Zavien’s fingers, warm from the crystal, tightened around Cozmera’s hand. The rain, relentless and cold, seemed to recede, replaced by the faint thrum of the Resonance in her palm. “I know you aren’t really an ascetic novice, Cozmera,” he whispered, his gaze piercing, “and I’m going to find out why.” His quiet certainty clipped the breath in her throat. She yanked her hand free, the crystal now a burning coal in her grip. “You know nothing,” she managed, her voice a brittle shard of ice. “And you will forget what you imagine you do.” She pivoted on her heel, deserting him amid the flooded cobbles and sodden refuse. His stare burned against her iron cowl until the snaking tenements hid her. Back inside the damp cloisters of the Athenaeum, the dream's warning tolled through her thoughts: *Stay away from him, Cozmera. He is ruin.* Now the infuriating nobleman held her secret, a humming gem, and a birth name she had buried under coarse cloth. Her anxiety, however, was soon overshadowed by a different, far more immediate terror. The next morning, brass trumpets jarred the flagstones: Magistrate Fendryl himself was approaching, set on interrogating every scholar regarding the attempted murder, locking all iron gates until the inquest concluded. The vaulted rotunda, usually alive with academic bickering, stilled beneath fearful murmurs. Novices clustered by faction—crimson Lorekeepers, silver Resonators, ash-robed Aesthetes, and the unadorned iron of the Order of Silence—staring toward the reinforced portico. The cold draft carried the smell of ozone and wet wool. Tucked between two ascetic vows-women, Cozmera steadied her pulse. Fendryl, who had sentenced her parents to the gallows under the guise of quarantine, stood thirty paces away. Her fingers locked into the heavy folds of her cowl. The iron gates groaned open. Magistrate Fendryl strode through, flanked by six Steel-Clad Inquisitors whose burnished breastplates reflected the pale lantern glow. Slender and severe, the Magistrate cast a slate-colored gaze across the assembled youths. A thin, almost imperceptible scar traced a line from his temple to his jaw, a permanent reminder of some long-forgotten battle. He mounted the dais without haste. “A grave transgression struck these halls,” he said, voice cutting like a razor across the hall. “An assault upon an imperial scholar. The Athenaeum remains sealed; each novice among you will face my inquisitors before nightfall.” At his flank, a timid aide set down a silver tray holding a steaming porcelain service. She set it carefully on a small table beside the dais, offering Fendryl the first cup of tea. He accepted it with a curt nod, his attention still fixed on the anxious faces before him. Cozmera’s gaze sharpened. This was her chance. She slipped a thumbnail-sized vial of viper venom from her inner lining—a paralyzing compound that left the limbs rigid while the mind stayed sharp. An hour of numbness would grant her access to his carriage ledgers. As Fendryl pivoted to signal his guard, Cozmera drifted past the Lorekeepers. Her sleeve twitched; the granules dusted the steaming cup, melting unseen into the brew. She withdrew into the gray line of monastics. Fendryl, oblivious, reached for the cup. Just as his fingers closed around it, the nervous servant girl, trying to be helpful, leaned forward. “Magistrate, may I offer you a fresh cup? This one has cooled somewhat.” She reached for the poisoned tea, her hand already encircling the delicate rim. Cozmera stiffened. The girl was barely seventeen, trembling at the thought of a reprimand. Cozmera's chest seized—she could never let a bystander suffer her poison. Without thinking, Cozmera lunged. Her heavy iron sleeve, clanking against the ornate table, knocked the cup from Fendryl’s grasp. Porcelain smashed against the flagged floor, tea and venom hissing into the joints of the stone. The smash echoed off the high rafters. Fendryl's features tightened to gray granite while the servant tripped back in dismay. Before the guards drew steel, Zavien slipped out from the front rank. He dropped to one knee by the shards, theatrical dismay painted on his face. “Forgive us, Magistrate!” he proclaimed. “Our pious sister here drops dishes whenever thunder rumbles. A tragic waste of fine Spireleaf.” He dipped a cupped palm into the puddle, scooping the dregs. Flashing Cozmera a brazen wink, he brought the tea to his mouth and swallowed. Violet embers flared along his skin as his Resonance burned the toxin away. Fendryl’s gaze, however, remained fixed on Cozmera. The initial annoyance on his face slowly morphed into something far more unsettling. Fendryl took in her posture, his gaze halting on the sharp curve of her exposed jawline. Recognition crept across his brow. “The Silent Sisters are known for their composure, not their dramatic displays,” Fendryl murmured, his voice now devoid of any warmth. He took a slow step towards her, his eyes still locked on her face. “Remove her cowl.”

The Magistrate's Eye