orion’s method was all snake oil and theatrics, but it was effective. He was stirring the currents, just as Seraphina had asked.
A moment later, Orion caught Kaelen’s eye from across the floor and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to his audience with a flourish.
— The waters are stirred, — Orion’s voice carried in a brief lull, loud enough for those nearby to hear. — They expect a storm, but not this one.
Kaelen turned his attention back to the room, his mind shifting from the players to the board itself. His gaze swept past the delegates, the guards in their lacquered chitin armor, and locked onto the target. In the exact center of the chamber floor sat the central Scrying Basin. It was a massive, shallow bowl of polished black obsidian, easily ten feet across, filled to the brim with what looked like still, black water. It was inert for now, but its surface held the placid, oily sheen of immense potential energy. That was their weapon. Their pulpit. Their bomb.
While Kaelen mapped the physical space, Seraphina navigated the political one. She moved with a fluid grace through the delegates, a word here, a hand on a shoulder there. She was a general reviewing her troops before battle, her expression a careful blend of concern and resolve. He saw her stop to speak with a stern-faced woman whose robes marked her as a tender of the lower aqueducts, the same woman whose chaotic reports he had helped organize. The woman listened, then nodded, her jaw set. An ally gained.
He saw others turn away from Seraphina, their faces closing off. He logged them as loyal to Lucius Thorne, or perhaps to Matrona Helia, the elder who held Seraphina’s debt. The battle would be fought here on the floor as much as in the canals below.
His mind went back to work, the old TAC procedures clicking into place, repurposed for this new, insane objective. He analyzed the security patterns. Four guards at the cardinal points of the basin. They were from the Matrona’s personal detail, which meant their loyalty was to the old guard, not necessarily to the Parliament.
— The guards near the basin are loyal to Matrona Helia, — Seraphina’s voice was suddenly at his elbow. She had circled back to him, her own reconnaissance complete. — They will hesitate before acting on a direct order from the Speaker. That’s our window.
He nodded, his own analysis confirmed. He traced the path in his mind. From their current position on the second tier, it was a straight line, but a crowded one. They would have to move through two dozen delegates. There was a decorative urn, heavy and ceramic, ten feet from the basin. A potential weapon. A distraction.
Three steps from the urn to the basin’s edge. A feint to the left to draw the nearest guard. Five seconds of total exposure. It was a lifetime.
He felt a familiar weight in his pocket and his fingers brushed against the cracked obsidian charm. It wasn’t a tool for a lie anymore. It was a key. A promise. The cold, smooth stone felt solid, a single point of certainty in the swirling chaos of the rite. He and Seraphina shared a look across the space that separated them, a silent confirmation. The plan was fragile. It was desperate. But it was theirs. The trust between them was the only real weapon they had.
A single, clear chime cut through the murmuring crowd. The sound echoed in the vast chamber, and a hush fell over the delegates. The Equinox Rite was beginning.
A robed figure, the Parliament Speaker, rose from a high seat carved into the wall. His voice, amplified by the chamber’s strange acoustics, rolled over them.
— Let the currents settle! — the Speaker called out, his arms raised. — Let the Equinox find its balance! Let the accounts of this season be known!
The central Scrying Basin began to hum, a low thrumming that vibrated up through the stone floor. The black water on its surface began to shimmer, and a soft, internal light bloomed within its depths, casting shifting patterns on the high, vaulted ceiling. The air grew heavy, charged with energy. Every eye in the chamber was fixed on the basin.
Kaelen took a slow, steadying breath. Every piece was on the board. Orion had primed the crowd. Seraphina had identified their allies. He had mapped the path and timed the assault. The gathering was done. Now came the execution. He felt a strange calm settle over him. He was no longer a man running from his past. He was a man running toward a consequence he had chosen.
The light from the basin pulsed, a slow, steady heartbeat. The incense smoke hung thick and still in the air.
