Chapter 625: Chapter 625: The Tower of Permissions
Selara finally entered the tower.
She had been here before, on the day they arrived in Aurevane, when the train attack had forced her to report what happened to the city’s higher authorities. Back then, she had walked into this place carrying blood, damage reports, student names, and the kind of professional irritation that made officials sit straighter without knowing why.
This time was different.
This time, she came for something far more important.
The tower rose above the administrative district in pale stone and dark glass, not the tallest structure in Aurevane, but one that had no need to beg for attention. It stood with the quiet arrogance of a place where signatures could bury crimes, where permissions could outlive witnesses, and where every locked door had a committee ready to explain why it had always been locked.
Selara walked through the entrance without slowing.
The first floor opened into a broad reception hall lined with polished stone, high pillars, and enough guards to make the word "welcome" feel like a joke. Before anyone could reach the reception desk, they had to pass through a security check. That alone was not unusual. Aurevane loved control almost as much as it loved pretending control was hospitality.
But this tower had another layer.
The moment Selara crossed the first wardline, the mana around her tightened. Not hostile. Worse. Administrative. The wards did not attack, suppress, or punish. They simply denied. No item could be summoned inside. No storage artifact could release what it held. No hidden weapon could be drawn from mana. Anything carried in had to be carried physically, like the world had briefly returned to uglier, simpler rules.
A guard approached her with stiff professionalism, clearly assigned to perform the check.
Selara watched him come closer, took in the practiced motion of his hands, and raised one finger before he got within reach.
"Stop right there, sir. Where exactly do you think you are going with those hands?" she asked, voice pleasant enough to make the threat worse. "Because if you intend to search me yourself, I can report this as sexual harassment before you finish blinking. Go find a woman to do the inspection."
The guard’s face drained so fast it was almost impressive.
For one horrible instant, he looked as if his soul had tried to climb out through his throat and leave the rest of him behind. He stammered something that might have been an apology, turned, and hurried away with more speed than dignity.
Selara waited.
A female guard arrived shortly after, expression carefully blank in the way of someone who had been told just enough to avoid laughing. She performed the inspection properly. Efficient hands, no nonsense, no unnecessary contact. Selara carried nothing she needed to hide, and the guard soon stepped back with a respectful nod.
"You may proceed, Director Selara."
"I know," Selara replied, and walked past her.
At the reception desk, the young woman on duty recognized her from several steps away. It would have been stranger if she had not. In Aurevane, Selara’s name lived in lecture halls, old event records, alchemical journals, and at least a few disciplinary anecdotes people still repeated with reverent fear.
"Director Selara," the receptionist said, straightening in her chair. "How may I assist you this time?"
"I want to see them again," Selara said. "Tell them I am downstairs."
The receptionist’s fingers paused above the ledger. "They are currently in an important meeting. It may take a few hours before they are free."
Selara looked at her. Nothing dramatic, but gave her a look that made the reception hall feel smaller.
"I said," Selara repeated, "tell them I am downstairs waiting."
The receptionist closed her mouth.
Good girl.
She left the desk at once, moving toward one of the side doors with quick, controlled steps. Selara remained where she was, ignoring the nearby guards, the curious glances from passing clerks, and the faint hum of the tower wards pressing at the edge of her senses.
Aurevane had always been good at dressing fear in procedure.
It was beginning to annoy her.
After several minutes, a man emerged from the inner corridor. He was well-dressed, middle-aged, and carried the mild exasperation of someone who had expected to spend the morning in important conversation rather than dealing with Selara. His smile arrived a little late.
"Selara," he said, approaching with open hands. "I am glad you came back. But why are you causing such a commotion so quickly?"
Selara did not smile back.
"Find us a private room."
His expression shifted. "That serious?"
"Now."
The man studied her for a heartbeat, read enough in her face to stop performing courtesy, and gestured toward the corridor. "This way, then."
They entered a smaller chamber off the main hall. It had a round table, six chairs, and tall windows that looked down over the administrative district. The moment the door closed, Selara dispensed with every useless layer of diplomacy.
"How is it possible that you already have a winner for the event?"
The man’s posture tightened.
Selara continued before he could interrupt. "Since when is the voting not done during the main event? And what exactly is being kept below the Atrium? Come on. You know this is not how things are supposed to work."
His mouth pressed into a thin line. "I do not know how you learned about that, but I would prefer you keep your voice low."
Selara’s ears flicked once.
A bad sign.
He noticed and continued more carefully. "It is a special case. This year, something extraordinary was presented. A masterpiece. Something unlike anything we have seen before. Something that could rival even your own creations, Selara, which is not a claim I make lightly. We had to take it seriously."
"You had to take it seriously," Selara repeated. "So you abandoned the judging process?"
"We adapted it."
"That is unfair."
The man inhaled through his nose, gathering patience like a shield. "The public voting and formal evaluation will still occur. But when a creation surpasses the usual scale, the organizers must prepare accordingly. We cannot treat it like another prototype sitting beneath a glass dome."
Selara stepped closer to the table. "I need to see it."
"You cannot."
Her voice cooled. "I cannot?"
He immediately regretted the wording.
"Selara, you know what I mean. The chamber is under restricted clearance, and the creator agreed to very specific conditions. Even our staff do not touch the work. We only maintain the room and ensure external stability."
"You do remember who I am, don’t you?" Selara asked.
"Of course I do."
"Then do not insult me with a locked door and a rehearsed refusal. I am still important in Aurevane, even if I now serve as director of the Academy." Her voice sharpened. "So do not fuck with me."
The tips of her long elven ears had gone red.
The man saw it. His expression changed from diplomatic discomfort to genuine concern, because anyone who had worked with Selara before knew what that meant. She was not merely angry. She was approaching the point where people began losing access, funding, dignity, or teeth, depending on what was available.
"Selara," he said, quieter now, "I am not sure you want to see this."
"That is not your decision."
"It may be something you will not like."
"Most things in this tower qualify."
He lowered his voice further. "Only true lovers of alchemy and experimentation could appreciate a work like this."
Selara’s eyes narrowed.
"And who am I?"
He hesitated. "Director Selara."
"No. Say it properly. Who am I?"
He sighed, already defeated in spirit if not yet in practice. "Selara. The legendary alchemist. The best alchemist of the last hundred years after your master disappeared."
"Correct." Selara leaned forward slightly, each word precise enough to cut thread. "So by the standard you chose a moment ago, I believe I meet the conditions to see it, don’t I?"
The man said nothing.
That silence was the beginning of his surrender.
He turned toward the window, jaw working as he weighed risk against the much more immediate problem of denying Selara to her face. Aurevane could block students, minor scholars, sponsors, even certain nobles if the paperwork was elegant enough.
Blocking Selara was possible.
Doing it without consequences was another question entirely.
Finally, he exhaled.
"Fine," he said. "But you go with an escort. You are forbidden from touching anything. Completely forbidden. We do not touch it either. That is part of the agreement with the creator."
Selara straightened.
"Good. I accept. Let’s go."
"Now?"
"Yes, now. I am curious to know who this year’s winner is, and I believe a multiple-time winner with good judgment should be allowed to evaluate the masterpiece properly."
The man looked as if he wanted to argue again. But chose not to.
Instead, he opened the door and signaled to the guards outside. Orders were given in low voices. A new escort formed within minutes, more formal than necessary and more nervous than they wanted to appear.
Selara adjusted her gloves as they began walking.
The tower wards hummed behind her. The polished hallways stretched ahead. Doors opened one after another, not because Aurevane wished to reveal anything, but because she had cornered them with their own language.
Status. Reputation. Expertise. Permission.
All the pretty little chains the city loved so much.
This time, Selara used them to drag the truth closer.
And when the escort finally guided her out of the tower and toward the route leading back beneath the Glass Atrium, the man walking beside her spoke one last warning.
"Remember, Selara. No touching."
Selara did not look at him.
"I heard you the first time."
He swallowed. "And whatever you see inside, you must understand that Aurevane believes this work could change the event’s history."
At that, Selara finally smiled.
It was small, cold, and utterly joyless.
"Then let’s see what kind of history you’ve decided to hide underground."
