Sounds of revelry echoed through the Citadel’s Grand Hall. House Varen, with a swiftness Fenwick found unsettling, announced their triumph over the Skyway rift-beast. Alarms had been silenced, the trade arteries to Veridia’s upper districts declared clear. Now, the city below feasted on rations and spirits, while within these hallowed walls, knights and retainers gorged themselves, their laughter a boisterous wave that washed over Fenwick Corvan. A sense of unease settled in Fen’s gut. Such immediate celebration felt premature, a hasty declaration. One anomaly sealed did not guarantee true stability. What if lingering temporal ripples remained? What if the rift-beast’s emergence had stirred other, deeper entities dormant in the city’s ancient strata? He voiced his apprehension to Lady Lyra Varen. Her smile, sharp and practiced, did not falter. “Fenwick, you worry far too much,” she chuckled, her voice like polished crystal. A delicate hand waved away his concerns. “Do you truly believe these… aberrations appear in twos or threes? Even if they did, it’s hardly a crisis.” Her logic was clear, rooted in pragmatism Fen found cold. The city needed assurance. Veridia’s economy demanded the Skyway routes open. Should another incident occur, the Varens would simply dispatch a new subjugation squad, claiming ignorance. Their authority, she implied, wasn’t built on the fickle trust of commoners. It rested on their overwhelming power, their ability to incinerate dissent with a flick of a wrist. “Our esteemed rift-binder, relegated to the shadows?” A deeper voice cut through the clamor. Lord Cassian Varen, Lyra’s father, approached, his eyes, dark as polished obsidian, resting first on Fenwick, then on his daughter. A slight twitch in his jaw, almost imperceptible. “Father, you’re too kind,” Lyra purred. “Fenwick, bless his meticulous heart, concerns himself with improbable outcomes.” Cassian’s lips curved into a thin smile. He dismissed Fenwick’s worries as excessive, echoing Lyra’s sentiment. Creatures of the rift, he claimed, rarely manifested more than once or twice a year in their sector. Considering the Skyway’s frequent use by solo travelers like Elara of the Sunken Road, he wasn't entirely wrong. Lyra, feigning a sudden hunger, gracefully excused herself, leaving Fenwick alone with the Lord of Veridia. Cassian extended a silver chalice. “More importantly, Fenwick, drink. It would be a grave insult for a host to neglect his guest.” The Emberwhisper cordial hit Fenwick’s throat with a fiery embrace, far stronger than the watered brews of Cindergate. A sharp, aromatic burn stung his nose. A choked cough escaped him before he could suppress it. “Haha! As though you’ve never tasted proper drink.” Cassian’s laugh was a low rumble. “This is… potent,” Fenwick admitted, regaining his composure. His body, attuned to subtle elemental flows, adapted quickly. He could match Cassian, glass for glass, as servants circulated with refills. Four chalices deep, Cassian’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his smile remained. “Tell me, Fenwick, your thoughts on Lyra?” The question arrived, direct and unvarnished, reminiscent of a conversation Fenwick had earlier in the day with a Varen retainer. His expression remained neutral. “She is the Lady of House Varen, to whom I owe a measure of assistance.” “No… romantic interest, then?” “Frankly, no.” Fenwick’s honesty was stark, almost impolite. He held no fondness for Lyra’s detached pragmatism. Her conduct during the rift-sealing, prioritizing political expediency over genuine safety, had only solidified his opinion. He chose bluntness, believing it kinder than ambiguous politeness. Cassian’s brow furrowed, a brief shadow of annoyance crossing his face, but he quickly suppressed it. A sigh escaped him. “A pity. I had hoped you might see her potential.” “A worthier match awaits her, I am sure.” “In Veridia? Someone of your… unique talents? Lyra described your ease in drawing upon the Deep Energies during the sealing. No outward struggle, she said.” Cassian leaned closer, his voice dropping. “I merely applied what I have learned. There is much more.” “Yet, I heard your control of the Deep Energies is comparable to Lyra’s own. Are you implying my daughter is deficient?” The trap was obvious. Fenwick’s gaze met Cassian’s, unwavering. He remained silent. Cassian, seeing his gambit stalled, shifted tactics. His voice took on a lamenting tone. “She is not, entirely. Lyra possesses a decent connection, but her growth has… plateaued. She lacks the depth required to truly command House Varen’s legacy. At this rate, Kael—my nephew, whom you haven’t met—will have to be named successor. Were Lyra to be joined with you, however, that necessity would vanish.” Understanding dawned on Fenwick. He now grasped the retainer’s earlier pleasure at his disinterest in Lyra. Fenwick’s marriage to Lyra would indeed be an insurmountable obstacle for Kael. Cassian’s casual revelation of such an intimate family matter, however, was puzzling. Was the Lord truly inebriated? The thought flickered, then died. Cassian’s eyes, though heavy-lidded from the cordial, held a sharp, calculating glint. He sought to manipulate. Perhaps guilt, a sense of responsibility for Lyra’s lost succession, or even ambition—the lure of House Varen’s influence—might sway Fenwick. Cassian intended to exploit any weakness. “Lord Varen will make a wise decision for his House,” Fenwick said, his voice quiet but firm. Cassian’s jaw tightened. He recognized the rejection, the quiet refusal to be drawn into his schemes. A deeper sigh escaped him. “So it is. I understand. Then enjoy the remainder of the banquet as you see fit. And ensure you inform me before you depart Veridia.” The abrupt shift, from marriage proposal to a blunt inquiry about his departure, was so brazen, so transparently selfish, Fenwick almost laughed. Not out of anger, but from the sheer, crude absurdity of it. Cassian began to turn away. Fenwick, remembering a lingering curiosity, spoke one last time, framing his question indirectly. “A final thought, if you please.” Cassian paused, annoyance clear in the set of his shoulders. “What is it?” Fenwick feigned obliviousness. “While utilizing the Aetherium Vaults, I found myself wondering: are the ancient glyph-scripts truly unguarded? They are immensely valuable, surely someone would attempt to pilfer them.” “Hm? You didn’t know? I assumed you were aware, confining your studies to the Vaults themselves.” Cassian’s expression turned smug, a flicker of his earlier superiority returning. He savored this opportunity to flaunt knowledge after Fenwick’s rejection. “The Aetherium Vaults were constructed by the First Civilizers. Attempt to remove a glyph-scroll without authorization, and a reverberating warning will sound throughout the district. A colossal resonance. Honestly, allowing people to discover this for themselves has always been a small pleasure.” “How does one obtain authorization?” Fenwick asked, his pulse quickening. “How should I know? Records from before House Varen took this city are… incomplete. The warning only lasts a short while, in any case. Besides, the Vaults’ self-organizing flow still functions perfectly…” As Cassian continued, a spark ignited in Fenwick’s eyes. His half-formed suspicion, a quiet whisper in his mind, had just been confirmed by the Lord’s final remarks. --- Sunlight, fractured by the city’s upper spires, slanted into the Aetherium Vaults. Fenwick, as he had the day before, returned after breakfast. “Welcome, Sir Fenwick.” The guard at the entrance, accustomed to his methodical visits, nodded him through without demanding his pass. Stepping into the circular lobby, the middle-aged man who always sat behind the main desk offered a warm greeting. “Welcome, Fenwick.” Fenwick paused. The casual use of his given name, the lack of honorifics, struck him anew. A hollow laugh escaped him. He had been so immersed in the ancient texts, so focused on deciphering the glyphs, that he had overlooked the obvious. The clues had been subtle, yet pervasive. No knight, no commoner in Veridia, addressed him so directly. They always used “Your Grace” or “Sir Corvan.” And the man at the desk, the Glyphic Guardian, had been a constant fixture. Fenwick would arrive early, read until dusk, and the Guardian was always there. Never a break, not for sustenance, not for nature’s call. He simply… observed. An impossible feat for a mere human, Fenwick now realized. “How do you know my name?” Fenwick asked. The Guardian’s humble expression shifted, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, like a child caught in a prank. “Only just now realizing? You are a slow study, Fenwick. Did you not ask anyone about me?” “I had no one in this city with whom such a conversation would feel appropriate.” “A loner, then. I observed as much, watching you lose yourself amidst the scrolls.” Their dynamic had subtly flipped, yet no awkwardness arose. The Guardian chuckled, then casually tossed the glyph-scroll he’d been perusing back onto its designated shelf. It slid into place with unnerving precision. “Your entry pass. My sight extends throughout the Vaults, after all. It perceives all within these walls.” “How should I address you, sir?” “I am merely the Guardian. I was never given a name. Just call me that.” “I understand, Elder Guardian.” “Polite, now? After days of ordering me about, demanding obscure texts, and interrupting my own studies.” The Guardian grumbled, though amusement shone in his eyes. “I never ordered you. If anything, you are doing so now.” “Cheeky brat! Always must have the last word.” Fenwick, settling into a chair opposite the Guardian, pressed further. “Are you a construct from the First Civilizers, then? Or perhaps an elemental tied to this place?” “I was not human, to begin with. You could say I am a spirit. The spirit of these Vaults.” “A spirit…” Fenwick murmured. The ancient texts he’d devoured spoke little of such beings beyond fleeting references to forest sprites and mountain elementals. No detailed accounts of spirits inhabiting structures. His finger, driven by an instinctive curiosity, reached out. It hovered, then gently pressed against the back of the Guardian’s hand, which rested on the desk. His fingertip passed through, meeting only the solid, cool wood beneath. The Guardian’s form shimmered, a faint ripple. He frowned. “Stop that. It is… unpleasant.” “My apologies.” Fenwick withdrew his hand, his mind already racing. The implications were profound. This was no mere construct or elemental. This was something else entirely, a deeper secret woven into the very fabric of Veridia’s ancient foundations.

Of Cordial and Glyphs Unseen