Chapter 24: The Transmitted Proof

The darkness behind the tapestry was absolute and smelled of dust and old stone. Killian moved by feel, his fingers finding the rough edge of the doorframe that led to the servant stairs. The wood was cool under his touch. He pushed it open just enough to slide through, the hinges groaning a low complaint that echoed in the tight, enclosed space. He froze, listening. No answering footsteps came from the main hall. The sound hadn’t traveled.

He let the door swing shut behind him. Total blackness swallowed him whole. He waited for his eyes to adjust, but there was nothing to adjust to. This wasn’t the deep grey of a moonlit night. This was the absence of light, a solid thing he could feel pressing against his skin. He pulled the small chronometer from his pocket. The luminous dial glowed a sickly green, illuminating his hand and a few inches of air around it. The hands showed he was two minutes behind schedule already.

He started down the stairs.

Each step was a calculation. He placed the ball of his foot first, testing for creaks, then rolled his weight forward slowly. The stone was uneven, worn down in the centers from generations of servants who hadn’t needed to be quiet. He counted the steps under his breath. Fourteen down, a small landing, then a sharp turn. Another fourteen. The air grew colder and carried a damp, mineral smell. The hum from the observer ward in his inner pocket was a constant vibration against his ribs, a reminder that every second was being catalogued.

He reached the bottom. His outstretched hand met another door. This one was lighter, made of thin wood that flexed when he pushed. It opened into a narrow corridor lined with stacked crates and old furniture shrouded in canvas. A single dim light-sconce flickered at the far end, casting long, dancing shadows. This was the old serviceway Elian had marked on his mental map.

Killian moved quickly now, his soft shoes whispering over the flagstones. He passed closed doors labeled in peeling paint: ‘Linen – East Wing’, ‘Hearthstone Stores’, ‘Disused’. The third door on the left was the janitorial closet. He tried the handle. It turned easily, the lock long since broken or ignored.

Inside, the smell of soap and mildew was strong. Shelves held buckets and stiff-bristled brushes. In the far corner, a rickety wooden step-ladder leaned against the wall, exactly where Elian’s old diagrams had suggested maintenance access might be. Above it, set into the plaster ceiling, was a square iron grating about eighteen inches across.

He closed the door behind him and wedged a wooden wedge from his pocket under the bottom edge. It wouldn’t stop a determined push, but it would muffle any accidental opening and buy him a second of warning. He unfolded the step-ladder. The joints protested as he climbed, each creak sounding like a cannon shot in the small room. At the top, his face was level with the vent cover.

It was fixed with four simple screws, rusted but not fused shut. He pulled the thin pry bar from his belt. The flat end fit neatly under the head of the first screw. He applied steady pressure, turning his wrist. The screw gave with a gritty shriek of metal on metal. He stopped, heart hammering against his sternum. He listened again. Only the hum of the ward and his own breathing.

He worked faster on the remaining three, the sounds less dramatic as the screws loosened. He caught the grating as it came free, lowering it carefully to rest atop a shelf. The hole revealed was a square tunnel of pure blackness, slightly smaller than the frame. A stale draft drifted out, carrying the scent of ancient dust and cold metal.

He checked the chronometer. Five minutes behind.

He stowed the pry bar and pulled on the thin cotton gloves. Gripping the edges of the opening, he hauled himself up. His shoulders scraped against the rough metal edges. For a second he was stuck, arms inside the duct but his hips catching on the lip. He twisted, using a strength born of hauling sacks in the Warrens, and shoved himself forward until he was fully inside.

The duct was a tight metal coffin. He could not raise his head without hitting the top. He could only crawl on his elbows and knees, pushing his duffel bag ahead of him where he’d stowed the vent cover for the return trip. The darkness was complete again, swallowing the faint green glow of the chronometer when he checked it. He had to rely on memory and count.

Elian’s estimate was thirty feet.

He began to crawl.

The metal groaned and flexed under his weight. Every shift of his body, every scrape of his knee, echoed down the length of the tunnel, magnified by the confined space. Dust filled his nose and mouth, dry and chalky. He fought back a cough, swallowing against the itch in his throat. His world narrowed to the rhythm of his movement: right elbow forward, drag left knee, left elbow forward, drag right knee. The hum of the ward was a companion in the dark.

He counted his crawls. Each full cycle—both elbows—was about two feet, he estimated. After fifteen cycles, he paused to listen. The sounds of his own progress faded into silence behind him. Ahead, there was only stillness.

He kept going.

At what he guessed was twenty-five feet, his outstretched hand met empty air. He froze. Carefully, he felt forward. The duct ended abruptly at another grating. This was it—the drop into the Transmutation Lab.

He inched forward until his head and shoulders were over the hole. A faint grey light filtered up from below, enough to outline the iron bars of the cover beneath him. The lab wasn’t pitch black; some residual glow from emergency runes or moonlight through high windows provided just enough illumination to see shapes.

He listened for a full minute.

Silence.

He took out the pry bar again and went to work on this cover from above. These screws were tighter, more stubborn. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. He strained, muscles in his forearm knotting with tension. The first screw turned with a reluctant squeal that seemed deafening in the quiet room below.

He worked through them with agonizing slowness, pausing after each to listen for any change in the silence.

The fourth screw came free.

He hooked his fingers through the grating and lowered it silently into the duct beside him. Now there was just a square hole open to the room below.

He looked down.

He was above a bank of tall storage cabinets against the back wall of the lab, just as he remembered. The drop was about eight feet onto their flat tops. He maneuvered himself around until he could slide his legs out first. Gripping the edge of the duct with his gloved hands, he lowered himself down, hanging for a moment before letting go.

He landed on the cabinet top with a soft thud that resonated through the hollow wood. He dropped into a crouch, motionless.

The lab was vast and shadowy in the weak light. Long worktables ran in rows like silent sentinels. At the far front of the room stood Instructor Morvath’s large demonstration table, a heavy slab of dark oak. The air smelled of ozone, chalk dust, and something faintly metallic.

His eyes scanned for the copper plate. Elian’s description had been precise: set into the floor directly in front of Morvath’s table, where students would gather for demonstrations.

Killian slipped off the cabinets, dropping lightly to the floor.

He crossed the room quickly, sticking to the aisles between tables where his footsteps were muffled by years of ground-in grit and spell-residue. His heart thudded against his ribs now, a hard drumbeat syncing with his movements.

There it was.

A circular plate of burnished copper, about a foot across, set flush with the dark stone floor. Intricate runes were etched into its surface in concentric circles—the anchor for the material reinforcement field.

He knelt beside it.

This was it. Thirty seconds of contact would destabilize a primary safety ward. It would be an event severe enough to cross any threshold Valerius had set.

He pulled out the chronometer and laid it on the floor next to the plate where he could see its glow.

He took a deep breath, pulling air into lungs that felt too tight.

Then he placed both gloved hands flat on the cold copper.

The reaction was immediate and visceral.

A jolt ran up his arms, not electric but deeply wrong—a sensation of something vital unspooling, coming apart at its seams. The runes under his palms didn’t flash or fade. They seemed to blur at their edges as if viewed through disturbed water. A low groan emanated from somewhere deep within the stone floor itself, a sound of stressed architecture.

The observer ward in his pocket grew warm against his side.

He stared at chronometer’s dial as its second hand began its slow sweep.

One… two… three…

His fingers tingled through the thin cotton gloves as if they were dissolving along with enchantment beneath them.

Four… five… six…

The hum from his pocket changed pitch becoming higher thinner almost like whine building pressure inside small quartz disc

Seven… eight… nine…

Dust trickled from ceiling joints somewhere across room

Ten… eleven… twelve…

Could Elian see blue light glowing from moonstone alarm back in alcove? Was transmission happening right now?

Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen…

Halfway

Sixteen… seventeen… eighteen…

His arms began ache from tension holding position not moving just maintaining pressure

Nineteen… twenty… twenty-one…

Something clicked loudly behind Morvath’s desk sound of crystal fracturing

Twenty-two… twenty-three… twenty-four…

Warmth from observer ward turned into distinct heat bordering on uncomfortable

Twenty-five… twenty-six… twenty-seven…

Almost there

Twenty-eight… twenty-nine…

He braced himself for final second

Thirty.

He yanked his hands away from plate as if burned

Silence rushed back into room deeper than before somehow emptier

He snatched up chronometer shoving it back into pocket

His job here done

Now retreat same way he came before anything else could happen

He turned back toward cabinets ready to sprint across open space

And that’s when moonstone alarm sewn into lining other pocket flashed brilliant sapphire blue

Flash pierced through layers fabric creating brief eerie glow around his hip before dying out

Transmission confirmed

They had forced its hand They had proof Data sent right now to Valerius whatever that data contained

But they knew trigger now They had learned rules at terrible cost but they had learned them

Relief so sharp it felt like pain shot through him They had done it

Then second thing happened

No sound accompanied it

But every light-sconce in laboratory which had been emitting faint standby glow winked out plunging room into true darkness

And from direction main doors came heavy solid thunk of multiple bolts sliding home metal grinding against stone

Sealed

Trapped