“Empty?” Ozanil’s voice dropped low, dangerous as a strained pitch wire. He moved closer to Heskel, his gaze scanning the vast loom hall, as if Lissara herself might materialize from the crystalline shadows. “She anticipated you, then. Or she learned of your loyalty to Nadjia.” Heskel’s shoulders sagged. “She must have. I suspected as much when she demanded I fetch her a new set of tinctures for her ‘delicate constitution’ just after the medical lockdown. A distraction, clearly.” His jaw tightened. “My apologies, Master Nadjia. My carelessness has jeopardized everything.” Nadjia felt a cold dread unfurl in her stomach, eclipsing the lingering taste of triumph from Lissara’s public humiliation. Her past self’s elaborate, fragile trap relied on the precision of that tool swap. Without it, the entire edifice of their plan teetered. “No,” she said, her voice small but firm, surprising herself. “You did what you could, Heskel. Lissara is… cunning. More cunning than we gave her credit for.” Dawn bled across the Spires, painting the suspended glass mansions in hues of rose and gold. Nadjia stood backstage, the hum of anticipation from the gathered dignitaries vibrating through the stage floor. The grand exhibition hall of the Kal-Doran Lyceum was a breathtaking spectacle: tiers of sculpted Shur-Glass seats rose to the vaulted ceiling, reflecting the light of a thousand iridescent crystals. At the very apex, bathed in a soft, ethereal glow, sat the Emperor Zaydan, his regal profile framed by his attendants, his gaze fixed on the central stage. And on that stage, at the heart of the glittering tableau, stood the Chime-Weave loom. It was a marvel of interwoven glass threads, each strand capable of capturing and shaping sound into intricate patterns. It pulsed with latent energy, awaiting the touch of a true glass-shaper. Nadjia’s pulse drummed against her temples. Lissara had already taken her place beside the loom, a vision in pale, flowing silks, her expression a mask of serene confidence. The sight of her cousin, so poised, so assured, twisted a knot in Nadjia’s gut. Ozanil stood close by, his presence a quiet anchor in the roiling sea of Nadjia’s anxiety. Heskel, pale and tense, waited further back among the other attendants. Suddenly, a crisp voice cut through the murmuring crowd. “Attention, esteemed guests! The Imperial Arbiter, Joren Talos, has an announcement.” A portly man in ornate robes, his face severe, stepped forward. He held a small, polished Shur-Glass tablet. “Due to an anonymous—and highly credible—tip regarding potential tampering with exhibition materials, all personal acoustic implements have been confiscated and replaced with standard-issue Lyceum sets.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the audience, before landing with pointed clarity on Nadjia. “This measure ensures absolute fairness and integrity for all participating craftsmen.” Nadjia felt the blood drain from her face. An anonymous tip. Lissara. It had to be. Not only had she evaded Heskel’s swap, she had turned the situation to her advantage, stripping Nadjia of her own carefully prepared tools. Her meticulously laid trap, designed to expose Lissara’s incompetence, was now useless. Lissara, watching her, offered a faint, saccharine smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Ozanil’s hand subtly brushed Nadjia’s arm, a silent query. She shook her head, a flicker of despair crossing her features. The plan was ruined. She was utterly exposed. Heskel, from his position, locked eyes with her, a profound look of apology and helplessness on his face. He knew. They all knew. “First, the esteemed Lissara Talhun, primary glass-shaper for the Emperor’s commission, will demonstrate the foundational weave,” Arbiter Talos announced, a flourish of his hand directing attention to Lissara. “Following this, her most diligent apprentice, Nadjia Talhun, will assist in the secondary harmonic patterning.” Lissara took a deep, theatrical bow, accepting the applause with a demure tilt of her head. Then, with a confident, almost predatory grace, she approached the Chime-Weave loom. Her new tool case, gleaming and pristine, sat on the glass worktable beside it. From it, she selected a set of strike-forks, each one shimmering with pure, untainted Shur-Glass. Nadjia watched, a horrified spectator to her own downfall. The new tools were un-rigged, un-tampered. Lissara had completely bypassed Nadjia’s meticulously laid trap. She was no longer a helpless victim but an impotent assistant, relegated to the background, her own weapon turned against her. With a flourish, Lissara tested the first strike-fork against a strand of the loom. A clear, perfect note rang out, resonating through the hall. She then turned, her smile widening as she addressed Nadjia directly, her voice carrying an oily sweetness that belied the sharpness in her eyes. “Nadjia, my dear, come. The initial phase of the Chime-Weave requires a foundational chord of immense purity and strength. It must be sung directly into the central core, a raw frequency to awaken the loom’s full potential.” Nadjia, frozen in place, was forced to step onto the stage, the Emperor’s scrutiny fixed upon her. Lissara gestured to a crystalline aperture at the base of the loom. “Only the purest voice can achieve it, dearest apprentice. Sing, Nadjia. Sing the G-sharp of the Aethel-Root. Sing it, with all your heart.” As Lissara uttered the specific frequency, a sickening realization slammed into Nadjia. The G-sharp of the Aethel-Root. It wasn’t a foundational chord; it was a devastatingly raw frequency, known to every true master of the craft as the very note that, when sung into a living loom, would permanently tear the singer’s vocal cords, leaving them voiceless, their career and lineage irrevocably destroyed.

The Stolen Tools