Hand to Stone, Hand to Hand

The day had gone quiet. Where the Watch’s banners still fluttered, they did so with less conviction; where the stones bore the stains of earlier violence, the city had done little to conceal them. Iliyria’s stride was a measured stutter, her left boot barely keeping up with her right, the shaft of an arrow shifting in her shoulder with every step, a stubborn souvenir from the battle outside the Council Seat. Alavara’s gait was smoother, though she walked at exactly half a pace behind her, her hazel eyes keeping careful audit of the world’s every shadow.

They did not speak for the first several blocks. The silence was heavy, but it suited them both. The city was a sleeping thing, restless, groaning under the ache of history and new scars. If any citizens watched from behind their curtains, they made no sign. Only when the top of the Tower appeared, devoid now of its luminous windows, blind and monolithic as an ancient casket, did Alavara break the stillness.

“Will it even let us in?” Her voice sounded like she had swallowed a quart of river water and not yet decided whether to keep it down.

“The Tower is still anchored to the Leylines. As one of its masters I should be able to get through to it. If not…” Iliyria trailed off, lips pressed bloodless. “I’ll make do.”

They approached The Tower. It was closed in every sense: no windows, no doors, not even the customary archway at street level. It presented as a single, seamless pillar of stone, extending thirty stories above the city’s highest parapets. Only the glimmer of magic, faint, but there for those who could see it, hinted at any interior life.

Iliyria stopped at the base, the wound in her shoulder thumping in rhythm with her pulse. She pressed her right palm flat to the featureless wall, fingers splayed. The contact sent a tremor through her body, as though the leyline beneath her feet had found her and meant to drag her down.

Alavara watched, arms folded, eyes intent but unblinking.

Iliyria closed her eyes and began to speak, not in the common tongue, but in ancient Arcanic. The syllables bent themselves around her tongue, strange and angular, not meant for the living. The effect was immediate: the Tower’s stone shuddered beneath her hand, and the air grew dense, charged with expectation.

But nothing else happened.

Iliyria tried again, this time louder, layering invocation atop invocation. Sweat beaded at her hairline; her knees threatened to give out. The Tower, for its part, remained inert.

Then a line of pain arced up from her palm, through her arm, and into her jaw, a sizzling feedback loop. Iliyria gasped, the spell stuttering, and nearly withdrew her hand. She felt her grip on the leyline slipping, the Tower’s dead mass threatening to recoil her efforts and knock her from the steps.

Alavara, in a gesture so small it might have been missed by anyone else, reached out and placed her own hand over Iliyria’s. Not touching the stone, but touching Iliyria, completing the circuit, and channeling leyline energy through her own body into Iliyria’s. It was gentle at first, then, as Iliyria’s words began to fray, urgent. A soft burn. A rush of ozone.

Iliyria caught the thread and spun it into the spell. Ancient Arcanic ran hot and slick in her mouth, shaping the air into geometry, carving channels through the Tower’s stony heart. For a moment, nothing.

Then, with a snap and a low moan that seemed to rise from the city’s bones, the Tower responded.

The surface under their hands liquefied and reformed, resolving itself into a door, tall, narrow, and rimmed with light. The moment it appeared, a soundless voice filled her thoughts: Hallione, at last.

“You’re late,” the Tower’s mind announced, its cadence a chorus of every word ever uttered in its halls. “There have been one hundred and seven attempts to breach the Tower and three hundred and thirty-two attempted exits since you ordered the lockdown, most by Lavan. Is this the part where I say welcome back, or shall we review today’s menu of new disasters?”

Iliyria exhaled, the tension leaving her body in a wave. “You can open the Tower, Halli. It’s safe.”

“I rather doubt that,” Hallione replied. “But I defer to your judgment. The other masters are waiting. One is particularly vocal.”

Alavara’s brow furrowed, a faint line pinching above her nose. Iliyria realized Alavara could sense the shape of the Tower’s sentience, even if she did not hear Halli’s words.

Hallione’s attention turned, their presence compressing like a lens until it focused on Alavara. “Finally, a new master. It is long overdue.”

Iliyria blinked. She looked at Alavara, her expression for the first time in days unguarded. Not fear, nor pain, nor exhaustion, but something much harder to categorize. Pride, possibly, or simply pure affection.

Alavara, for her part, said nothing. She looked at Iliyria, caught the edge of her rare smile, and then looked away, unsure what to make of it.

“Shall we?” Iliyria said, gesturing to the door.

They passed through together, and the sensation was not unlike being pressed through a membrane; a tingling, a sharp chill, then a burst of warm, dry air. They stood in the antechamber, just as it had been before: stone floors, violet sconces, and the ever-present smell of old parchment and ozone.

Waiting for them were the Masters: Kerrowyn Lightfoot, face pinched but eyes dancing with nervous energy; Pembroke, whose beard had grown wild in the past week of waiting, robes smelling faintly of cloves and woodsmoke; and Lavan, standing a little apart, arms folded, jaw clenched, gaze fixed on a point somewhere above Iliyria’s head.

None spoke for a beat. The silence was profound, not simply awkward, but sacred, as if the entire Tower was holding its breath.

Then Kerrowyn, with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, rushed forward and embraced Alavara, her arms surprisingly strong for her size. Pembroke bowed stiffly, then sidled closer, his eyes watery. Lavan simply nodded, once, a short, sharp motion.

The Tower, at last, was open again.

What We Had to Do

They chose one of the Tower’s more informal meeting rooms for the debrief.

Kerrowyn, Lavan and Pembroke sat on one side of the table, and Iliyria and Alavara took chairs on the opposite side.

It was Lavan who broke the hush, his voice cutting through like a snapped wand: “Where is Isemay?” He didn’t try for composure, or the careful diplomatic buffer the Tower demanded of its Masters. His eyes, usually fogged by distraction or fatigue, were now laser-fixed on Iliyria.

“She’s alive,” Iliyria answered, not missing a beat. “She’s with the Council. They’re debriefing the events of the past week. I’m expecting her to return before the end of day, once the Councilors have finished licking their wounds and drafting their next disaster.”

Kerrowyn cut in then, “I’m glad Isemay is safe, but let’s start at the beginning. I want this in order. Start with Hearthswarming Eve, and do not embellish. If you omit, I will know.”

Iliyria’s smile was thin and sharp. “Of course, Master Lightfoot.” She recited the events with a litigator’s clarity: the assassination attempt, the coup by the false Lowshade, the flight to the Gentleman’s Circle, the siege at the Council Seat, every ugly detail laid bare like an autopsy. Alavara chimed with her own accounts and observations.

They covered the battle in the Square: the Circle’s uprising, the clerics of Kord and the Raven Queen breaking the Watch’s lines, the chaos of the moment distilled into a few dry sentences. Then the shift to the Council Seat: Lowshade’s monstrous transformation, the rakshasa’s revelation, the deaths and subsequent resurrections of Buggy, Dingus and Nimueh, the final, unspoken deal.

The Masters pressed: What about the city’s defense? The Watch’s complicity? The instability in the Circle? The answer, each time, was the same: “We did what we had to. And we won.” Lavan’s face darkened at the word “win,” but he let it pass.

No one mentioned the cost.

The first real fissure in the debrief opened when Kerrowyn, voice cold, asked, “Who was the inside contact? The one who managed the Circle’s end of things.” She watched Alavara closely, as if looking for a trick.

There was a brief silence.

Alavara, who had rehearsed every possible version of this moment, simply replied, “Their leader. The Gentleman. They arranged the pincer movement in the Square and kept the Sons of the Empire occupied while we pushed for the gallows.”

Kerrowyn was about to dissect the response, but Iliyria set a flat hand on the table, palm down, and the motion had a finality that even the Tower recognized.

“That’s the strategic overview,” she said, and her voice was the voice of command, of a city’s whole battered will pressed through one cracked throat. “Now let’s talk about what matters next. The city is a vacuum. The Watch is split, and we don’t know how deep the rot runs.”

They moved on to the aftermath: the state of the Watch, the rising factionalism in the city, the tension between the districts. There was mention of a plan, though its details remained fluid; Alavara demurred, saying it depended on the next moves of the remaining Sons.

Throughout, Iliyria’s voice stayed even, never rising, never betraying the weariness that radiated from every inch of her battered body. If the Masters noticed, they did not say.

But Alavara noticed. She tracked the slow way Iliyria reached for her glass of water, the minute hesitation before she flexed her left hand. She caught the glazed moment when Kerrowyn asked a question and Iliyria responded with the correct words but none of the old fire.

A half hour later, the debrief was winding down. Kerrowyn had begun to shift her attention from the narrative to the strategies that would need to be implemented before dawn. Pembroke had leaned back, already drafting memos in his head, and Lavan had developed a subtle but compulsive tapping of the fingers, as though desperate to cast a spell and be done with it.

It was then, while the Masters debated their next move, that Alavara lowered her eyes, and from the sleeve of her robe flicked out a small, blue spark. The message spell wound under the table and up into Iliyria’s ear.

“Should we tell Lavan about Ophelia?”

Iliyria’s reply was immediate and dry, with a hint of fatigue: “I am tired, and I would like to rest. Isemay can explain when she gets back.”

Kerrowyn’s gaze tracked the exchange, though her expression did not change. Lavan, more sensitive than he let on, blinked and frowned, but said nothing.

Hallione, ever observant, flickered briefly at the edge of the visible spectrum, her colors shifting to a shade of lavender that anyone who spent enough time in the Tower would recognize as “mildly irritated but still fond.”

The debrief finally concluded when Pembroke set down his pen and said, “I think that’s enough for now. If we think of any more questions we can ask them tomorrow.” The three Master Arcanists rose and filed out.

Kerrowyn, from the doorway, offered a last parting shot: “Get some rest, the both of you. You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

“We have,” Iliyria said, and the way she said it implied she expected the wringer would be back for more before morning.

For a moment, Iliyria and Alavara were alone, or as alone as one could be in a building that was itself a sentient magical construct. The hush that settled was not the silence of peace but the silence of a room catching its breath before the next disaster.

They walked the corridor in step, the click of their boots echoing up and down the cold stone. The Tower, now that the formalities were over, seemed to breathe with them, the lights softening and the wards relaxing into a gentler hum.

At the juncture where the corridor forked, one path leading to the residential wing, the other deeper into the Tower. Iliyria stopped, placing a gentle hand on Alavara’s shoulder. She flinched, but only a little.

“Good work today,” Iliyria said. “You held it together.”

Alavara shrugged. “I only did what was required.”

Iliyria smiled, but the expression was smaller, a little sad. “That’s all anyone can do.”

They stood together a moment longer, the air thick with words that neither wanted to say.

Then Iliyria stepped back, and with a tilt of her head said, “Congratulations, Alavara.”

Alavara, caught off guard, actually blinked. “What are you congratulating me for?”

Iliyria just smiled, her eyes twinkling with some secret knowledge. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

And with that, she turned and walked down the corridor, her figure quickly swallowed up by the Tower’s shifting shadows.

Alavara stood in front of her door, unsure of whether she should enter.

The Tower pulsed softly around her, a slow heartbeat in stone and light.

She stayed at her door for a long time, the world outside oddly silent, as if waiting for her to open it and discover whatever new future had been waiting all along.

On Salves, Stubbornness, and One Earned Night of Rest

Iliyria’s quarters in the Tower were not large, but they were hers.

She paused inside the entry, breathing in the familiar coldness. The stone still radiated the memory of sunlight, but barely, and the air clung to her damp skin like an ill-fitting shroud. For a moment, she considered leaving, walking down the hundred steps and out the back, taking the long way to her townhouse where she could exist without scrutiny, without the implied weight of being Master Sylren. But the ache in her shoulder convinced her otherwise, and the memory of Alavara’s face at the debrief kept her rooted to the spot.

There was, as always, a note on the low table by the sitting area. Hallione, in her penchant for archaic courtesy, had written it by hand, the looping script a testament to a thousand years of practice.

I have taken the liberty of preparing your medical supplies. Rest well, and remember: you are permitted to delegate. ~Halli

Next to the note, a basin of warm water and a cloth bundle: fresh linens, a bar of soap, a bottle of clear, hard alcohol, two rolls of bandage, a tiny jar of blue salve, and an array of tweezers and forceps. Iliyria sat, unraveling the supplies with the mechanical focus of someone who had done this a hundred times before.

She stripped off the ruined blouse, fingers sticky from the dried blood at her shoulder. The arrowhead was gone, she had broken it off in the Square, but a good length of shaft remained, the wood piercing straight through her shoulder. She prodded at the wound, and winced, feeling the way the flesh puckered and resisted.

A shimmer at the door announced Hallione’s arrival, her form tonight a floating, translucent swirl with just enough suggestion of arms and face to pass as comforting.

“You could simply call for a healer,” Halli said, voice soft as mist. “Or even a doctor. Or, gods forbid, just another person.”

“I’ve dressed my own wounds for centuries,” Iliyria replied, her voice flat. “I don’t need an audience.”

Iliyria used the soap and basin of water to wash her hands, took the tweezers and began, with delicate, brutal precision, to work the shaft free. The first motion made her see stars; the second, blackness closed in at the edges. She rode the wave of pain, teeth grinding against the urge to scream. Halli’s form flickered, as if the Tower itself were feeling sympathetic nausea.

“Very efficient,” Halli murmured sarcastically, but did not leave.

When the last sliver came out, Iliyria’s hands shook. She tossed the bloody wood into the fire, dunked a cloth into the basin of water and cleaned the area with soap. Then, before she could think too much about it, she poured a generous measure of alcohol over the wound. The burn was spectacular, and she hissed, unable to help herself.

“Stubbornness does not make one heal faster,” Hallione observed, now solidifying enough to cross the room and hover at Iliyria’s shoulder. She extended a hand, a gesture, not a physical offering, and watched as Iliyria slathered the blue salve over the wound.

The bandage was harder to manage one-handed, but Iliyria did it anyway, wrapping the gauze tight and knotting it in a bow that looked more decorative than functional. She stood, shrugged her arm back into motion, and only then noticed that Halli had conjured a small construct, something between a nurse and a spider, its six arms busying themselves with straightening the line of the wrap and securing the knot.

“Careful,” the construct whispered in Halli’s voice, “or you’ll undo all your hard work.”

Iliyria rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Hallione.”

“You’re welcome. I find the act of healing oddly satisfying. Like repairing a hairline crack in a priceless vase. Or watching someone else do so while they insist they don’t need help.”

Iliyria grumbled, but let the construct finish its job. When it withdrew, she flexed the joint experimentally. The pain was still there, but manageable now, dulled by the salve and her own stubborn refusal to acknowledge it.

She padded to the bathroom, stripped the rest of the way down, and ran water in the basin until it steamed. She washed her face and neck first, then, careful to avoid the bandage, the rest of her body. She studied herself in the mirror, surprised at how little she recognized the woman staring back. There were new lines at the corners of her eyes, a pallor to her skin that she’d never seen before. Her hair, once so proud and silver, now hung limply, dulled by the day’s sweat and grime.

She dressed in soft pajamas, a gift from a Runner long dead, and pulled on a thick pair of socks. The last act was to take the weighted blanket off the cedar chest at the foot of her bed, a souvenir from Team 7’s time in Volfast, and spread it over herself, letting its pressure settle her bones and mind.

She lay down, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar parade of regrets to march through her brain. But tonight, nothing came: not the memory of the coup, not the vision of Alavara’s reproach, not even the dread of the next crisis.

For the first time in years, Iliyria Sylren let herself trance while the city outside was still burning, and did not feel the need to apologize for it.

Hallione’s presence lingered in the hallway, a silent sentry. She watched over the Master with the quiet pride of an old house finally at peace, if only for a night.

In the morning, the world would return, as it always did.

But for now, the Tower stood silent, Iliyria rested, and the city endured.

We Keep Our Promises to the Morning

The Tower’s south corridor breathed in low, blue pulses, ley-light riding the stone like a heartbeat. Isemay’s steps were brisk and brittle. Ophelia stayed half a pace behind her, coat torn, ash ghosting her horns.

Lavan rounded the corner and stopped dead.

His thumb found the constellation at his forearm, rubbing once like a switch. He inhaled, slow; a whisper of counter-glamour curled off his tongue. The air around Ophelia didn’t ripple. His gaze flicked to the leylines in the wall, to their obedient rhythm, back to her face.

“If this is an illusion,” he said, calm enough to sound like someone else, “it’s a cruel one.”

“It isn’t,” Ophelia answered.

Something unclenched in him. Then his knees, traitors, went soft, and he folded onto the bench beneath the window as if he’d meant to do that all along.

“You look terrible,” he managed after a beat, voice rough. “Thank the gods.”

The lounge door opened. Pembroke stepped out with a ledger in hand, and froze as if the world had turned upside down. The ledger sagged; porcelain clinked faintly somewhere behind him.

“Ophelia,” he said, not quite a whisper, as if testing whether the name would stay.

Kerrowyn appeared behind him, half a question already sharpened, then stopped. Every blade in her posture sheathed in one startled breath. “Gods save us,” she murmured. “You’re real.”

Ophelia tried on a smile that didn’t fit yet. “Working on it.”

Isemay touched her elbow. “Inside,” she said, because if she didn’t keep moving she’d fold where she stood.

They crossed into the Masters’ lounge. Chairs waited like friendly traps; rugs multiplied at the ankles; the fire made a sound like someone thinking.

Pembroke found his manners second. He set a cup into Ophelia’s hands. “Ophelia,” he repeated, steadier now. “Good. Sit.”

Kerrowyn’s mouth tipped, wryness returning molecule by molecule. “We run a school for very clever disasters,” she said softly. “Lucky you.”

Ophelia’s laugh broke on the first syllable.

Isemay remained standing, arms folded tight over exhaustion. “We came straight from emergency sessions with the Council,” she said, voice clipped. “There…there wasn’t time.”

“For telling me,” Lavan said, turning to her at last. His tone stayed level, ground under ice. “You should have used Sending.”

“We were in a locked chamber. I had a partition up.” The excuses died on her lips, and her shoulders slumped. “I should have found a way.”

“Next time, you tell me,” he said, gentler but not retreating. 

Kerrowyn’s gaze cut to the hearth, then back, annoyance surfacing now that the shock had somewhere safe to go. “And while we’re apportioning shoulds: Iliyria and Alavara briefed us hours ago. Fascinating report. Not a single syllable about a missing tiefling reappearing.”

Pembroke’s mouth thinned, the shape of an old, fond disappointment. “We will address their editorial choices later,” he said. “For now, rules.” His glance took in Ophelia, and, pointedly, Isemay. “No leaving without telling me. Infirmary before either of you sleeps.”

Isemay opened her mouth to argue and only managed a waver. Kerrowyn clocked it.

“That’s not a request, Miss Misendris,” she said, dry as twine. “You look one spell away from kissing the floor.”

Ophelia glanced between them, throat working. “Before you send us anywhere,” she said, voice low, “you should know… the Gentleman, Nightvalley, the Circle, was me. All along.” She didn’t flinch. “And the projection during Team Seven’s fight with the rakshasa; that was us. Isemay scried on the battle, and I anchored her divination into the projection.”

Kerrowyn’s brows lifted despite herself, a quick, unguarded spark of respect. “All this time, you were The Gentleman?” A beat, then she tucked the glint away beneath a stern line. “Mm. Inadvisable. Showy. Effective.” 

Pembroke’s hand hovered, nearly finding Ophelia’s shoulder,  nearly saying “I checked your room every night,” and then retreated to nudge the kettle instead. “That context is… clarifying,” he said finally. Then, his professional curiosity warming, he turned his attention to the projection. “You two pulled an anchored projection over live combat, then sustained it through crowd interference today. How did you hold the illusion with that level of noise?”

Ophelia found the table with the edge of the cup. “I set the initial frame. Used my harp as the anchor, and spun the illusion directly from Isemay’s vision.”

“ and I ran the relay,” Isemay finished, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. “A divining stone on Corporal Harrison to focus my vision. Three-point partition to damp the public spell-wash,  then braided her feed across mine. When pressure spiked I…” She flushed, embarrassed at the simplicity. “I counted. Out loud.”

Kerrowyn nodded once, approval flickering and gone. “Impressive.”

Pembroke’s eyes glimmered with academic curiosity. “You anchored through a harp and single set of divining stones, and held phase on the signals.” He lifted the kettle, decisive. “Show me the sequence, after you’ve both slept.”

Ophelia tightened her grip on the cup. “I don’t understand,” she said, sudden and sharp with fatigue. “Why am I allowed to stay, why do you want me here? I vanished. I lied. I was the Gentleman. You should be turning me over or throwing me out.”

A quiet settled, heavier than the rugs.

Lavan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, making his voice careful, drag-free. “We all have graveyards we don’t talk about,” he said. “The Tower didn’t throw me out when I deserved it. They set conditions and watched me meet them. We will do the same for you.”

Kerrowyn’s expression shifted. “We take back our own,” she said. “Second chances, not third. Which means you sleep here tonight under our rules, and tomorrow you work, with us, not around us. Try to vanish again,” she added, affection hiding behind bite, “and I’ll anchor a bell to your horns.”

Ophelia blinked. “That… sounds fair.”

“Good girl.” Kerrowyn let out the smallest breath. “We’ll talk contingencies tomorrow. Usefulness over heroics.”

Pembroke inclined his head, kindness framed as structure. “The Tower is not a court,” he said. “It is a school. We teach, we protect, we repair. Consequences are real; so is belonging. Boundaries restated: no masks in the halls. No exits without notice. Infirmary, then bed. That cut on your jaw will not dress itself, Ophelia. And Isemay, if you do not let them check your reserves, I will assign you a chaperone in the privy.”

Isemay’s mouth did the closest thing to a smile it had managed in hours. “Noted.”

Lavan added, “Isemay, you will let me check your scar when you get back from the infirmary. How long have you been without your tea?”

Isemay huffed, “That’s not necessary, Team 7 was able to get some directly from Glyrenis. I’m fine.”

“You have used a tremendous amount of magic today, it will doubtless lead to a flare up. You’re shaking.”

“I am not,” she began, and then realized that she was, very slightly.

Kerrowyn pushed off the mantel. “Pembroke, walk them both down. I’ll draft a polite note to our Commander and my prodigy reminding them what a ‘complete debrief’ entails.”

“Polite,” Pembroke repeated, trying the flavor. “We shall see.” He offered each woman an arm, old-world courtesy made practical. “Come on. Let’s keep our promises to the morning.”

When they reached the door, Lavan’s humor found a careful foothold. “I’m going to be very angry tomorrow,” he said softly. “I’d rather do it over coffee than at your bedsides.”

That almost won a smile from Isemay; it did win one from Ophelia, crooked and wet. “Deal,” she said.

As they left, Kerrowyn exhaled a thin thread of pent-up adrenaline and shot Lavan a look that said: thank you for cutting the wire. He answered with a tired nod, then glanced at the empty doorway.

“Hours ago,” he muttered, not quite to himself. “Debriefed for an hour and a half. Not a word.”

“Tomorrow,” Kerrowyn said. “Politely.”

“Politely,” Lavan echoed, and for once the word sounded like a plan instead of a hope.