Aidan Vanta

  They didn’t find him. The architect of the disaster was gone, already in the wind. That was not particularly surprising. Bonnie had sent me the recordings of Cale’s encounters at the Lodge. The Priest, as he was called, had probably bolted the moment Cale called him out. Having the Ghost of the Wastes tell you to run or he would find you and kill you slowly had its own particular kind of terror.

  So the Priest ran, and what remained were bodies, broken wards, and the legacy of a missing enemy that no one wanted attached to their name.

  That was why I was sitting in the head administrative office on Valecis Isle with half the Dominion’s alphabet agencies packed into the building and the other half circling it like sharks that could smell blood but could not agree on where it had come from. They were not here to solve anything.

  They were here to control the aftermath.

  The finger-pointing had already begun. Jurisdiction disputes. Quiet accusations traded behind closed doors. Everyone scrambling to make sure the blame landed anywhere but on their department. The Royal Family was furious and threatening everyone with an Inquisitor’s Inquiry.

  That made everyone’s asses pucker.

  The Governor and his ministers were pushing the same line on every channel: decisive response, effective containment, no further threat.

  It was all horseshit. A total lie. But a useful one.

  And now, because someone with a title had decided it was safer to invite the Ghost than to risk him refusing, they were preparing to take his statement.

  That alone told me how badly things had gone.

  The fact that he had agreed surprised me.

  Not because I doubted his discipline, but because agreeing to be seen was always a risk, and Cale had spent a decade learning that visibility was a liability you only accepted when there were no other options left.

  I did not hear it through official channels.

  I heard it through favors, through people who knew better than to write anything down. It was the kind of intelligence that moved hand to hand and never touched a system that could be audited.

  So I came in fast, partly to make sure no one did something catastrophically stupid, like trying to detain him.

  Cale did not react well to stupid.

  And when Cale did not react well, the consequences were never abstract.

  They were structural.

  “You look very concerned for someone who is just here to observe.”

  I looked at the woman who had just spoken and let a little amusement through.

  Across from me sat Pila Manoy.

  I took in her sharp eyes and crisp suit. She was the kind of woman who could turn a budget meeting into a battlefield without raising her voice. Her blazer was a deep royal blue that matched her hair, which was dark and cut clean, and her eyes carried that same color, cool and unblinking. Her face was not pretty in the way people usually meant when they said it, but she was striking anyway. She had presence, the kind that made people look twice even if they did not like what they saw.

  She folded her hands neatly on the table between us.

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  “So tell me, Young Master Vanta,” she said, with a faint irony tucked into the honorific, “what brings you to Valecis, and how do you know the Ghost of the Wastes?”

  I gave her a smile that was polite enough to pass inspection.

  “Unfortunately, Ms. Manoy,” I said, “that’s classified.”

  Her eyebrows rose a fraction. “How convenient.”

  “It’s accurate,” I replied. “And I owe him.”

  That earned me a longer look.

  “Do you think he’s actually going to show?” she asked.

  “If the Ghost says he’s going to show, he will,” I said. “But I’m going to be very clear about something before he walks in.”

  Pila leaned back slightly, patient.

  “Do not try to keep him here,” I said. “Do not detain him. Do not start talking about temporary custody. Do not improvise.”

  “What happens if someone tries?” she asked, her tone neutral.

  “Nothing you’ll like,” I said. “And plenty of people will get hurt.”

  She held my gaze for another moment, then nodded once.

  “Noted.”

  The door opened.

  Not an interrogation room door. Not a holding cell. This was not that kind of meeting.

  They had been smart enough to set the space like a lounge, with deep couches, warm lighting, and books lining the walls like someone wanted you to believe this was a private discussion between reasonable professionals. Even the ward lattice in the room was quieter than standard, present but softened. Familiar. Nonthreatening.

  It was a comfort strategy.

  It was a good idea, as long as nobody mistook comfortable for controllable.

  I could already feel the internal politics pressing against the walls. Multiple departments in one building meant multiple agendas. Someone here knew more than they were saying. Someone else knew less and would compensate with force if they felt embarrassed.

  Both were dangerous.

  A corporal in a clean uniform stood near the far side of the room, posture rigid, expression hard in a way that looked practiced.

  Hauser.

  He was somewhere between his late twenties and early thirties, with mud-brown hair and dull eyes. He had the kind of face that looked as though it had been sanded down by years of being told to do unpleasant things for people who did not remember his name.

  He spoke before anyone asked him to.

  “It makes zero sense to let the Ghost walk out after we’re done talking to him.”

  I turned my head slowly.

  “Corporal,” I said, keeping my voice even, “do you know who I am?”

  His jaw tightened. “Yes. You’re Young Master Vanta. One of the Four Pillar Houses.”

  “And what else?” I asked.

  He shrugged slightly, and the motion carried mockery he did not bother to hide. “It’s said you’re accomplished.”

  “I am,” I said. “Three combat tours through my twenties. I’ve fought alongside knights, specialists, and men-at-arms you’ll never meet. I’ve seen battlefields you’ve never even heard named.”

  I leaned forward just enough to make it clear that this was no longer a casual conversation.

  “I’m a two-and-a-half-core expert on my way to a third before my thirty-second birthday,” I continued. “My mana capacity sits high enough that most of your department heads would call it exceptional in polite company.”

  Hauser’s expression shifted, irritation edged with something closer to caution.

  “So let me ask you,” I said. “Based on what you’ve heard, do you think I’m dangerous?”

  He hesitated. “You sound reasonably capable.”

  I nodded once. “Good. Now understand the part your instincts are missing.”

  I let the room feel the weight of what I was about to say.

  “The Ghost of the Wastes is the most dangerous arcane artist I have ever seen,” I said. “I want you to understand exactly what I am saying. He is a legend for a reason. I have seen him block a full fire bombardment with nothing but outdated tech, Aura, and a willingness to survive. His capability is not rumor. It is confirmed. Because when he decides something is necessary, your death, for example, no one will be able to stop him.”

  Pila Manoy’s gaze stayed fixed on me, unreadable.

  “He can cut through every person in this building,” I continued. “He can tear through this ward lattice, the perimeter teams outside, and whatever you think counts as a containment response, and he can do it before your people finish deciding who has authority to issue the order.”

  Hauser opened his mouth.

  I did not give him room.

  “Do not provoke him,” I said. “Do not try to trap him. Do not treat him like an asset you can store. He agreed to talk. That’s the win. Take it. Then let him leave.”

  The room held quiet for a moment after that.

  Pila’s voice cut in calmly. “And if someone insists they have legal authority?”

  “They can test it,” I said. “And then we will spend the next month rebuilding this office and explaining why a civic building became a crater and why a bunch of government employees are dead.”

  She studied me for another second, then nodded, the decision settling behind her eyes.

  “Understood,” she said.

  The door remained open.

  The room waited.

  I did not know whether Cale would walk in wearing the mask or not. I did not know whether he would come in as the Ghost or as the student. I did not know what state of mind he was in after the last few days.

  What I did know was simple.

  If this room treated him like a threat, it would become one.

  And if it treated him like a tool, it would learn very quickly what tools do when they decide they are done being held.