Null Touch cracked the bell, but it could not save the part of me the cost had already chosen.
The public hall fell in layers.
First went the floor.
White academy stone split along old seams the architects had hidden under polish and arrogance. Gold inlay snapped like cheap wire. Ranking banners tore from the walls and spiraled into the widening crack. Aether lamps burst one by one, scattering blue sparks over students who had arrived for gossip and found geology with teeth.
Then went the lies.
Gate Eleven does not exist.
The dungeon is contained.
The lower floors are safe under instructor supervision.
Servant passages are irrelevant.
Cedric Valdrake is only a fallen noble playing at menace.
Each lie cracked with the stone.
Finally went the crowd's dignity.
Screams filled the hall.
Not elegant fear. Not noble alarm softened by breeding. Real panic. The kind that stripped surnames off voices.
