“They’re the cause of your sickness.” The words were a bitter truth, sharp and cold against the humid air of the workshop. Nyla pulled Timon further into the shadowed recess, the rock cool against her back. Footsteps echoed above, closer now, accompanied by the clatter of metal and gruff voices. “Ash-touched wretch! Where are you hiding, girl?” The guards kicked aside crates in the corridor above. Timon shivered, his small hand gripping her tunic. “Nyla… you can’t mean…” “Later.” Her voice was a strained whisper. The Cinderpetal in her hand pulsed with a faint, volatile glow, barely enough to illuminate the hidden crevices of the rock wall. She pressed a hand against a loose stone. It yielded, revealing a narrow, dusty tunnel, too small for a fully armored guard. “Through here. Quick.” “But… where does it go?” Timon coughed, a dry, rasping sound that twisted Nyla’s gut. She knew where it went. The previous owner of this body had mapped escape routes along the foundation, marking old utility shafts that emerged behind the kitchens. “Somewhere safe. You trust me, don’t you?” Her gaze was fierce, unwavering. Timon nodded, a flicker of his usual bravery returning. He slipped into the tunnel, his small frame barely brushing the rough edges. Nyla followed, pulling the stone back into place, plunging them into absolute darkness, save for the faint luminescence of the Cinderpetal. The harsh cries of the guards faded above them into the dull drip of condensation. They emerged, hours later, in a secluded alcove near the estate’s main kitchens, smelling of stale bread and cooking fat. Timon was pale, his energy spent. “Stay here,” Nyla instructed, pressing the Cinderpetal into his hand. “Hide this. Don’t let anyone see it. I need to go.” Her voice was even as she turned toward the north wing. The manor archive smelled of dried vellum and wax. Shelves of bound records rose thirty feet to ribbed stone arches. Marius stood at the head of a long slate slab, illuminated by glass sconces. Beside him, three retainers—Lord Tyrus of House Veldon, Lady Sela of House Rivenhall, and Lord Jorn of House Cynos—watched her approach with thin smiles. Nyla stopped six paces away, her soot-stained charcoal wool dull against their brocade. Marius did not invite her to sit. “Nyla,” he said, voice flat, “you continue to disgrace this house. Your inability to direct even the base sorcery of your blood is a blight upon our name.” Lord Jorn let out a wet, rattling laugh. “Dry timber yields no fire. Even tenant farmers manage a flicker.” Nyla rested her hands against the rough seams of her skirts, her fingers still. Marius nudged an obsidian sphere sitting on a black felt square. Silver foil laced its perimeter, vibrating with an audible hum. “This sphere amplifies the faintest trace of sorcery. Your elder sister drew ribbons of light through it before her twelfth winter. Now,” he said, leaning over the table, “channel through it. Show our guests that our bloodline is not dead inside your marrow. Prove you have some function.” Tyrus adjusted his collar while Jorn smirked behind a gloved hand. Nyla held Marius's stare without blinking. “You labor under an error regarding capacity,” she said. “You assume power must follow your blood's rules.” She reached into a hidden pocket in her gown, her movements precise, unhurried. The gathered lords exchanged glances, a ripple of unease replacing their smug amusement. Nyla withdrew a small object, no larger than her thumb, and placed it gently on the obsidian table, directly beside the humming focus orb. The specimen was an octahedron of laboratory-grown synthetic quartz, geometrically flawless, its planar faces cut to precise sixty-degree angles. It caught the yellow tallow flame and cast twin needle-sharp beams across the dark stone, free of internal fractures or inclusions. Tyrus straightened, his fingers twitching toward his collar. Sela tilted her head, inspecting the refraction. Jorn forgot his goblet. Beside the synthetic quartz, the crude, hand-chiseled obsidian orb looked lumpy and dull. “What… what is that?” Marius’s voice was a low growl, his face contorting with a fury that transcended mere anger. “Some common bauble? A trick?” “Not a trick,” Nyla said, stepping forward. “A synthesis. A structured lattice of Pellan silicates, refined through controlled thermal recrystallization. Its purity surpasses any native quartz mined from your quarries.” She lifted the octahedron against the nearest candle, projecting an unbroken, sharp spectrum across the table's grain. “It requires no inherited sorcery. Only thermal discipline and chemistry.” Marius knocked his high-backed chair backward against the flagstones. “Natural law? You bring common grit and glass to mock me before my peers?” His fist struck the slate with a dull thud. He pointed toward the armored sentry by the entrance. “Seize her. Break the insolence out of her.” The sentry lunged, iron-plated gauntlet raised for a blow to her collarbone. Nyla shifted her balance to dodge, but the air seized into sudden, crushing atmospheric pressure, pinning the guard mid-step. His greaves screeched against stone as invisible force locked his joints. The archive’s double doors swung silently wide. In the threshold stood a stranger in an indigo mantle edged with spiral silver threading. His pale hair fell across shoulders held with imperial poise, and his cool, pale blue irises took in the scene in a single sweep. The Grand Magus of the Lycean Conclave stepped past the paralyzed sentry, bypassing Marius and the mute retainers entirely. His attention locked onto Nyla, dropping deliberately to the synthetic prism resting on her palm. “That is not a gem. It is an optical lens. Tell me, Lady Kestus, what do you intend to focus?”

A Demonstration of Power