Lina's hands trembled, but her voice did not.
She sat cross-legged in the flickering light of the broken charm lamp, a blanket around her shoulders and her gaze fixed on nothing—on memories etched too deep.
The Circle surrounded her. Caelum sat on the edge of the group, quiet, eyes half-shadowed. Talwyn's arm was wrapped in spare cloth, his jaw set against pain. Mara and Julian flanked Lina protectively, but didn't interrupt.
"Two months ago," Lina began, "they changed my therapy schedule. Said it was a routine review. I didn't think much of it. Then came more evaluations. Magical resilience, ward tolerance, emotional profiling. They called it 'adjusted rehabilitation protocol.'"
She exhaled slowly. "Then one night… they came for me. I tried to fight, but without my wand, it only lasted for a moment. They were fast—hit me with a paralytic and put me to sleep."
Julian frowned. "Stunning spells?"
"No." Her voice dropped. "Silencing charms. Layers of them. Not even a footstep echo. I tried to scream. Nothing came out. My own heartbeat didn't make a sound."
Her eyes hardened, voice thin.
"I woke up in the South Wing. I had no idea how I got there."
The lamplight flickered against the fear behind her eyes.
"They moved me through empty halls. Straight into a room that had no door from the inside. Just stone, binding runes, and one small magical aperture—for blood samples."
Talwyn shifted.
"They kept me restrained. Didn't speak to me. Fed me synthetic nutrient draughts. The air was always cold—like the room was intended to feel dead."
She turned to the others.
"Two staff members talked one day outside the room. They didn't know I was awake. One said, 'Why are we wasting time with this one? She's been flagged already.'"
"What does that mean?" Mara asked, already dreading the answer.
"Protocol Thorne," Lina whispered.
The name settled over the group like a slow, suffocating fog.
Mara's expression tightened. "We saw that in the files," she said. "It was supposed to be obsolete. Repealed decades ago."
"Not here," Lina replied quietly. "Not in Greystone. Not where no one is looking."
Silence followed.
Then Caelum spoke.
Low. Measured.
"I've heard it before."
The others turned toward him.
"In the early days," he continued, "when I first arrived. Two staff members in the hallway. They didn't think I understood." His gaze lowered slightly, recalling it. "One said the protocol was still 'technically active.' The other said it was only used when someone became… inconvenient."
Julian's jaw tightened faintly at the word.
Inconvenient.
The way it was said—flat, dismissive—seemed to linger in the air longer than it should have, as if the meaning itself had weight.
"They never said anything to me directly," Caelum added. "I wasn't flagged." A pause. "But now I understand what it means when someone disappears without a record."
Talwyn let out a slow breath.
"Then this isn't about containment," he said, his voice rough. "It's selection."
"Sorting," Mara corrected softly. "Not saving."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Not shock.
Not fear.
Something closer to clarity.
And the quiet realization that there was no going back
…
Meanwhile: The Observatory Tower, North Wing
The observatory had long since been sealed to students and staff. Officially, it had been declared unsafe—staircase rot, unstable ceilings, defective scrying wards.
In truth, it had never closed. It had changed hands.
Rosier stood at the wide arched window, fingers interlaced behind his back, watching the sun begin to bleed into grey morning.
Behind him, his covert agent—draped in nondescript brown robes, featureless face hidden behind an enchantment-glass mask—stood beside the viewing table, reviewing the trace glyphs from the previous night's incursion.
"No Ministry response," the agent said. "The incident has been logged as internal."
Rosier nodded faintly. "Good. That's usually enough to make them look the other way."
"One enforcer injured. Memory degradation, likely caused unbuffered spell exposure."
A flicker of interest crossed Rosier's expression.
"Have we located them?"
"Not precisely. They escaped into the southern maintenance grid. Records in that sector are decades out of date. No active tracking wards."
Rosier turned from the window, the early light catching the edge of his robes.
"Then find them," he said calmly. "Immobilize and capture."
The agent tilted his head slightly. "Lethal force authorized?"
Rosier's gaze sharpened.
"Permitted," he said. "Except for Caelum Sanguine."
A brief pause.
"He is to be taken alive. Under any circumstance."
"Understood."
The agent stepped back slightly, but did not leave.
"And the others?"
Rosier didn't hesitate.
"Eliminate them," he said. "Quietly."
The words settled into the room with absolute finality.
The agent inclined his head, then withdrew into the shadows of the observatory.
Rosier returned to the window, his expression unreadable.
This was no longer about potential.
It was about control.
And control—
was something he did not intend to lose