Asteria’s robes flowed like satin as she strode across the floor, the runes she had exposed on the Astral Thunderer still shimmering in the air behind her. This lent a dramatic quality to the scene, yet Orion felt it would have been more fitting for the conclusion of a long-anticipated clash. Instead, it felt anticlimactic, as if he’d missed out on the big build-up.

  Still, he trotted after her to keep up, half convinced that the whole facility was about to come apart under the tension between his mother’s will and the soldiers’ chain of command.

  Given that she has just shot a massive beam from her hand, I would think they’d know better than to try their luck, but soldiers have always been stubborn.

  A decorated officer blocked her path—young, square-jawed, and clearly trying to prevent the cold-blooded murder of someone he still considered his fellow, but he never managed to speak.

  Asteria tilted her head; molten silver seeped into her irises as though the moon itself were pouring through her pupils. The man’s mouth snapped closed like a blown fuse. He swallowed, saluted, and stepped sideways so quickly that Orion felt the air move.

  Two more tried their luck and wilted when that incandescent gaze turned to them.

  “Clear the hall,” Asteria said, gentler than a lullaby and harder than tempered steel. “You. Get Captain-Commander Halvard. Move.”

  The first officer pivoted on his heels and sprinted. Orion curiously noted that everyone seemed to be avoiding the area where Folsom had been hit, and when he looked, he found a suspicious glow where the man had been.

  I wonder if it’s radioactive. If he had a scintillation counter and a bit of time, he could—

  His musings were interrupted as Asteria reached the prisoner. Folsom struggled to breathe, likely due to the burnt flesh exposed to the air from where her spell had passed through.

  Uncaring, she knelt and pressed two fingers to his temple, whispering something.

  No word drifted far enough for Orion’s ears to pick up, but the effect was immediate: the man stiffened, and a low corona of argent filaments snaked from her fingertips into his skull.

  I bet many of Earth’s militaries would have paid billions to get their hands on a real-life mind reader. Personally, I wouldn’t want to know what people actually think; what they say is already stupid enough.

  If a slightly hysterical chuckle accompanied that assessment, then who was to say?

  Folsom convulsed, his eyes rolling back until only bloodshot whites were visible. His boots drummed a panicked staccato on the floor. Orion’s first instinct was to look away; his second—morbid curiosity—prevailed.

  Each pulse of silver came at the exact same time: eight per second. Was there an approximate resonance with alpha-wave frequency? If the spell synchronized with neural oscillations, it could explain how it seemed to extract memories like a tuned magnet stripping data from an old hard drive.

  I wouldn’t have thought her capable of it, but then again, she is part of a cult of witches.

  A minute later, the filaments retracted like feeding eels. Asteria stood, and the silver in her eyes vanished. Folsom lay slack, still twitching as if echoes of his thoughts were stuttering through misfired nerves.

  A clatter of greaves echoed in the corridor, and an elderly man in scale armor, the color of morning frost, strode in, his helm tucked under one arm. Deep-set eyes and a blade-straight posture told Orion that this must be Captain-Commander Halvard.

  He surveyed the unconscious knight, the blazing rune-map, and the woman with a calm smile and dangerous eyes—and saluted so sharply that Orion felt a sympathetic ache in his own neck.

  “Magistra.”

  “Commander.” Asteria inclined her head and guided him several paces away, her voice dropping into a hush.

  Orion drifted after them until a polite cough from a corporal steered him back—apparently even six-year-olds could compromise operational security.

  He contented himself with lip-reading fragments. That had been a hard skill to master and even harder to translate to a new language, but he was making progress: hypnosis… possible cell… unrecoverable… Sanctum Inquisitors… full cooperation… The commander’s eyebrows kept twitching upward before he suppressed the habit.

  In the end, he nodded once, looking resigned as if that single motion handed her the keys to the entire garrison. Asteria did nothing to reassure him, Orion noted.

  Silverpeak is clearly a tributary of the coven, but how little independence do they really have if this is how the man in charge of the entire militia reacts to a witch in charge of potions?

  Of course, there was the option that Asteria wasn’t who he thought she was, but Orion had kept a close eye on her. Unless she had gone to the effort of hiding from her infant son, he doubted she led a secret second life.

  When she returned, the sharpness had faded from her expression, replaced by something softer—and markedly less dangerous. She knelt in front of Orion so their eyes were level. “Moonbeam,” she said, smiling and deliberately moving slowly, as if worried he’d be afraid, “you mustn’t repeat anything you saw here. Not to Selene, the other children, or even the teachers. This is one of those blocks you cannot touch, or the whole tower comes down. Do you promise to keep it secret?”

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  His cold, calculating mind told him that it didn’t really matter what he said, but the lamplight showed fine worry lines at the edges of her smile, and he knew he couldn’t lie. Orion nodded. “I promise.”

  She exhaled and ruffled his hair. “Good boy.” She patted his cheek, expressing both gratitude and apology. “When you’re grown, after you receive your class and can stand in the Coven on your own merit, we’ll talk. Just a few more years.”

  “How many?” he asked, desperate to get some answers.

  “Thirteen is the age you get your class. You’ll scarcely notice.” She straightened and offered her hand. “Now, we have errands—and Aunt Quila doesn’t like to wait up past her tea.”

  Outside, the sun was tumbling toward the western ridgeline, painting the rooftops in edible gold. The closer they drew to the forge quarter, the thicker the guard presence became: helmed figures stood at every crossroad, paired patrols walked the raised paths, and even a robed figure moved about under heavy guard, etching runes into lampposts.

  Orion’s eyes wandered with curiosity. If one sabotaged cannon could trigger a city-wide alert, how many layers of redundancy did Silverpeak rely on? And what was the entity of the failure revealed by his mother’s diagnosis?

  The mayor’s personal request for her help suggests that she already suspected something. Furthermore, Mother’s response indicates that this is a matter of regional security. I’m certain that the Sanctum is the ruling power within this province, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t equally powerful forces that aim to undermine it.

  The avenue narrowed into a canyon of workshops. Each doorway belched its own flavor of creation: scorched iron, fluxing copper, and the sharp ozone musk of liquid mana poured into receptive crystal.

  Mom uses that very sparingly. It’s interesting to find it here. I thought it’d be more expensive. Or maybe it’s not the same thing. Hmm, yes, it would make sense if there were various grades of purity.

  Hammer rings overlapped until they formed a percussive fugue, loud enough that anyone living in the neighborhood would soon experience hearing problems; yet as soon as they took a few steps away from any shop, the sound immediately diminished. Practical acoustic engineering or more magic?

  Halfway down the street, a sign wrought from iron rods twisted to resemble parchment proclaimed GERRICK’S FORGE. Up close, the facade appeared to be made of thick cedar planking, but when Orion rapped his knuckles against it, he was surprised to discover it was stone, chiseled into a faux grain and stained with brown dyes. It was a charming illusion that also showcased the shop’s products.

  Whoever resided here either had plenty of money to waste or, more likely, was very good at their job.

  Inside, heat enveloped them, dense and velvety. Forges lined the back like red jack-o’-lanterns; bellows sighed; and somewhere, water hissed against iron. Sparks leapt as a broad-shouldered man hammered a longsword, each blow ejecting a constellation of incandescent motes.

  He wore no shirt, only a leather apron; his arms were corded, and his beard was clipped square to keep errant embers from nesting. Human, Orion judged. Or maybe a mix with a dwarf? His build is a bit squatter than most people's, but it could be just that he was born like that.

  Asteria waited for the rhythmic clang to stop before speaking. “Master Gerrick!”

  The hammer froze mid-arc. Gerrick looked over his shoulder, smiled, delivered one last controlled strike, and then quenched the blade. Steam wrapped around him like ghostly armor before drifting toward the rafters. He turned, bowed to Asteria, and—astonishingly—bowed again to Orion, just as deeply.

  “Magistra. Young Lord.”

  Orion raised an eyebrow at the honesty. I have been treated very respectfully so far, but this is the first time it sounds genuine. This man must have a deep respect for the Sanctum.

  “We’ve come for Aunt Quila’s carving set,” Asteria said, “and for a reward. My son has endured an eventful day with angelic restraint.”

  “Oh ho?” Gerrick winked at Orion. “Then we mustn’t disappoint.” He returned from the back room bearing a polished cedar box banded in brass. “Six blades, veined with cold iron and balanced to a hair for my oldest customer. Now for a present…” He stroked his beard. “A first potion-knife, perhaps? Or a traveling cauldron—something little hands may safely lift? I forged your mother’s first, you know?”

  Asteria chuckled, but didn’t answer and looked at Orion expectantly. It was clear that the choice was his.

  Orion had one thing, and one thing only, in mind. “May I ask about the Town Hall first? How does the silver latticework handle the load without plastic deformation? Stone and soft metal shouldn’t form a stable composite at that scale.”

  Both adults blinked. Asteria’s eyes twinkled. Gerrick wiped sweat into his beard, delighted. “Right down to the basics, are we? Very well.” He fetched an ingot no larger than Orion’s palm, buffed to a dull shine.

  “First lesson: silver is the best natural mana conductor short of gold, but far more abundant. If you know how to work it right and have the proper powders, you can make it into an even better alloy, called silverite, capable of bearing incredible loads in both weight and magic. The moment it touches foreign mana, it becomes crystal rigid, like freezing a river as the cold frostwind comes upon it.”

  “So you lay the silverite and channel mana into it, allowing it to integrate with the load-bearing frame, enhancing its power. A single-phase high-entropy intermetallic alloy that can resist great loads by building a lattice with the stone. That makes sense.” Orion murmured, rotating the ingot to catch the forge's glow. “And what is done to the stone?"

  “Poured in after the silverite. Think of it as gravel set into living roots. Knock the wall; force travels through silverite ribs and spreads across the mesh. Add its sheer conductivity, and the whole structure absorbs force instead of shattering. That’s tensile resilience and spell shielding in one package.”

  “And if you don’t need to worry about stress and time ruining the lattice?”

  “That happens if the silverite isn’t pure enough. That’s why the mayor hires me quarterly to check everything is working as it should.” Gerrick laughed. “Cheaper than asking the Adamantine Forge to carve runes all over the tower, I can tell you that much.”

  Orion tried to imagine what he might have done with such a material in his past life. “Do you know the hardening gradient?”

  “Ha! It depends on the purity, but it is measurable, yes—though my specialty is getting the silver to accept the treatment in the first place. Show me a smith who can cleanse impurities at my price and I’ll buy you supper.”

  Asteria laid a hand on the counter. “And that,” she said, “is why your work is trusted from the Sanctum to Leviathan Watch.”

  Gerrick flushed beneath his beard. “Too kind, Magistra, too kind.” He plucked the ingot back from Orion but quickly handed him something else: a necklace made of the very same material, devoid of any detail, yet evidently crafted by a master’s hand. “A noble lady paid me to make this, but eventually decided she didn’t want it so I never ended up giving it purpose. I mostly make custom orders, so I can’t just give it to someone else, but since you seem interested in silverite, this might be a good gift for you.”

  Orion hesitated, then curled his fingers around the metal. It was warm—not forge-warm but alive, like sun-baked river rock. Something thrummed within, refusing to leak even as he pinched and pulled. I could start with minor stress, measure how it reacts under incremental loads, maybe create a—

  “We insist on paying,” Asteria said, forestalling Gerrick’s protest with a jingling pouch. “My son’s curiosity is not a charity case, Master Gerrick.”

  Coins changed hands. Gerrick bowed again, this time with less formality and more gratitude. Orion secured the necklace in his jacket pocket, nodding in appreciation.

  They stepped out into the cooling afternoon. The hammer-choir behind them resumed its metallic hymn before fading again as they took a few more steps.

  Pegasus feathers rustled further up the street.

  Mr. Stone had brought the carriage to the forge-quarter gates, evidently sensing the unspoken urgency of the city’s atmosphere.

  Orion climbed aboard, nestling the amulet against his chest. As the harnessed pegasi launched skyward, he looked back: forge chimneys exhaled blue smoke, more guard lanterns flickered to life, and the Town Hall’s silver veins caught the last sunset like veins of living mercury. Somewhere in there was a saboteur hard at work, and a mystery that was only partially sated.

  I’m sure it will come up again if it’s important. I doubt this will be the last time someone tries to make a move on Silverpeak.

  He turned to Asteria. “Thank you for the wonderful day.”

  Her answering smile was soft with love and not a little pride. “The first of many, moonbeam.”

  Wind rushed, wings beat, and the valley fell away.