The library of the Sol estate was a sanctuary of silence, broken only by the rhythmic scratching of a charcoal pencil against heavy parchment. Tall, arched windows let in the silver light of the moon, which played over the spines of thousands of leather-bound volumes. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, ozone-like tang of high-density mana that seemed to permeate every corner of the manor.

Vane stood hunched over the central table, his eyes fixed on a map that detailed the borderlands between the Aurelian Empire and the scorched territories of the East. He didn't look like a student anymore. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face, casting long shadows that made him look older and far more dangerous. He moved the pencil with the precision of a surgeon, marking specific industrial hubs and natural mana-wells with small, cryptic symbols.

Valerica sat across from him, her violet hair loose and cascading over her shoulders. She wasn't looking at the map. She was looking at him. She had a whetstone in her hand, slowly and methodically sharpening a small, secondary dagger. The sound was a steady, abrasive rasp that filled the gaps in the silence.

"You've marked the iron-refinery near the Black-Iron Outpost," Valerica said, her voice quiet. She didn't ask a question; she was stating a fact. "That's outside the standard jurisdiction of the border patrol. It's where the specialized squads operate. The ones who don't have to answer to the regional governors."

Vane didn't look up. He traced a line from the refinery to a deep, jagged valley several miles to the north. "The regional governors are a nuisance for people like Gareth. They prefer the blind spots. Places where the industrial smog is thick enough to drown out a mana-signature."

"The Justiciars in that division are skilled," Valerica continued, her thumb testing the edge of the blade. "They're veterans of the border skirmishes. They've spent decades mastering mana-skin because they had to survive in places where the air itself is toxic. They don't care about academic standing or noble names. They only care about results."

Vane finally set the pencil down. He straightened his back, feeling the faint, protesting pop of his vertebrae. He looked at the marks he'd made, a complex web of logistics that looked more like a trap than a travel route.

"I'm not going there to challenge them to a duel, Val," Vane said. He reached for a small, reinforced leather case sitting at the edge of the table. He opened it, revealing several glass vials filled with a dull, grey powder. "I'm going there to change the environment. A Rank 5 Justiciar is a god in a clean room. In a gutter, they're just another target with a heartbeat."

Valerica stood up and walked around the table, leaning over the map. Her presence was warm, a steady anchor in the cold room. She pointed to the valley he'd marked. "The Weeping Iron-Groves. Why there? It's a Grade 4 zone. The mana-interference is high enough to scramble a standard communication crystal."

"That's exactly why," Vane replied. He tapped a specific point in the center of the groves. "Gareth's squad relies on a centralized tracking relay. They don't hunt by sight; they hunt by the 'Abnormality' pings from the Imperial sensors. If we are in the groves, those pings become echoes. They'll have to tighten their formation to keep a lock on us."

Valerica looked at him, her eyes searching his face for a hint of the plan he was holding back. Vane met her gaze with a flat, unreadable expression. He didn't explain the traps he had already built in his mind. He didn't mention the way the Silver Fang would react to the metallic trees in the grove. He simply waited.

"You're not just looking for Gareth," she whispered. "You're looking for all of them."

"He didn't walk into Oakhaven alone," Vane said, his voice dropping into a low, cold register. "He was the one who drew the arc, but the others were the ones who held the perimeter. They watched the gates melt. They watched the buildings collapse. They are all part of the same machine."

He turned away from the map and began checking the specialized gear they had spent the last few hours organizing. He picked up a coil of high-density mana-cable, testing its tension. It was reinforced with star-metal threads, designed to hold under the pressure of a Sentinel's output. Beside it lay a pair of insulated combat leathers, treated with alchemical salts to dampen the friction of the Argent Horizon's rotation.

"We leave at dawn," Vane said, his hands moving with efficient, practiced motions. "We'll take the southern rail line as far as the terminus, then move on foot. We need to be in position before the next tracking sweep."

Valerica nodded, her resolve hardening. She didn't ask for more details. She knew Vane well enough by now to know that he wouldn't give them. His mind was a black box, a place where variables were weighed and discarded with a ruthlessness that she found both terrifying and deeply comforting.

"The squad will have at least two Justiciars," she said, her voice regaining its authoritative edge. "I can handle the gravity suppression for one, but the other will be free to roam. If they realize we're working together, they'll focus their fire on me to break our synchronization."

"Let them," Vane said, a small, dangerous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "By the time they realize what the 'Calamity' actually means, the doors will already be locked."

The heavy silence returned, but it was no longer heavy with grief. It was charged with the electricity of an impending storm. Vane reached for a small, handheld mana-sensor, checking its calibration against the estate's background hum. He was meticulous, obsessed with the fine details that the Empire's soldiers usually overlooked. He checked the seal on the glass vials again, ensuring that the mana-coal dust wouldn't leak until he wanted it to.

Valerica watched him, a sense of realization dawning on her. Vane wasn't just planning a murder. He was engineering an event. He was taking everything the Empire had taught him about order, ranks, and hierarchy, and he was turning it into a weapon against the very people who had created him.

"Vane," she said softly.

He looked up, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. "Yeah?"

"Don't lose yourself in this," she said. "When we're in the mud, remember that we're coming back. Isole and Ashe are waiting at Zenith. The squad isn't complete without you."

Vane paused, his hand hovering over the gear. The "Rat" in his head wanted to scoff at the sentimentality, but the part of him that had sat with her on the terrace felt a sharp, unexpected pang of warmth. He nodded once, a quick, jerky motion.

"I know," he said.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway outside the library broke the moment. They were light, hurried, and accompanied by the faint jingle of a servant's keys. A moment later, the heavy oak door creaked open.

A young maid stood in the doorway, her face pale and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She looked at Valerica first, offering a quick, practiced bow, before her eyes darted nervously to Vane. The sight of the maps and the specialized combat gear seemed to make her even more anxious.

"Pardon the intrusion, Lady Valerica," the maid said, her voice trembling slightly.

Valerica straightened her posture, the noble mask sliding back into place effortlessly. "What is it, Elara?"

The maid turned her attention to Vane, her voice dropping to a respectful whisper. "Master Vane, I have been sent with a message from the Duchess. Her Grace has requested your presence in the private solar immediately."

Vane and Valerica exchanged a quick, sharp look. The Duchess was a ghost in the Sol manor, a woman of immense power who rarely involved herself in the day-to-day affairs of the estate or her husband's military politics. For her to summon a "Special Admission" student in the middle of the night, hours before a planned departure, was a variable Vane hadn't accounted for.

"The Duchess?" Valerica asked, her brow furrowing. "At this hour?"

"She was quite insistent, My Lady," the maid replied, keeping her head bowed. "She said it was a matter that could not wait for the morning."

Vane slowly closed the leather case, his mind already racing through a dozen different scenarios. He looked at the map one last time, the charcoal marks looking like a death sentence in the flickering light.

"I'll go," Vane said, his voice calm. He looked at Valerica and gave her a small, reassuring nod. "Finish checking the cables. I'll be back as soon as I can."

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