“No!” The strangled cry wasn't Tullia’s. It was Ugo’s, a sound of raw, unadulterated terror. He scrabbled backward on hands and knees, clutching a battered notebook. “Mentor! I—I can’t lose my scoundrel mentor! Not yet! I haven’t finished my ‘How to Flaunt a Sinister Scowl’ section!” His gaze, watering from grit, darted from the fallen column to Tullia’s gasping form, then down to his notes.
Lorenzo, already bracing to tackle the shaft, paused, his jaw tight. “Ugo, get clear!”
“But… but she said! ‘If you ever need a truly unhinged exit strategy, just aim for structural instability!’ Chapter Seven, page forty-two!” Ugo fumbled at his belt, pulling out a palm-sized contraption of warped brass and humming wires. It looked like a miniature, malevolent accordian.
“Ugo, what is that?” Lorenzo’s voice was a low growl.
“It’s a ‘Grand Rattle-Bomb of Glorious Demolition’!” Ugo yelled, pressing a mismatched button. “Based on Mentor Tullia’s sarcastic instructions for ‘a truly obnoxious sound-sculpture that just happens to remove inconvenient obstacles’!” He hurled the device with all the clumsy grace of a startled pigeon. It spun end-over-end, arcing directly towards the base of the marble column.
Lorenzo, with a grunt of dismay, threw himself over Tullia, forming a human shield just as the bomb detonated. The sound hit as a concussive *BLOOOM* of sub-bass rumble, vibrating through teeth and marrow. The fractured stone disintegrated into a shower of chalky powder and gravel, the crushing slab dissolving under harmonic strain. The blast shunted raw air pressure through the alcove, slamming them into the flagstones.
Ugo, standing a safe distance away, swayed on his feet, his jaw agape. Wisps of smoke curled from what used to be his eyebrows. “Oh,” he murmured, touching his forehead. “That was… surprisingly effective. And rather loud. I think I just invented an entirely new shade of roguish singe.”
Lorenzo pushed himself up, shaking his head. He looked down at Tullia, who was still gasping, but no longer pinned. “You alright, Solari?”
She coughed, a dry, rattling sound, but managed a weak, lopsided grin. “Never better. Tell me, did he at least get the eyebrow part right? A true rogue needs symmetrical singe marks.”
“He’s missing both of them,” Lorenzo said, offering her a hand. “A truly devastating blow to his theatrical aesthetic.”
“A small price to pay for such dramatic effect!” Ugo puffed out his chest, completely ignoring the lack of facial hair. “Now, to the escape! Chapter Two: ‘The Art of the Grand Flounce!’” He stumbled forward, leading the way through a newly opened gap in the collapsing wall.
They emerged into a dimly lit maintenance corridor, only to be met by a sight that froze Ugo mid-flounce. Standing before them was a severe trio from the Disciplinary Tribunal, led by Proctor Callisto in robes of midnight blue. Next to her, Cosima Solari stood unblemished, a single pearl tear tracing down her cheek. Maestro Vesper hovered behind her, fingers steepled.
“Tullia!” Cosima’s voice was a fragile, wounded bird’s song. “How could you? Attacking me in the Catacombs, forcing me to flee through collapsing corridors! It’s just like you, always resorting to brute force and… and chaos! I only came to retrieve some forgotten scores, and you ambushed me!” She dissolved into elegant sobs, swaying slightly as if about to faint.
Callisto’s gaze swept over Tullia, then Ugo’s soot-stained face, then Lorenzo’s impassive stance. “Is this true, Solari? We received a distress call. Reports of illicit sonic activity and structural damage beneath the Accademia.”
Tullia, still catching her breath, simply smirked. “Oh, darling Cosima. Always the delicate petal, wilting at the slightest breeze. And always with such creative narratives.” She leaned against the damp wall, affecting an air of bored indifference. “I was merely enjoying a leisurely stroll. Perhaps Cosima’s delicate ears found my humming too… vigorous?”
“Lies!” Cosima wailed. “She’s trying to deflect! She’s a menace!”
Lorenzo stepped forward, a small, polished disk appearing in his hand. “With respect, Proctor Callisto,” he stated, his tone dry. “My partner has a fondness for accuracy, even in her mischief. And I have a fondness for verifiable evidence.” He activated the disk. A pristine, resonant recording filled the corridor: Cosima’s voice, clear as a bell, gloating about manipulation, her plans for Tullia, and the effectiveness of her sonic-whip.
*“—so utterly gullible! You think I just *happened* to know you’d come for the tether? Please. They always fall for the ‘vulnerable victim’ act. And once your soul detonates, my power will be limitless…”*
Cosima’s face went pale. Her elegant sobs choked off. Maestro Vesper simply arched an eyebrow, curling one lip.
“A rather crude illusion, Cavallo,” Vesper stated, his voice like cold silk. “A Phantasmagoria designed to mislead, no doubt. The Accademia’s protocols for audio manipulation are quite robust. Such a blatant fabrication holds no sway with the Tribunal.” He flicked a dismissive hand, and Callisto, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded. The recording flickered, then died.
“Fabrication?” Tullia laughed, a bright, unapologetic sound that echoed eerily in the narrow space. “Oh, Maestro Vesper, you wound me. Here I thought my cousin was finally embracing her true nature. Never mind, darling. This simply means I’ll have to expose your fraud on an even grander stage.” She pushed off the wall, her gaze locking with Cosima’s. “The duel, Cosima. I’ll see your meticulously crafted reputation go up in smoke, legally, publicly, and with a flourish so spectacular it’ll be taught in future manuals.”
Cosima gasped, then burst into renewed, genuine tears of frustration. The proctors began ushering Cosima away amid murmurs of formal citations, but Vesper lingered, catching Tullia’s sleeve with sudden firmness.
“A moment, Solari,” he murmured, his voice too low for Lorenzo or Ugo to hear. “I understand you have a rather unpleasant… condition.” He met her eyes, a flicker of cold amusement in his. “The Petrifying Pitch, isn’t it? I happen to possess an unrefined counter-resonance salt. One inhalation, and the crystal dissolves.” He paused, letting the implication sink in. “Of course, it comes with a condition. You will publicly forfeit the Rite of Supremacy. You will leave Orizzonte. And you will never return.”