# Chapter 7: The Weave of Ages

The word *obviously* hung in the air between us, a thin shield of sarcasm that was currently melting under the sheer, steady heat of Dorian’s gaze.

I didn't pull my hand away. For stars’ sake, I couldn’t have moved if the Emperor himself had commanded me to kneel. The ballroom of the Solstice Wing was a blurred kaleidoscope of silk and predatory smiles, but within the small, gravity-defying circle of our proximity, the world had narrowed to the scent of ozone and the terrifyingly calm blue of Dorian’s eyes. 

He had just admitted it. Not in so many words—Dorian rarely used the common tongue when a complex aetheric metaphor would do—but the admission of the "Mira variable" was a tectonic shift. It felt like... actually, no. It felt like the moment a wildfire finally leaps the firebreak. You know you should run, you know the heat will turn your lungs to ash, but you can’t help but stare at the beauty of the destruction.

"Chancellor Solas," a voice like oiled glass cut through the private static of our bond. 

Dorian’s thumb, which had been resting against the pulse point of my wrist, stilled. The clinical mask didn't just return; it slammed down with the weight of a portcullis. He didn't let go of me, but the intimate register of his voice evaporated, replaced by that balanced, soul-chilling precision.

"Secretary Vane," Dorian said, turning his head just enough to acknowledge the man standing five feet away. "The evidence suggests the waltz has concluded. Is there a situation requiring my undivided attention?"

High Inquisitor Vane—who apparently held a dozen titles depending on which throat he was currently squeezing—didn't look at Dorian. He looked at me. His eyes were the color of stagnant pond water, and they lingered on the way my crimson silk was crushed against Dorian’s midnight wool.

"The Emperor was... intrigued by the manifestation," Vane said. He gestured vaguely at the air above us, where a few lingering sparks of the "Grey" mana still drifted like ghosts. "A Binary Star, they are calling it. Most theatrical. His Majesty wonders if such a display suggests a stability in the Accord that transcends mere administrative cooperation."

I felt Dorian’s muscles lock. Through the tether, I caught a sharp, biting spike of his internal temperature—a localized freeze that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. He was terrified. Not of Vane, but of what the manifestation heralded.

"Stability is a functional requirement of the Imperial Decree," I snapped, my voice a jagged edge that cut through the Secretary’s oily tone. "Obviously, if the schools don't harmonize, the Starfall eats the province. We were just... doing our jobs."

Vane smiled. It was a thin, bloodless thing. "Indeed. But the Ministry has concerns regarding the... somatic nature of this harmony. It appears less like a shield and more like a bridge. One must wonder what is being transported across it."

"The circumstances are hardly auspicious for a lecture on aetheric theory, Secretary," Dorian said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, formal understatement. He stepped slightly in front of me, a protective gesture that sent a jolt of liquid heat through my solar plexus. "If His Majesty requires a technical report, it will be delivered at the morning session. For now, the Chancellor of the Pyre requires a moment of terrestrial grounding. The waltz was... taxing."

Vane bowed, but his eyes remained sharp. "Of course. Do not let me detain you from your... grounding."

As Vane drifted back into the sea of courtiers, Dorian didn't hesitate. He didn't ask for permission. He looped my arm through his and steered me toward a heavy oak side-door, his pace making my boots click frantically against the marble. 

"Dorian, wait—" I started, tripping slightly over the hem of my gown.

"Keep walking, Mira," he whispered. 

The moment we crossed the threshold, the roar of the ballroom died, replaced by the hollow, echoing chill of the palace’s service corridors. The air here smelled of damp stone and guttering tallow, a far cry from the spice-and-civet lung-rot of the ballroom. Dorian didn't stop until we had turned two corners and reached a door marked with the silver-stamped seal of the Imperial Archivist.

"What are you doing?" I asked, leaning against the cold stone wall to catch my breath. The distance between us had widened to three feet, and the tether was already beginning to whine—a low-frequency vibration in my teeth that signaled the 'Correction Clause' was hungry. "We can’t just vanish from a Solstice gala. Vane is probably already counting the seconds until he can label us as conspirators."

Dorian didn't answer. He was fumbling with a ring of heavy iron keys he had clearly "borrowed" from a servant's station earlier. His fingers were shaking. Not the frantic tremor of a student, but the fine, rhythmic vibration of a man whose absolute zero discipline was being eaten from the inside out.

"The evidence suggests," Dorian said, his voice cracking on the final syllable, "that Vane is not checking our attendance. He is checking our resonance. He saw the Grey, Mira. He saw what we did on the floor."

"We danced! stars' sake, Dorian, people dance at galas."

"We didn't just dance." He finally found the right key and shoved it into the lock. The iron groaned. "The somatic surge... it wasn't a spell, Mira. It was an accidental resonance triggered by the movement of the dance, a manifestation of the binary state we hadn't intended to ignite. But he saw it. That hasn't happened since the Weave of Ages was hidden. If the Ministry realizes we can tap into the Grey voluntarily, they won't just 'audit' the schools. They will harvest us."

He pushed the door open, beckoning me into the darkness. 

I followed, my pulse thrumming in a frantic, syncopated rhythm with his. The moment the door clicked shut behind us, the darkness was absolute, save for the faint, orange glow radiating from my own skin. I raised my hand, a small, controlled flicker of flame dancing across my palm to light the way.

We were in the Archive of Ages. Rows upon rows of towering mahogany shelves stretched into the gloom, laden with scrolls and ledgers that predated the Empire itself. Through a narrow lancet window at the end of the hall, the gold-violet pulse of the Starfall Drift cast flickering shadows across the floor—a ticking clock mapped in celestial light.

"The Emperor mentioned the 'Gilded cage' earlier," I said, my voice hushed by the weight of the silence. "He wasn't talking about the palace, was he? He was talking about the tether."

"Obviously," Dorian muttered, his sarcasm a dull echo of my own. He was moving toward the restricted section at the back, his fingers tracing the spines of the ledgers. "He needs the Starfall to continue, Mira. That is the part my previous calculations failed to include."

"Needs it? The Starfall is a cataclysm. It’s eating the constellations. Why would anyone want—"

"Because of the byproduct," Dorian intercepted. He stopped in front of a shelf bound in iron chains. He didn't use a key this time; he simply pressed his palm against the lock, and a fine, crystalline frost began to grow into the mechanism. "The Starfall Drift creates a localized collapse of aetheric density. Normally, that energy is lost to the void. But a Binary Star system—a fire and ice mage bound by a soul-tether—acts as a natural battery. We don't just stop the Starfall. We catch it. We weave it."

I felt a sudden, sharp jolt of memory-drift. It wasn't mine. It was a flicker of something ancient, transmitted through the sapphire brand on my chest. I saw a woman in crimson and a man in blue, standing on the Obsidian Bridge centuries ago. They weren't fighting; they were laughing. Their hands were joined, and between them, a great loom of Grey light was weaving a shield that covered the world. They were happy. 

And then, I saw the loom break. I saw the light being diverted, piped into great glass jars marked with the Imperial Seal. I felt the woman’s scream in my own throat—the somatic horror of her life-force being siphoned away, her nerves becoming conductive filaments until her very consciousness dissolved into a raw, screaming current.

I gasped, my knees buckling. Dorian caught me, his hands cold as mountain-water against my burning skin. 

"Mira? Stay with me. The somatic bleed is... the circumstances are not auspicious for a deep dive into the psychometry."

"They were batteries," I whispered, clutching his sleeves. "The Progenitors. The Accord wasn't a peace treaty, Dorian. It was an extraction contract. The Emperor doesn't want to save the world. He wants to power his kinetic batteries. He wants to turn the Grey mana into weapons."

Dorian’s face went pale. He pulled a heavy, leather-bound volume from the shelf—the *Weave of Ages*—and laid it out on a small reading desk. He didn't need to read the words; he was scanning the diagrams. His eyes moved with a terrifying speed.

"The evidence suggests you are... fundamentally correct," Dorian said. His formal grammar was holding, but his voice was thin, like paper being stretched to the breaking point. "Look here. The stabilization ritual we performed in the arena... it wasn't designed to close the breach. It was designed to 'tune' our resonance. We were being calibrated. Like... like instruments."

I looked at the diagram. It showed two souls, twined together in a spiral. But at the center of the spiral, there was a tap. A golden needle designed to draw the essence from the heart of the bond.

"Burning memory," I whispered. "We’re lambs. He’s fatting us up with titles and waltzes just so he can slaughter us when the ‘Grey’ is at peak density."

"We could—actually. No," Dorian started, then stopped. He looked at me, and for the first time, his blue eyes were wild. "There is no escape from the palace, Mira. The Ministry Silencers have the corridors blocked. Vane knew we were coming here. He wanted us to see the ledger. He wanted us to know there is no hope."

"Past and rot with no hope!" I ranted, my fire leaping from my palm to singe the edge of the reading desk. "I am the Chancellor of the Pyre! I have spent ten years building a school out of soot and rebellion. I will not be a battery for a man who smells like ozone and burnt sugar!"

"Mira, your thermal output is... it is reaching dangerous levels. Please. Focus."

"Focus? You're telling me to focus while we're being raised for the slaughterhouse? Look at this ledger, Dorian! Look at the names of the chancellors who came before us. They didn't 'retire' to the countryside. They 'expired' after the five-year cycle. Every. Single. One."

Dorian’s breath was coming in short, shallow puffs. He reached out, his hand hovering inches from my cheek. "The circumstances are... the situation requires our undivided attention. If the Emperor intends to harvest us, he needs us both alive. That is our only leverage. He cannot draw the Grey from a broken circuit."

"Then we break it," I said, though the thought of the tether snapping felt like imagining my own heart being ripped out through my ribs. "We run. To the Reach. To the Spire. Anywhere."

"They will hunt us. They will label us heretics. The evidence suggests—"

"Dorian, shut up about the evidence!" I grabbed the front of his robes, pulling him down until our foreheads touched. The sensory bleed was a roar now, a chaotic storm of fire and frost that threatened to drown the room. "The evidence says we're dead men walking. I prefer to die running."

He didn't pull away. He didn't deliver a clinical rebuttal. He simply breathed in my heat, his eyes closing as he leaned into the contact. "I suspect... I suspect my previous calculations regarding the safety of the Empire were... suboptimal."

"Obviously," I whispered.

The doors to the Archive didn't open; they were shattered.

A concussive blast of kinetic force blew the mahogany leaves off their hinges. I instinctively threw a wall of flame between us and the entrance, the orange heat clashing with the silver-blue of the Ministry's dampening fields.

But it wasn't Vane who stepped through the smoke.

It was Lyra.

She looked as if she had been dragged through a rock-crusher. Her Spire robes, usually so pristine they made my eyes ache, were shredded, and her breath came in ragged, mana-fatigued hitches. Her spectacles were missing, and a deep, jagged cut across her forehead was weeping dark, sluggish blood. She was carrying a small, silk-wrapped bundle against her chest, her knuckles white with the strain.

"Chancellor," she gasped, her voice a wet, rattling sound. She stumbled into the circle of my firelight and collapsed to her knees.

"Lyra!" Dorian was at her side in a heartbeat, his hands glowing with a soft, restorative frost. "The situation is... what happened? Why are you in the palace?"

"The audit," Lyra whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "The Ministry... they didn't wait for morning. They went to the schools. They said there was a 'Correction Clause' violation. They brought the Silencers, Dorian. They... they used a God-Slayer shard. One of the fragments from the original Starfall. It suppressed everything. The students... they’re being rounded up. They're being taken to the kinetic batteries."

"And the staff?" I asked, my blood turning to liquid lead. "Where is Kaelen Thorne? Where is my senior proctor?"

Lyra looked at me. The pity in her eyes was worse than the blood. She reached into the silk bundle and pulled out a scorched, broken ceremonial brand. The wood was black, the silver filigree melted into a shapeless glob.

It was Kaelen’s.

"He wouldn't let them in," Lyra said, her voice trembling. "He stood at the gate of the Pyre. He told them the Chancellor's Sanctum was sovereign territory. They... they used the shard, Mira. He didn't have a chance to ignite his core. He just... he fell."

I didn't scream. I couldn't. The air had been sucked out of my lungs, replaced by a vacuum of cold that even Dorian’s presence couldn't thaw. I took the broken brand from her hands. It was still warm. The lingering heat of Kaelen’s soul was still trapped in the grain, a final, fading echo of the man who had been my brother in everything but blood.

*Past and rot.*

The words didn't come out. They stayed trapped in my throat, a bitter, acidic weight. I looked at the brand, then at Lyra, then at Dorian. 

Kaelen was dead. The man who had grounded my fire for ten years. The man who had walked beside me through the soot and the struggle. He was gone because he had tried to protect a school that the Emperor viewed as a pile of spare parts.

I felt Dorian’s hand on my shoulder. Usually, his touch was a jolt of ice-water, a grounding force that pulled me back from the brink. But now, as he looked at the broken brand, I felt his own fury. It wasn't hot like mine. It was a terrifying, absolute zero. A silence that promised a winter with no end.

"The evidence suggests," Dorian Solas said, his voice so flat it was almost inhuman, "that the Emperor has made a fatal calculation error."

He looked at me, and for the first time since we had signed the Accord on the Obsidian Bridge, there was no rivalry in his gaze. There were no "ledger-items" or "suboptimal" assessments. There was only a shared, terrible purpose.

The Empire had taken everything from us. They had taken our sovereignty, our students, and now they had taken Kaelen. They thought they could use us as batteries to power their conquest. They thought they could weave our lives into a loom of Grey mana and discard us when the thread ran thin.

"Obviously," I whispered, my fingers tightening around the scorched wood of the brand until it began to smoke. "They have no idea what happens when a Binary Star goes supernova."

The silence between them was different now. It was not the silence of enemies tolerating proximity. It was the silence of two people who had run out of armor.