Shadows in the Tribune

Daniel shoved his way through the crowd.

Moving his head from side to side, he glanced at the traditionalists in their togas, then turned just as quickly to the reformists in top hats. The latter group mingled with guild masters and industrialists from the Middle Ring.

Where are you?

His training had prepared him for countless dangerous situations, some involving facing a magus. Though his Gift lacked any trait inclined toward Thaumaturgy, he had at least been instructed in its rudiments.

The Foundation of Thaumaturgy is Aether, the source of true power, he repeated mentally. It is not within the caster, but permeates reality.

Mastering the Foundation required great mental discipline.

A strange sensation of intrusion throbbed at the back of Grace’s mind, pushing against a closed door. The Gift had shielded him, but the source of that thaumaturgic violation was close… and not weak.

The crowd seemed oblivious.

Magic requires a Focus, a medium through which to establish contact with the Aether. It can be Thaumaturgic Codices, ancient languages, ritual movements, glyphs, instruments — such as staves, wands, rings, and masks —or… sacrifice.

He caught only fragments of the debate at the arena’s center, lost in his own thoughts. Sacrifice, or true exchange, was the most effective method of thaumaturgy: pain, memories, time… traded for power. It was also the most dangerous.

As he moved through the inner corridor of the stands, Daniel finally paid attention when familiar voices cut through the murmur. Gupta, with his heavy accent, raised his hand to draw attention.

“Gentlemen candidates!” The deep voice sounded almost like a challenge. “If the Swords take the consulate, how do you intend to deal with the expansion of the Alchemists’ Guild of Castra Devana over the smaller craft corporations, especially those of Khurutas, which is the cradle of alchemy in the Grand Continent?”

A murmur rose from the audience. One of the Swords’ candidates cleared his throat, but before he could answer, Thanatos leaned forward in the stands, the bells on his hat jingling.

“And, while we’re at it…” the fool added, grinning sharply. “Could Your Excellencies explain how you intend to fund public security without raising taxes? Even more so considering the use of mercenaries paid with Imperial funds to ‘maintain order’?”

The performer exaggerated the delivery, overplaying gestures and modulating his voice to draw laughter. Gupta, on the other hand, wasn’t joking. His tone carried genuine curiosity, yet was as venomous as the alchemical brews he specialized in.

One of the Swords shifted uncomfortably. Daniel watched his allies closely. They were stalling the debate, introducing uncomfortable topics.

Smart. This forced the magus to focus even harder on manipulation to maintain control of the speeches and keep the audience’s attention from straying.

Mind control, however, was subtle. It wasn’t enough to break the victim’s focus; the caster had to be neutralized.

Sallustia followed a few steps behind, eyes sharp to every movement. Ready to act. If she’d noticed Thanatos and Gupta’s ploy, she didn’t comment.

Finally, the Form. The last element of magic. It is the type of alteration one wishes to bring about: transmutation, manipulation of nature —plants and animals —, sensory enhancement, and mental domination.

Daniel’s gaze shifted to the amphitheater’s highest tier, where the tribune of honor rose, supported by marble columns, concealed behind purple velvet curtains, and constantly guarded by automaton centurions.

That had to be the First Citizen’s box. But Sicario didn’t seem to be there. No imperial banners, no official entourage.

These debates happen every week. Either he doesn’t bother attending, or something more urgent holds his attention.

The truth struck him like lightning. If Sicario wasn’t there, the tribune would be the perfect spot for a magus to employ thaumaturgic arts. And if someone could occupy it during an official event, that required power. A lot of power.

In the distance, Gupta pretended to clean the amber lenses of his glasses, but Daniel caught the quick, almost imperceptible gesture of opening a small capsule and sprinkling greenish powder over his collar. An alchemical concoction, no doubt. To reduce the strain of external influence on the mind.

It was then that Daniel noticed the serene face of one of the Swords’ senators. No matter the question, the man’s symmetrical, well-defined features, fair skin, and youthful appearance — free of any visible blemish — never faltered.

Yes!

He was startled to realize he knew that man with thin lips and straight nose. The clean-shaven chin and firm jaw only added to his air of elegance.

Spiuso Onius Prebito.

And, for a moment, his eyes met Grace’s. Deep brown eyes with a restrained, cold glint.

Daniel hurried up the inner stairs, Sallustia at his heels. At the entrance to the First Citizen’s box, two automaton centurions raised their spears, blocking the way.

Their metal bodies gleamed under thaumaturgic lamps, the mechanical sound of their joints blending with the distant hum of the crowd. By now, the debate’s voices reached him muffled.

“Restricted access” one of them declared, voice reverberating with emotionless metallic timbre.

Daniel took a breath, then leaned forward.

“Veritas Aeternum” he said firmly, the password entrusted by the prince only to the Convergence’s highest-ranking agents.

Proof that he was a Custos, a guardian.

The centurions’ artificial eyes blinked in sequence. A brief whir of gears followed, and the spears were withdrawn. Without another word, they let him pass.

The box’s interior was quieter than Daniel expected, and colder too. The thick curtains muffled the outside noise, and light came from thaumaturgic lamps mounted in golden sconces.

Seated on cushions before a low table was a woman in her forties, skin very pale with a faint natural flush to her cheeks. Her hair was long, heavy, and of an ashen-blond almost silver, in thick braids adorned with small iron pieces carved with the runes of northern Versagënn.

She wore a dark wool dress with a high collar, fitted at the torso and loose from the waist down, beneath a wolf-fur cloak. She also had silver and amber bracelets and necklaces. At her leather belt hung a small pouch of dried herbs.

The woman looked up. With a dagger carved at the hilt, she cut one wrist and let the blood drip slowly onto the table.

The true exchange! That’s why so much power…

“So… you finally decided to act” she said, voice low and controlled. “Too late to stop what has already begun, intruder. Kneel, and perhaps there will be a place for you, by the mercy of our saviors.”

Daniel hesitated. The words made no sense — and were not what he had expected.

“First meetings require introductions” he said lightly, steering away from her esoteric discourse, the mental pressure radiating from her like an unending tide. “I am Fidenzio Crisci de Lio.”

She didn’t answer right away.

“Their minds are already shaped” the witch hissed, pressing the dagger deeper into her forearm. “Do yourself a favor and vanish, little man. Your titles or pompous name mean nothing now.”

“So that’s how you want it?” Daniel sighed, then shrugged. “Make her stop!”

Sallustia stepped forward, but before she could reach the magus, a shadow moved to her left. A younger woman, with olive-toned skin, leapt to engage the enslaved paladin.

Her hair was black, straight, and silky, cut to shoulder-length, with bangs that softened her face. Her large, almond-shaped eyes had golden glints, enhanced by makeup that elongated the gaze.

She wore a butterfly mask of enameled metal in shades of red and gold, with black details and delicate cutouts reminiscent of wings. On one hand, she bore a glove fitted with polished steel claws — slender, slightly curved blades articulated to each finger.

The assassin’s outfit combined sensuality and mobility: a corset and tight trousers of dark-dyed silk and leather for stealth.

“The Madame will not be disturbed.”

She and Sallustia sized each other up for a moment.

“La Farfalla…” murmured Daniel’s bodyguard.

“You know her?” the traveler from another world asked.

“She’s famous. An assassin. I didn’t know she was working with the Swords — this will be more trouble than I thought.”

Sallustia raised her right hand, and the surrounding air warped with a metallic sound. Black chains burst from the ground, intertwining in the air in circles. In their center, a colossal blade began to take shape, marked with engravings of purple flames along its dark surface.

When the form was complete, Sallustia closed her fingers around the hilt. A sharp, abrupt crack rang out as the chains shattered, freeing the sword into her grasp.

And then, like the snapping of taut cords, the fight began.