Soren glanced at the twins, who wore identical looks of boredom, but he saw the small twitch in Lira's jaw. He wondered if she was thinking about the blue book, or just counting the odds on which of them would slip up first.

The Inspector dismissed the cohort, her boots tapping a perfect rhythm as she left. Soren followed the line down the corridor, but detoured at the first branching, heading for the admin block. If there was a time to vanish, it was now, everyone would be busy logging the inspection, and the security office would be on double shift until sundown.

He cut through the back stairs, up two flights, then down the catwalk that led to the east annex. It was a risk, but he needed to see the glass wall for himself, to check if the crack from last night was still there or if someone had already patched it over with a new layer of containment runes.

The corridor was dark except for the red safety lights, and the only sound was the hum of the air system. Soren's boots made no noise on the resin, but his own breathing sounded huge.

At the end of the hall, the wall shimmered: a square of thick, high-grade glass, with the hairline fracture still visible near the bottom left. The runes around the frame burned a faint blue, as if warning off the curious. Soren pressed a fingertip to the glass, felt nothing but cold.

He stared through to the dark beyond, half expecting the ghosts of every failed experiment to rise up and press their faces to the pane. Nothing happened. Just the flicker of the warning sigils, and the faint, bitter scent of ozone.

He stayed like that for a minute, then turned and left, making sure to retrace his steps exactly. If anyone noticed, he'd just say he was lost. That was the advantage of being the second son of a no-name line: expectations were so low it was hard to disappoint.

He took the back stairs down, mind already clicking through the checklist of what needed to happen before he'd risk another trip to the archives. He'd need a new badge, maybe a distraction in the common, and definitely a better answer if anyone asked what he was doing out of bounds.

As he reached the ground floor, he nearly collided with Instructor Mira, who eyed him up and down with a look that would have wilted steel.

"Vale," she said, flat as a curse, "Kaelor wants you. Immediately."

He nodded, said nothing, and let her lead the way, down the hall, past the still-glowing glass, and into the old administration suite. The door to Kaelor's office was open, the lights inside low, and the only movement was the restless tap of a stylus on the edge of the desk.

Kaelor sat with his back to the window, profile lit in half-shadow. He was not as tall as the stories, nor as muscular, but his presence filled the room the way a loaded weapon made its existence known even in complete darkness.

"Sit," Kaelor said, not looking up.

Soren sat, the chair barely cushioning the shift in his weight.

Kaelor finished whatever note he was making, then turned, study complete. His eyes were the color of static: not gray, not blue, just the suggestion of movement between.

"You're aware of the breach," he said.

Soren nodded.

Kaelor folded his hands, rested them on the desk. "The Council wants to know why you were the only one who accessed the lower archives last night."

Soren felt the old chill, the edge of panic that came from being asked to explain an event where honesty was a luxury. He chose his words with care.

"I had a key. Seren and Kale knew about it. I wanted to confirm something in the old ledger."

Kaelor's face remained still. "You confirmed, then?"

Soren hesitated. "I found what I needed."

Kaelor's mouth twitched, barely, but enough to register. "Good. You know the penalties for tampering with a soul-vessel?"

Soren said, "Yes."

"Do you know why those rules exist?"

Soren looked at the wall, at the rows of certificates and arranged medals. "Because one mistake is enough to start a war."

Kaelor nodded. "And sometimes, one war is enough to erase the mistake." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "The Council doesn't want a repeat of the past. They want discipline."

Soren held the gaze, refusing to let his own thoughts leak out.

Kaelor slid a slip of paper across the desk. "You're being reassigned. As of this afternoon, you're off the active containment roster."

Soren blinked. "Where, then?"

"Liaison duty. The city claims they need your focus on the Meridian project." Kaelor's eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't consider it a promotion."

Soren tucked the slip into his sleeve. "What about the archive?"

Kaelor shook his head. "You leave it alone. Let the Council handle whatever's waking up down there."

He waited for Soren to nod again.

"Good," he said. "We'll see what you're made of, Vale. Maybe you'll even surprise us."

The meeting ended as quickly as it started; Soren was shown out, the door closing soft but absolute behind him. In the corridor, he slowed, checked the slip: Liaison, Meridian Towers. Effective immediately.

He didn't know if he should feel relieved or demoted. Only that the city had just changed the rules, and he was still supposed to play.

He walked the length of the hall, boots echoing, nowhere to go but forward.

There was no orientation, no last leisurely tour of the old routine. Soren's boot soles were still grit-studded from the last drill when the messenger found him, and the escort—two juniors and a scrawny, shivering clerk, ushered him straight through the cold glass tunnels of the admin building and into the waiting chamber outside Kaelor's office.

He sat there, gloved hands folded in his lap, watching the condensation gather and drip on the window, every bead aligning with the others before falling. At the far end, Mira stood with her back to the wall, jaw set in a way that suggested she'd already diagrammed every outcome of the next fifteen minutes and none ended with Soren walking out happy.

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