Their voices dropped again, blending back into the muted drone of distant footsteps, the rustle of scholars’ robes, and the persistent hum of mana-powered machinery that pulsed through the very fabric of Aetherion. Yet those few words lingered in my mind, sharp and distinct—heavy with implications.
Inner Circle. Session. They indicated a fracture within the fortress, small cracks hidden behind polished walls and neatly ordered corridors. The Council prided itself on unity, on presenting a façade of unbreakable authority. But even here, in the very heart of their power, there was dissent. Perhaps some genuinely questioned the legitimacy of the Council’s decisions, or perhaps they merely sought plausible deniability, fearful of association with a scandal too large to cover up. Either way, it gave me leverage. I could use that fracture, exploit it until the truth seeped through the cracks.
I shot a quick glance toward Asterion, noting the subtle set of his jaw. He’d heard it too; his eyes sharpened, assessing the surroundings with newfound intensity. For all his rugged bluntness, he had an instinct for weakness, for the thin edges of vulnerability he could turn to his advantage. He knew as well as I did that knowledge of internal disputes made our presence here that much more valuable, and that much more dangerous.
We proceeded down the corridor, blending effortlessly with the constant flow of Council staff. Our disguises held, illusions shimmering around us, cloaking us in anonymity. Each footstep echoed softly, muffled by richly woven rugs that lined these upper passages—corridors frequented only by those with clearance far above mere servants or common scholars.
I mentally reviewed the fortress layout I’d memorized from stolen diagrams and half-forgotten descriptions. Every turn, every junction, every alcove was meticulously planned by the Council architects—each designed to channel, control, and manipulate anyone who entered. The layout was a labyrinth of misdirection, a physical manifestation of the bureaucratic maze the Council itself had become. Yet even in that maze, patterns emerged—regular intervals between guards, patrol schedules timed like clockwork, routines established to enforce order that inadvertently became their vulnerabilities.
My sharp gaze flickered over every detail—the slight discoloration of stonework indicating hidden wards, faint grooves along walls signaling secret passages, subtle fluctuations in the magical lighting betraying enchanted sensors designed to detect unauthorized mana. My mind absorbed these details instantly, cataloging each nuance into a mental map. Aetherion was formidable, but not impenetrable. And certainly not to someone who thrived on exploiting weaknesses others couldn’t even perceive.
We reached a large hall branching off into several wings, each marked by intricate symbols embedded in polished obsidian plates. My eyes immediately found the subtle glyph indicating the path toward the restricted Archives. From past experiences—unpleasant yet invaluable—I knew exactly what accessing those Archives required: a specialized sigil, carefully embedded into the robes of senior scribes, high-ranking scholars who held the trust and authority of the Council’s innermost circle.
It was an elegant security measure, blending magic with mundane secrecy. If an intruder lacked the sigil, the Archives’ wards would react violently, sealing intruders inside to await capture—or worse. It was clever, ruthless, and exactly what I’d expect from the Council. Read the latest on Freewebnovel
Fortunately, luck—or perhaps fate—was with us today. A senior scribe rounded the corner ahead, his pace quick, distracted by the heavy stack of parchments tucked under one arm. His ornate robes shimmered faintly, the telltale sigil glinting subtly in the arcane lighting. He was clearly important, judging by the arrogant tilt of his chin, the way other scholars respectfully stepped aside as he passed. That arrogance would be his undoing.
I caught Asterion’s gaze, a simple nod communicating volumes. Without hesitation, he moved forward, adopting a deliberate nonchalance. He shifted position slightly, placing himself squarely in the scholar’s path. A slight narrowing of my eyes adjusted the subtle illusion cloaking his movements, rendering him forgettable, ordinary—a face easily lost among hundreds.
The collision was subtle yet effective. Asterion stepped forward precisely as the scholar approached, their shoulders brushing just enough to jar the man’s stride. The scholar stumbled, papers rustling irritably in his grip.
"Watch it!" he snapped, irritation flaring hotly in his voice, eyes flashing in brief anger.
"My apologies," Asterion replied smoothly, dipping his head slightly. His tone was bored, utterly unremarkable—an enforcer forced to suffer yet another tedious, pointless interaction. The scholar scowled, brushing off his robes indignantly as if the mere touch of an enforcer dirtied him. He moved on without sparing Asterion another glance, hurrying toward whatever urgent errand awaited him.
Asterion turned, his eyes gleaming with restrained triumph. With practiced ease, he held the sigil concealed in his palm, a small token that now granted us access to the Council’s deepest secrets. I returned a faint, approving nod.
We reached the Archives’ entrance, a heavy door set within a carved archway that thrummed softly with warding magic. At our approach, the wards pulsed once, sensing the sigil’s presence. I pressed my hand forward, allowing the magical signature of the stolen sigil to align with my illusion. A brief surge of resistance, then the wards acquiesced, retreating like waves against the shore.
The door slid open with a whisper of displaced air, revealing a vast chamber dimly illuminated by floating orbs that drifted lazily overhead, casting pools of pale blue across polished shelves and floating scrolls. Each bookshelf towered impossibly high, shifting and rearranging slowly as if guided by invisible hands. Ancient tomes drifted in gentle arcs, slotting themselves back into place as if possessing a consciousness of their own.
The Archives smelled faintly of old parchment and distilled mana, a scent that tugged memories of long-forgotten studies in shadowed libraries. But there was no time for nostalgia here. Every second we spent inside risked discovery.
"Guard the entrance," I murmured to Asterion, already extending my mana outward, weaving it delicately among the floating scrolls. My magic sought out specific threads—names, keywords, secrets hidden deep beneath layers of mundane information. Each scroll pulsed softly in response to my inquiry, then drifted away, irrelevant to my search.
"Anything?" Asterion whispered urgently, glancing back toward the entrance, tension etched in the line of his shoulders.
"Give me a moment," I replied, my voice calm, unhurried despite the urgency. Rushing this would yield nothing. The answers I needed required subtlety, patience.
Minutes stretched on, each heartbeat echoing loud in the silence of concentration. Then, finally, a scroll drifted forward from the shadows, its edges glowing gently. It hovered just before me, unfolding silently, revealing meticulous script written in glowing ink. The language was complex, ancient, deliberately obscure. Yet my [Comprehension] absorbed the meaning effortlessly, extracting truths buried within dense, bureaucratic language.
I stared at the scroll, feeling a thrill ripple along my spine, icy and sharp. The words stood starkly illuminated before me, impossible to deny.
"Project Resurrection."
I read rapidly, my breath steady despite the revelation. Each word burned into my memory like hot iron into flesh, etching details I couldn’t afford to forget. The Council’s experiments were horrifyingly meticulous—years of controlled trials, adjustments to containment spells, human subjects treated as mere variables, their lives quantified, cataloged, discarded without remorse. Belisarius was no mere accident, no unintended consequence of reckless ambition. He was their carefully crafted success, the controlled test they’d been awaiting. My jaw tightened involuntarily as the scroll described the intricate series of planned meltdowns over the decades—calculated disruptions of leylines, orchestrated with surgical precision. Lives ruined, communities obliterated, all dismissed as "collateral costs" in clinical language. My fingers curled, the parchment shaking slightly in my grip.
Beneath the cold fury simmering within, I forced myself to focus, diving deeper into the script, the edges glowing faintly under the dim, flickering archive lights. My heart quickened with each new discovery, each written line illuminating darker secrets. There it was, at the bottom—a reference, almost hidden among dense paragraphs:
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"Artifact retrieved from Site-38. Stored securely within Vault Enoch. Essential to continued research on leyline-induced resurrections."
My pulse spiked. Vault Enoch. If there was tangible proof, it was there, locked away behind the fortress’s thickest defenses. Whatever artifact they’d discovered must be powerful enough to bridge the gap between life and death, bending reality to the whims of the Inner Council.
A faint prickle danced along the back of my neck, distracting me. My gaze snapped upwards, eyes darting rapidly around the chamber. It was too late—the wards had pulsed awake, their detection sigils lighting with a subtle, angry glow. Silent alarms hummed in my awareness, a low vibration felt rather than heard. My heart skipped, every muscle in my body instantly taut, ready for action.
"We’re compromised," I said sharply, my voice barely above a whisper, yet cutting clearly through the tension-charged silence.
Just as the words left my lips, three Council guards appeared, their boots clicking sharply against polished stone. They entered swiftly, movements coordinated, eyes narrowed in immediate suspicion.
"You there," barked the leader, eyes narrowing at our disguises. His hand hovered near the hilt of a spellblade. "Your authorization?"
I handed him the forged documents with a calm confidence I did not fully feel. Yet my posture remained relaxed, my face a mask of bored indifference. Beside me, Asterion stood unmoving, projecting the casual disinterest of an enforcer who had nothing to hide, only tedium in his eyes. But internally, my mana coiled, ready to strike or divert attention at the slightest provocation.
The guard scrutinized my credentials longer than I expected, brows furrowing deeply. A small bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He was smart—dangerously attentive. This could unravel rapidly.
"These sigils are unusual," he muttered, suspicion bleeding openly into his voice. His gaze sharpened, slicing through the air between us like a blade.
I allowed myself the faintest, most disdainful smirk, subtly feeding threads of mana into the air between us. The enchantment seeped out gently, curling invisibly around his thoughts. "Checked personally by Lord Arlen," I replied smoothly. "Do you question his authority?"
He paused, eyes clouding momentarily as uncertainty tangled with ingrained obedience. Yet stubbornness quickly fought back through the fog I’d placed in his mind. "Even so, I haven’t been notified of your clearance personally—"
I pressed my advantage, my voice sharp yet soothing, tinged with the authority of someone accustomed to unquestioned obedience. "Lord Arctanis himself cleared us just minutes ago. Confirm with him if you must, but I’m certain he’d be displeased by your interruption."
His companion shifted nervously beside him, eyes flicking toward the exit. I knew that hesitation well—he wanted no part of a bureaucratic conflict that might cost him his position. Sensing weakness, I pressed harder, threading more mana into my words.
"Do you truly want to bother Lord Arctanis with your incompetence?" My voice dropped dangerously, carrying the implied threat with practiced ease.
The lead guard’s eyes unfocused again, confusion deepening visibly. His stance softened slightly, hesitating at the threshold of decision. The other guards exchanged uncertain glances, waiting for his lead. Finally, he gave a curt, reluctant nod, his voice strained with suppressed uncertainty. "Right… carry on."
We moved past swiftly, exchanging a single tense glance once we’d cleared earshot. My mental manipulation was fragile, temporary; within minutes, he’d realize something was wrong. We had to move faster.
"We need to get to Vault Enoch," I murmured sharply to Asterion, maintaining a brisk yet casual pace.
Asterion gave a terse nod, tension radiating from him like heat. "How long do you think before they raise a full alert?"
"Minutes," I replied coolly. "Maybe less."
We hurried onward through labyrinthine hallways, each step purposeful. My mind raced furiously, analyzing what we’d learned, dissecting potential outcomes with rapid-fire clarity. Every second counted now; my quick-thinking and cold analysis became my greatest allies, guiding each movement with exacting precision.
We passed through smaller checkpoints, flashing our stolen sigils with casual authority. Guards barely glanced at us, their eyes sliding over us with the dull apathy of routine. But each interaction tightened my nerves a fraction more, the creeping pressure of exposure building steadily.
At last, Vault Enoch loomed ahead, formidable and foreboding, its massive doors intricately carved with elaborate wards shimmering softly with power. It radiated a fierce strength, impenetrable without multiple layers of authentication—sigils, leyline attunements, keys possessed only by Council Lords, a secret incantation, and a guardian construct whose footsteps echoed with ominous precision.
My mind raced, coldly analyzing each layer. Bypassing this fortress of enchantments wouldn’t be simple; the Council took no half-measures. My fingers twitched slightly, already mapping out the intricate runes, decoding their patterns. My mana hummed softly, my senses expanding with cautious precision.
But the faint whisper of another door sliding open froze us both instantly. My breath caught as a new presence entered the chamber—a Council Lord, accompanied by two formidable enforcers. They moved with unhurried confidence, clearly unaware of our concealed presence just steps away.
My muscles coiled tightly, ready to move instantly, yet my mind urged stillness. The Lord paused, his voice deep, carrying quietly in the empty hall.
"It’s unsettling," he murmured, a hint of concern creeping into his carefully controlled tone. "Belisarius’s resurrection succeeded too easily. The artifact’s potential… it exceeds our initial estimations."
Asterion glanced sharply toward me, eyes widening slightly. His gaze indicated the key—gleaming faintly, tucked neatly onto the Lord’s belt, its ornate shape catching the faintest reflection of the corridor’s ambient glow. My eyes tracked the subtle swing of that key, analyzing trajectories, movements, possible distractions.
"Yes," the Lord continued grimly, oblivious to our intense scrutiny, "this could rewrite everything."
I felt a chill sweep through me, the words echoing starkly in my ears. My suspicions had been confirmed beyond doubt—the Council knew precisely what they wielded, and Belisarius was only the first of their catastrophic experiments. The magnitude of their ambition was staggering, their ruthlessness even more so. My grip tightened reflexively around the scroll, my knuckles turning pale.
But this was no moment for emotional indulgence. My mind snapped back into razor-sharp clarity. The key was right there, within reach. I analyzed quickly: the Lord and his guards stood close, each armored, vigilant. Direct assault would trigger immediate response—impossible odds.
Asterion’s gaze flickered towards me, unspoken urgency burning. He sensed my calculations, trusted me implicitly to find a path forward.
"We wait," I murmured, voice scarcely audible. "An opportunity will present itself."
Seconds crawled painfully, each one filled with tension, every heartbeat measured, calculated. The Lord shifted slightly, adjusting his cloak, revealing a pouch emblazoned with protective sigils. The artifact must have been carried from Vault Enoch itself. The urgency intensified, but I restrained myself, disciplined, methodical.
Finally, the guards shifted slightly, attention momentarily distracted by approaching footsteps. Another scholar entered hurriedly, approaching the Lord with urgent whispers, carrying a stack of documents. In that instant of distraction, I nodded sharply to Asterion.
Asterion stepped out quietly, creating a deliberate distraction—a stumbled cough, an annoyed grunt, drawing fleeting gazes. My illusion magic flared instantly, weaving a silent distortion. In that brief, controlled chaos, I maneuvered swiftly yet fluidly, fingers deftly plucking the key from the distracted Lord’s belt.
The metal felt cold, solid in my grip, thrumming faintly with latent enchantment. My heart pounded once, sharply. We’d done it—gotten this far without bloodshed, without immediate alarm. But this was only the first step. Vault Enoch awaited, as did deeper truths, darker secrets.
We had our confirmation. And now, we needed that key.