Joraine, who had been idly flipping pages in a tome across the great hall, did not surge to her feet. Instead, she slowly lowered the book, voice flat with fatigue. “Fennik. Keep that sludge off the flagstones. It stains the seal.” Fennik, who had been meticulously oiling the intricate mechanisms of an antique 'sky-lance,' dropped the weapon with a clang. He was beside Iskien in an instant, his cynical expression replaced by something akin to alarm. “Lady Joraine. His pulse is skipping three beats in four. The black fluid is boiling through his shirt.” Joraine exhaled toward the vaulted beams, reluctant to abandon the cushion. “Of course. A full day of quiet is apparently beyond our budget.” She rose with deliberate sloth, rolling her shoulders against the stiffness of her shift. “Lift him into the drift-seat. We have an errand at the heights.” Fennik offered no argument. He hoisted the boy by the shoulder blades, tucking limp limbs into the padded velvet of the levitating lounge chair. A second cushioned drift-frame slid out from the antechamber, drawing up level with her hips. Joraine tipped back into the goose down, drawing a gray woolen throw to her chin. “Optimal travel posture,” she murmured, adjusting a small, embroidered pillow behind her head. “The lift up to the Ocularis Spire is four leagues straight up.” [Survival Reward: Arcane Glide-Chairs (Pair) – Enhanced comfort and minimal energy expenditure for long-distance travel. Enjoy the journey, Thread-Speaker.] Joraine barely registered the System’s message, already dozing lightly as the twin chairs, propelled by an invisible force, glided out of Sylvanth Manor and into the chill morning air. Fennik kept pace on an iron-shod gelding, eyes fixed on the humming brass runners. The frames cut through the updrafts without shuddering, banking past soot-belching steam-barges and harness-tethered drakes. Iskien's temples ran slick with cold grease, his collar stained by dried soot-specks from the curse. Hours later, the towering, crystal-sheathed edifice of the Ocularis Spire loomed before them, its faceted panels splitting the glare into hard, gray prisms. Apprentices in pleated gray mantles clustered along the lower colonnade, tallying parchment ledgers and adjusting brass astrolabes. Just as Joraine’s chair began its gentle descent towards the Spire’s primary portal, boots clicked sharply against the tile, barring the threshold. Prince Chardem leaned against a carved pedestal, flanked by two cuirassiers in black enameled plate. Silver thread lined his collar, and his chin lifted as his focus caught Iskien's limp hands. “Still drawing air, scholar?” Chardem called across the flags. “Curled on a bench while your keeper refuses to touch the pavement.” He tapped a gold-tooled cane against the flagstones. Joraine, without opening her eyes, raised a languid hand. “Ah, it’s the Royal Nuisance. You really should consider a hobby, darling. Stalking former mentees is so… pedestrian.” A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the nearby students, quickly stifled by the Prince’s glare. Chardem’s face tightened. “Perhaps a lesson in deference is in order for the boy. And for you, my lady. I believe the traditional protocol for approaching the Spire in disgrace requires one to kneel, Iskien. Show some respect for the institution you’ve sullied.” He gestured with a flourish, expecting Iskien to somehow obey. Iskien, barely conscious, stirred weakly, a pained whimper escaping his lips. His eyes, though glazed with fever, flickered open to meet Chardem’s, a spark of defiance, quickly fading, within their depths. Joraine finally opened her eyes, fixing Chardem with a stare that held no anger, only an immense, weary boredom. “Getting off the cushions takes five seconds I will never get back,” she murmured. Then, without moving anything but a single, almost imperceptible twitch of her right index finger, she whispered, “Spire Protocol: Hydro-Dispersal. Code: Regal Arrogance.” A brass cog shrieked behind the masonry. The flagged terrace parted beneath the Prince’s boots with a wet hiss of pressurized steam. Paving slabs dropped four feet down on counterweights, dumping Chardem and both guards into the drainage runoff beneath the lower cisterns. Gray silt and grease erupted over silver trim. Chardem came up spitting canal water, drenched hair plastered across his mouth. A murmur ran down the steps, turning into uneven snickers among the third-tier clerks. Fennik tucked his chin to hide a twitch of his mouth. Chardem wiped oily muck from his chin, veins bulging along his neck. “That is the lower sluice bypass!” he choked out, raising an arm dripping with gutter sludge. “That release key was sealed two reigns ago!” Joraine pulled her blanket up to her chin. “The manual was tucked under an unsteady table in the south annex. If you are finished splashing, we have an appointment inside.” [Distress observed. Offer: Healing Nectar. A potent concoction designed for rapid cellular regeneration. Guaranteed relief. – Thread-Speaker.] As Joraine’s chair finally settled onto the pristine marble of the Spire’s inner hall, a small, crystalline vial shimmered into existence on the armrest, filled with a viscous, golden liquid. Joraine lifted the cool glass, turning her head toward Iskien’s graying face. “A free handout,” she remarked to the ceiling, uncorking the stopper near Iskien’s chin. “Take a breath, Iskien. The voice claims it fixes tissue.” Iskien, despite his weakening state, flinched from the scent. His eyes, though unfocused, suddenly sharpened, a flicker of his prodigious intellect piercing through the fog of pain. He took a shallow, ragged breath, inhaling the aroma, then another. His nostrils flared, and his brow furrowed as he caught the vapor. “Lady Joraine,” he rasped, words scraping his throat. “Stop. The suspension smells of copper-vitriol. It is an accelerant, not a cure. Drink that, and the soul-rot will burn through my ribs in two minutes.” Joraine’s hand, holding the vial, stilled. Her eyes, usually heavy-lidded with apathy, narrowed almost imperceptibly as she looked at the golden liquid, then at the System window that still glowed faintly. She tilted the vial, watching the fluid swirl against the crystal with heavy viscosity. Before Joraine could respond, a furious roar echoed through the Spire’s grand entrance. Prince Chardem strode past the portico flanked by six guardsmen in oiled mail, water dripping from his tunic hem. “Spire Lockdown!” he shrieked, his voice raw with humiliation. “Absolute Seal! No one enters, no one leaves! Find them! Kill them all!” The massive crystal doors of the Ocularis Spire slammed shut with a reverberating boom, plunging the hall into a sudden, ominous twilight.

Hover-Chairs and Humiliations