The floor tilted at an acute angle, spilling tea trays and cedar drafting tables across polished marble. The levitation core, once a beacon of stability, was gone, replaced by a gaping maw of shattered amber where magic had once pulsed. Air shrieked against the balcony balustrades as the entire enclave plunged toward the spray of the waves beneath the shelf. Patrons in crushed velvet tunics scrambled over splintered walnut partitions, their shrieks competing with the wrenching squeal of iron bolts. Priceless artworks toppled, enchanted fountains erupted in sprays of panicked water, and the grand hall itself groaned, threatening to split apart. Kethari swayed on leaden feet. Vero pressed his palm over the linen wraps bound around his ribs and braced her shoulder. Tesia caught her free elbow, her linen disguise hanging in scorched ribbons over an embroidered bodice. The three of them stood as a small, defiant island in a sea of panic. “Kethari! My love, my only solace!” Vandir shouted against the whistling gale. Vandir, his face smeared with dust and tears, scrabbled over a broken pedestal, his arm outstretched. “Save me! We were meant to be! I know you still care, my darling! Remember our vows, our shared dream!” He lunged, not to help, but to cling, his desperate fingers reaching for her silken sleeve, his weight threatening to drag her down. Before he reached her, Tesia pivoted. Her riding boot caught Vandir directly in the floating ribs with a dry crack. He skidded backward across the tiles, crashing through a heap of silk cushions. He lay there, winded, staring up at the plummeting ceiling with a look of utterly bewildered betrayal. “She is not your solace,” Tesia snapped, her posture rigid. “Step back.” Tesia kept a firm hand on Kethari's sleeve to anchor her balance while Vero shouldered the rest of her weight. Kethari, her brow furrowed in concentration, ignored the flailing ex-fiancé. Her eyes ran over Othmar’s vellum plan, where charcoal diagrams twined around the central spar. The equation demanded raw yield that would burn out her own chest. Her gaze drifted from the blueprint to the terrified faces of the screaming elite. Gilded coronets rolled past. Panic reeked of spilled perfume and stale sweat. Othmar, brilliant as he was, had been a man of his generation, one who saw power in struggle, in sacrifice. A different path ignited in her mind, a spark of pure, unadulterated Kethari logic. She had no intention of forfeiting her afternoon naps. The design did not require martyrdom; it merely required an exchange of intent. “Silence!” Kethari’s voice, though quiet, cut through the din like a honed blade. Her gaze steadied the cowering crowd. “Do you want to survive this drop?” Sobs answered her, accompanied by nodding heads. “Then lie down,” she commanded, her voice gaining a strange, hypnotic cadence. “All of you. Find a space. Close your eyes. And sleep.” Disbelief rippled through the panicked assembly. A portly merchant, clutching a bag of jewels, scoffed. “Sleep? Are you mad, dream weaver? We are falling!” “Precisely,” Kethari replied, her gaze unwavering. “Your flailing exhausts what remains of the lattice. If you wish to breathe tonight, lie down. Surrender the panic.” Vero tightened his arm around her, his eyes shining with profound understanding. “Do as she says!” he bellowed, his voice carrying surprising strength. “Her word is law!” Tesia pointed toward the flagstones, shouting, “Down, all of you! Clear the aisle and sleep!” One by one, they yielded. Guild masters curled upon sheared tapestries; courtiers buried their faces into velvet bolsters. The screeching gave way to ragged, synchronized exhalations. Kethari closed her eyes. The blueprint, no longer just a diagram, pulsed in her mind, reweaving itself. The siphoned magic, once a poison, could be repurposed. The core of Oravari's magic wasn't raw force, but the gentle thrum of well-being, the soft hum of contented dreams. She drew upon the stillness rippling through the hall, gathering the drowsy collective quiet like spun thread. Her knuckles flexed, carving the air with precise sweeps. Amber sparks flew from her nails toward the cracked plinth. Pale shoots of dream-ash burst through the flooring, thick as ship masts, braiding together beneath the foundation into an immense, woven basket. The drop checked. Salt mist sprayed through the balustrades, but the downward plunge slowed to an easy bob. A yard above the foam, the timber cradle rested on the waves, steady as an anchored barge. Shuffled murmurs rose as people blinked in the spray. Kethari slumped into Vero's chest, her fingers numb, while Tesia steadied her knees. From behind a sheared marble column, a figure lunged. Lady Vespera gripped a notched bodkin, its edge smeared with violet resin, aiming straight between Kethari’s shoulder blades.

The Masterpiece