Silas took in the headmaster's office from his perch near the door. The room was sparse—just a desk, a hanging coat, and a calendar filled with scribbled shorthand Silas couldn’t decipher. A pair of chairs faced the desk. Vera made herself comfortable in the leftmost one. She turned and nodded at Silas, gesturing for him to sit beside her. Silas peeled himself from the door and reluctantly obeyed. He shivered when his bottom hit the cold metal surface. The chair squealed in protest—the sound grating in the silence. Oscar stood guard behind them. He crossed his arms and leveled a stern stare at the headmaster—a look he probably thought was threatening. Quin Warren ignored Oscar, his attention divided between Silas and Vera.

  Silas's wandering eyes landed on a table against the wall, tucked away in the room's rightmost corner. Partially hidden beneath a coat hanging from a copper hook was a strange apparatus the likes of which Silas had never seen. The boy squinted and tilted his head, studying the ticking, humming jumble of gears and screws. The ticking led Silas to believe it was a clock of some sort, but no hands pointed to the time. Silas didn't like the way it hummed. The room was otherwise oppressively quiet. The hum dragged through the floorboards, seeping into Silas's feet. It clattered his bones and set his teeth on edge.

  The room's absence of windows pressed in on him. A single lamp beside the desk pulsed with a blue-green glow, its mechanical filament wound too tight. The light breathed shadows that rippled like water. Dizzy, Silas fixed his gaze on the desk's corner until the world stilled.

  Quin Warren did not speak. He sat tall in his chair, his hands clasped beneath his chin. He stared at the space between Silas and Vera. He barely moved, languidly blinking while he waited.

  Vera broke the ice. She slipped the Imperial warrant from her pocket and placed it on the desk, sliding it toward the headmaster. He watched the slip of parchment glide across the wood. When it came to rest, he unclasped his hands and picked it up.

  Vera cleared her throat. "You, sir, are under arrest. Your charges include falsifying Records, identity theft, and treason." Vera leaned back, one leg crossed over the other.

  She turned to Silas and held out her hand, palm up. Silas blinked at her dumbly. Vera jerked her head, her gaze flicking to the stack of files resting on his lap. He started, a sound like a hiccup catching in his throat. He fumbled with the files, organizing them into a neat pile. He then passed them to Vera, who snorted a laugh as she took them.

  "The evidence against you is significant," she began, leafing through the files. "I could only bring the most conspicuous pieces with me today." Vera started arranging the files on the desk. She sorted pieces of parchment into neat piles. "Your alleged connection to the Covenant of Fallen Stars is where our story begins…"

  Silas's attention drifted. He tuned out Vera's presentation, her voice the background music to the scene. Silas had already heard this story; he found it difficult to listen to the same material twice. Vera walked the headmaster through her findings, starting with the signature inconsistencies beginning fourteen syzygies ago, tracing Quin Warren's sudden change in appearance, then following his abrupt abandonment of bookselling to establish the Foundry School, and concluding at the present. Silas was again drawn to the ticking, humming construct. Was it his imagination, or had the ticking quickened? Silas gripped the sides of his chair, his knuckles paling. Perhaps it was an illusion—a reverberation of his thumping heart.

  Vera concluded her report. She shifted, her elbow hooking into her knee and her chin resting in her hand. She arched an eyebrow at the headmaster, impatient to hear his response.

  For a bloated moment, none came.

  Time stood still. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Silas, still staring at the construct, swore the ticking paused.

  With a rush, the room came to life.

  The headmaster smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing. He leaned forward in his seat. "Your reputation does not exaggerate, Arbiter of Aberrations." His voice was quiet, but lilted with amusement.

  Silas dragged his eyes off the construct and met the headmaster's studious regard. The man tilted his head.

  "And you… It has been a while, child." His lean deepened, his chest nearly flat against the desk. He extended a hand. "We have never formally spoken, have we? Allow me to introduce myself."

  Silas hesitated for a breath, staring at the headmaster's offered hand. He reached out, his fingers wavering in the air. The headmaster bridged the gap and clasped his hand around Silas's. The grin slowly melted off his face.

  "I am Halven Quirin," said the headmaster, his grip tightening. "Prime Machinist of the Covenant of Fallen Stars."

  Suddenly, the man stood, his hand like a vice around Silas's wrist. The force of the pull yanked Silas up with him. The boy gasped as he was torn from his chair. Once Silas was standing, Quirin pulled his arm back. Silas stumbled forward, ramming his hip into a sharp corner. Quirin reached for Silas’s collar, collecting the material in his fists. Silas sprawled over the desk, the machinist’s lips inches from his ear.

  Vera reacted immediately. She shot upward, drawing her flarepistol. She aimed at Halven Quirin's face, her grip steady. "Release him at once, traitor."

  The lamp in the corner flickered. Silas raised a shaky hand and shook his head. It's okay, he hoped the gesture conveyed. I'm okay.

  Quirin whispered, his fevered, frantic words vomiting from his mouth in jagged chunks. Silas struggled to comprehend the machinist's frenzy. Vera paused and then lowered her weapon. She held it at her side, standing rigid while she surveyed Quirin for any sudden movements. Silas worried she would shoot the moment he was freed from the man's grip.

  So quiet only Silas could hear, the machinist said, "Elias has delayed the inevitable for far too long. I fear it is too late now."

  He gripped Silas's collar tighter. "You alone can halt what happens next. You have the power to save us—"

  Silas stiffened. Pa's slip of parchment said the same thing. What did it mean? Silas had had enough of these cryptic prophecies. If he was to save anyone, he needed more than vague pronouns. He reached for his notepad, determined to weasel the information out of the machinist. But the man only pulled harder, forcing Silas to tumble toward him another inch.

  "The star's breath fades; each day brings it closer to senescence. Only the bridge can cross the divide that sundered our tribes. You must begin now, child. You should have started syzygies ago. Elias should never have been allowed to take you. He was too soft; he sheltered you too much. We knew this would happen, but none of us could stop him.

  "He promised he would do what was necessary… but he lied. I am not free from guilt, either. I should have confronted him, but I worried our meeting would draw the Empire's attention. How much do they know—?" Quirin glared at Vera accusingly. "You must get away from them—away from her. She will only hold you back. I see it in her eyes. She is like Elias—too soft. You need to be with someone like me. Someone who will push you until you succeed. Yes, I have decided."

  Quirin released Silas. The boy tottered back to his chair and collapsed into it. He sat there, eyes wide, body trembling. He wrenched his gaze up and stared at Quirin. The man eased into his seat. He wrung his hands on the desk to collect himself. Silas's eyes found his and held on, searching, studying. He does not look mad, Silas thought. He truly believes what he says. Silas wished he were dealing with a lunatic. To contend with a sane man spouting the truth of a nonsensical reality was too horrible to bear.

  Vera's attention shot to Silas. "What did you say to him?" When Quirin only stared, she stomped her boot. "I asked you a question. What. Did. You. Say?" She aimed her flarepistol, her finger hovering over the trigger.

  Silas shivered, his extremities tingling. Vera had never sounded so frightening. Her voice slid through the air like smoke, curling around his throat until he could hardly breathe. He couldn't meet her gaze. He was afraid of what he would find if he did. The machinist's rant echoed in Silas's skull. You must get away from them—away from her. Vera wasn't dangerous, right? She couldn't be. Silas chewed his lip, lost between disbelief and fear, unsure who to trust.

  I have my thoughts. I have my mind. Silas's conviction soothed his racing heart. As long as those are sound, I can reason through anything.

  There was a shifting sound, a murmur of distressed leather. Silas peered up. Halven Quirin raised his hands, his expression placid.

  "I apologize for my… hostility." He gazed at Silas, his face softening. "I am sorry, child. I have erred. Let's try this again." The machinist stood and bowed deeply, his torso parallel to the floor. Still bent, he said, "Forgive me."

  Vera scoffed. She thrust her pistol into its holster and sat with a flourish. "I want answers, not apologies."

  "Of course, Arbiter of Aberrations." The machinist reclaimed his seat. He cocked his head at Silas. "As I was telling the boy, I need his assistance with something. It is urgent, you see. There's no time to waste."

  Anger ignited Vera's features, dyeing her skin a brilliant red. "Elaborate," she said through clenched teeth.

  "I'd love to, Arbiter." Quirin tilted his head, his calm demeanor the antithesis of Vera's barely-contained rage. "I must go to the Verdancy Array. There are whispers of its faltering integrity sweeping through the Empire, but nothing has been done to avert its demise."

  Silas's breath caught in his throat. Where had he heard of the Verdancy Array? It sounded familiar…

  "How does your errand concern him?" Vera shrugged at Silas, her anger dissipating at the boy's weak grin. "What do you even plan to do there? How do you, a humble civil servant, hope to gain access?"

  Quirin chuckled like Vera had cracked a joke. "I designed its security apparatus. Only I can safely access the facility's inner systems without triggering its self-immolation protocols."

  Silas pulled out his notepad and began transcribing the machinist's words. Vera nodded at him approvingly as he scribbled. Quirin pretended not to notice.

  "Wait a minute," Vera said, interrupting the machinist before he could begin again. She massaged her temples with her first two fingers. "For clarity, you mean Halven Quirin, not Quin Warren, correct? There was nothing in Warren's Records about” —she threw her hands up in frustration— "working on the Verdancy Array. Lay down the exposition for me."

  "Of course, Arbiter. Allow me to set the scene." Quirin plucked a folder from one of Vera's stacks. "May I?" He freed a stylus from a drawer and began to write on the folder's cover without waiting for Vera's response.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Silas frowned over his notepad, watching Quirin draw. He was surprised—the machinist was a skilled artist! But his work had a particular quality that Silas found unsettling. It was meticulous and methodological. Silas was reminded of the anatomy diagrams in 47 Brimthorne Lane's cellar.

  Silas initially tried to copy the illustration in his notepad, but it soon became too convoluted for him to mimic. With a start, he realized what he was looking at. It's a blueprint!

  Recognition sparked. He remembered now. Pa called the Verdancy Array by a different name, so Silas had not recognized it immediately. Also known as the Grand Conservatory, the Verdancy Array was a sprawling network of colossal greenhouses sprinkled throughout the Empire. The massive structures trapped Dysol's heat within their glass recesses; they were warm enough inside for agriculture and farming. Nearly all food eaten by Brassanthians was produced there. Each unit specialized in a particular product—produce, meat, lumber, and aquaculture came to mind when Silas thought of the Grand Conservatory. Silas was dumbfounded. Was the headmaster of his school the one who designed the security system for this great network?

  The Grand Conservatory's ancient—it couldn't be his design… could it? Silas squinted at Quirin. He's old, yes—but not decrepit enough to have built it. Maybe it lacked a security system until recently, and he added it not long ago.

  "As I am sure you know, Arbiter, the Array has existed for many syzygies, but I will recapitulate a bit for the boy's benefit."

  Silas felt his face flush. He busied himself with his transcription, hiding his rosy cheeks behind his notepad.

  Quirin addressed Silas while he spoke. "Throughout the syzygies, it has grown in size and scope, adding more greenhouses of expanding magnitude as time elapsed." Quirin rubbed his chin as though deep in thought. "It became necessary to move all agriculture indoors to accommodate the… deteriorating climate. You are too young to know this, child, but summers used to be warm. Hot, even." The machinist's unfocused gaze drifted to the ceiling, lost in memory. "We used to frolic outside without the need for coats or gloves. But those days are long gone, and this planet will never again know the heat of a healthy star.

  "It weakens each day, its breath fading precipitously. Already, the Verdancy Array struggles with the wavering wisps of light Dysol can provide." Quirin's gaze fell. He frowned at his desk. "Famine is inevitable if we fail to act. That is why I must go."

  Silas froze, his quivering hand poised above parchment. What was the machinist insinuating? That Dysol was dying? That soon humanity would starve to death, or freeze? Surely, the Empire couldn't keep something so monumental hidden? Silas thought back to Vera's archive and the Empire's frequent iterations of censoring information before release to the public. His head swiveled toward Vera for confirmation. He searched her face, hoping to find his fears disproven.

  Vera's mouth fell open, then snapped shut. Her pallid skin glistened with nervous perspiration. She swiped at her forehead, smoothing down locks of hair that spilled from her bun. When she found her voice, it shook, the words pinched through her constricted throat.

  "I-I admit to remembering the occasional warm day in my youth," she said, her throat bobbing. "But this theory of yours, machinist, is absurd. The Empire… restricts certain rhetoric from the public eye, but I doubt they would—or even could—conceal something of this gravity." Her eyes flicked to Silas. "And you've yet to express how the boy is relevant to any of this."

  "Patience, Arbiter," said Quirin with a dismissive wave. "Before I get there, I need to explain a few things besides. Perhaps then, you will see the merit of my theory." The machinist repeated Vera's word carefully, grinning at her as he said it. Vera fluttered her lashes, her lips a thin line.

  "To answer your previous question, I, Halven Quirin, was a humble civil machinist employed by the Empire." He pressed a palm to his chest. "About twenty syzygies ago, I was hired to direct a most interesting project. I was ordered to redesign the Verdancy Array's internal compartments. The goal was to improve solar absorbance and add a security system to protect the structures from public notice. It took one look at the plants to elucidate the problem. I did what I could—and it worked for a while, but I knew I was delaying the inevitable. I could rearrange the structures. I could redistribute each component to maximize photon uptake. But the root of the problem was not something I could solve."

  Quirin nodded at Silas, his head lowered in a bow. "This is where the child joins the narrative."

  The machinist stood. As he talked, he paced back and forth behind his desk, his hands clasped at his back. "When I was finished with my work, the Empire discarded me like rubbish. They ignored my demands for answers and suggested that if I pressed further, I would be silenced. The Empire was deaf to my queries, but the Covenant heard me. They promised me answers in exchange for my cooperation. I agreed.

  "The Empire claims the Covenant's actions were treasonous—that we sought to make friends with the Unspoken to undermine Imperial authority. But that is not the full story. I will not get into specifics here—it would take too long, you see. I can say this, though." Quirin walked around his desk, stopping in front of Silas's chair. He chuckled at the boy's glare.

  "No matter how deep the Empire tries to bury the truth, it will inevitably crawl to the surface. The Unspoken are not our enemy. We need to work together with them if we are to survive. That is why you were created, Silas." Quirin walked back to his chair and sat. "You are a living bridge, child—the intermediary between our species. We need you to facilitate our alliance. The survival of our world rests on your shoulders."

  Silas's vision tunneled. His fear and uncertainty were obliterated by a fury that rose from his soul. His entire life, he had been used and exploited. First, the Archarbiter tried to hone him as a weapon. Then, he learned he was not born, but synthesized. His existence was artificial, his purpose not his own. Now he hears that his planet is dying, and he needs to fight against the Empire—to unite two species who seek to drive the other to extinction. Silas shook his head.

  I am not a weapon. I am not a tool. I am not a bridge. I am my own person.

  Silas seized his stylus and wrote so quickly the ink smeared. His hand trembled, but his words burned with clarity. "Who are you to decide my fate? My choices are my own to make. Do not presume you can control me because you made me. I am sick and tired of being pulled this way and that. For once, I am standing up for myself.

  "I am putting my foot down. If you wish to use my power, you must convince me that your problems are worth my time. You say the world is dying. Prove it to me."

  Silas thrust his notepad at the machinist. Vera sat at the edge of her seat, reading the parchment resting on the desk. She laughed, her features softening. She winked at Silas, who beamed at her approval.

  Quirin slid the notepad away, his expression blank. "That is why I invited you to travel with me to the Verdancy Array. I am confident that what you see there will motivate you to fulfill your purpose." His eyes drifted to Vera. "I am also confident Archarbiter Sorne will be… intrigued by my proposal. I guarantee he will want to see the situation for himself. And I know he will want the boy to join us."

  Silas grunted. He grasped his stylus so hard its coating cracked. That scoundrel machinist! All along, he knew he would get his way.

  Vera hummed. "You're rather conceited, aren't you? The Archarbiter made it very clear to me that you are to walk out of here in shackles. After your hearing, you will swing from the gallows. There will be no time for a jaunt to the Verdancy Array."

  "I guarantee my offer will interest the Archarbiter," Quirin said. He studied Oscar, who hovered behind Silas's chair. The Warden straightened, his arms stiff at his sides.

  "Shall we test my hypothesis?" Quirin sauntered to the coat hook.

  Vera watched him, her eyes narrow, her hand resting on her holster. The machinist pulled on his coat. A mask hung from the same hook. He placed it over his head, securing the clasps behind his ears. He then stepped to Oscar and held out his wrists.

  "But first, we must maintain appearances, yes?" Quirin shrugged, tossing his head over his shoulder to smirk at Vera. "Have your Warden arrest me. Flaunt your success to the Archarbiter, and then report what I said to him. I will not be held in Crownhold long after that."

  Silas glanced back and forth from Vera to the machinist. Vera sat so still, Silas feared she wasn't breathing. Nonchalance seeped from Quirin's pores. He offered his wrists to Oscar. The Warden considered them stupidly, waiting for Vera's permission to act.

  "Do it, Oscar," Vera said, standing. "I tire of this melodrama."

  Silas collected his notepad and stylus and scrambled to his feet. Oscar fumbled with his belt, his shaking hands struggling to free the manacles.

  "We should have arrested him from the start," Oscar muttered, locking the manacles over the machinist's wrists. "We should have saved the interrogation for later."

  "Oh, but then we'd have missed the theater," Quirin quipped.

  Oscar snarled and pulled Quirin toward the door by his chains.

  A bell tolled, signaling the end of morning classes. Silas jumped, stumbling back a step.

  Before Oscar opened the door, Vera said, "Wait until the halls are empty. We've made enough of a spectacle already."

  Oscar stopped, his hand poised above the door handle. He hovered there until the chorus of children's voices and shuffled bootsteps faded. Then, he yanked the handle and stepped into the hall. Quirin strolled next to him, his chin held high. Each step rattled his chains—the metallic percussion chasing him down the corridor.

  Silas gaped at the door, his feet refusing to obey his command to walk. He spoke big before, but now that the adrenaline had worn off, fear once again pumped through his veins. Walking past the mob was bad enough the first time. He balked at the second round.

  "Come along, now," Vera said softly from the doorway.

  Silas took a hesitant step forward. Then another one. Soon, he was walking, following behind at Vera's heels.

  Ahead, Oscar asked, "Why is there no back door? Is the front the only way in or out? Is that not a fire hazard?"

  "A facility with such low Imperial funding cannot afford adherence to fire code," the machinist deadpanned.

  Vera huffed, unamused.

  The closer they got to the door, the louder the noise. Voices from the crowd swelled and receded, swelled and receded—a wave ebbing and flowing. They were chanting something. Silas froze, listening. The sound sharpened. Each word struck like a hammer—the words arresting Silas's heart.

  For the Empire! For humanity!

  The Empire's slogan. The last line on the flyer.

  Silas tried to harness the courage he commanded when he defied the machinist, but it withered before he could manifest it. His legs shook so hard his knees gave out. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his head in his hands. Panicked, he peered up. Through the glass doors, he saw a mass of people, impossibly large and growing by the minute. Silas felt like they were all staring at him, sneering and taunting. He couldn't face them. How could he face them? He had to, he knew he did. He had no choice—the Archarbiter would force him before the crowd and announce his purpose. The Empire would be his witness, and after that, Silas would never be free. Everywhere he went, he would be recognized.

  The weapon. The bridge. The savior.

  Silas gasped for air, his chest heaving, lungs trying to inflate past the band that wound around his throat, cinching tighter and tighter with each inhale. It was all too much.

  I can't do this! Silas shook his head. Ican'tdothisIcan'tdothisIcan'tdothis—

  Vera was beside him in seconds. She dropped to her knees, gentle hands cupping his face.

  "Do you know what to do when it feels like your heart's trying to escape your chest?"

  Silas shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt like he was going to throw up.

  "You breathe. We'll do it together."

  Silas forced his eyes open. They met Vera's and locked on. She nodded at him and inhaled deeply through her nose. Silas tried it too. At the top of the inhale, she held it. Silas's heart rebelled, pumping so hard he felt his pulse in his eyes. Finally, Vera exhaled as torturously slow as she had breathed in. At the bottom, she held it again.

  They repeated this several times. At first, Silas felt like he was suffocating. Each inhale was sucked through a straw; each exhale pushed past his constricted throat. But each round of breath calmed him. Vera pulled him to his feet. Silas continued the breathing exercise, his anxiety melting away with each round of breath. Oscar and Quirin waited by the door, watching. Oscar turned away, hiding his feelings behind his back. Quirin's expression was unreadable.

  "He can rest in my office until the address this afternoon," the machinist said. "The keys are in my pocket."

  Vera cleared her throat. "Oscar, you take the traitor to Crownhold. We'll deal with him later." She rested a hand on Silas's shoulder. "I'll stay here with him."

  "Y-yes. Of course." Oscar searched Quirin's pockets. He produced a small ring of keys.

  Vera stepped forward to fetch them. "Let's go, Silas," she said, leading him back the way they came.

  They sat quietly in the machinist's office for the remainder of the school day, the door locked. Silas inspected Quirin's mysterious, ticking construct, but kept his distance. He feared the object would detonate if he mishandled it. Vera darted about the room, her agitation clear. She paced. She leaned against the wall. She paced some more. She sat, her leg bouncing. She picked at her cuticles. She organized her files into a single pile and then redistributed them into stacks. All the while, she watched Silas, her eyes only leaving him when he stared back. Silas didn't know who was more nervous for the Archarbiter's public address—himself, or Vera.

  He nearly reminded her to breathe—then took another steady breath himself.