Page 19

The summons came before dusk. Hurried footsteps, a sharp rap against warped wood, and a novice still catching his breath as he delivered the message.

“Council decree,” he said. “All named scribes to the Archive hall. Immediately.”

Maia caught Julen’s eye. He let out a breath that matched her own exactly.

The city was still raw, dust hanging in the air like memory, the streets quieter, waiting. Maia’s eyes stung with exhaustion. She wondered how long before it claimed her outright.

The Archive doors were already closed when they arrived.

Inside, the long central table stood cleared of parchment and ink. Master Orell waited alone, a sealed decree unrolled before him. Not many other scribes joined him; Maia wondered if some of them had been among the nineteen lost.

Their footsteps echoed loudly, tension filling the room.

“You are prompt,” Orell said mildly, though his eyes lingered on Maia a fraction too long.

By the pillar stood Rhelas Dorn, an older scribe who had outlasted three Masters before Orell and looked, at the moment, like he intended to outlast this one too.

Orell lifted the decree. “By order of the Council: records and witnesses will be dispatched at first light.”

A quiet shift passed through the room.

“Scribes Maia Colwyn, Rhelas Dorn, and Julen Aras will ride to Meridon under Captain Deyar’s command. You will catalogue structural damage, verify reports from the northern watchtower, and provide testimony regarding the tremor’s epicentre. You’ll also deliver your findings on the fragments to the Elders there.”

He looked at Maia specifically. She gave a small nod.

“You will travel under guard,” Orell continued. “An assigned Guardian will accompany you.”

The Guardian wasn’t named, but he didn’t need to be. Maia felt Julen’s posture tighten beside her and felt her own pulse do something she did not approve of.

A ripple of whispers passed between the few scribes gathered near the rear doors. Maia felt a sea of eyes on her.

Master Orell rolled the decree closed. “You will carry proof of the Fracture’s unrest,” he said. “And the Council’s expectations.”

The phrasing was deliberate. Expectations.

“You leave at dawn,” he added. “You’ll follow Captain Deyar, he has walked these paths many times. The Guardian will meet you at the north gate.”

“For those displaced by last night’s damage,” he continued smoothly, as though nothing beneath the surface had shifted, “temporary quarters have been arranged in the Agarin wing. You will pack only what is necessary. Meridon’s roads are unstable.”

Rhelas gave a short, humourless breath. “Unstable roads, unstable cliffs, unstable city.”

“Mind your tone,” Orell replied softly.

“Master,” Rhelas acknowledged quietly.

Silence pressed in again.

Maia’s mind snagged on the question she couldn’t ask aloud: why her? Why not the Elders themselves? Did they fear the danger that might await? Or worse, did they not trust the Guardians as much as they claimed?

Orell’s eyes settled on her once more.

“Your proximity to the incident,” he said carefully, “makes your account… valuable.”

Maia inclined her head. “Yes, Master.”

“You will not speculate,” he added, staring at her. “You will not encourage unrest. You will merely observe. Is that understood?”

His meaning was clear. She swallowed. “Of course.”