For a long, breathless moment, the room seemed to balance on a knife’s edge—utterly silent save for the faint crackle of ice settling across the shattered marble.
Director Thalen’s cane clicked softly as he advanced, its gold-etched tip tapping the surface in a rhythm so measured it might as well have been counting down someone’s remaining lifespan.
Iskanda remained kneeling beside Quentin, her shoulders rigid, head bowed so deeply her forehead nearly brushed the frost. Quentin trembled openly, fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
And me?
I stood awkwardly behind them, frozen between wanting to shrink behind a fallen pillar and wanting to fake my own sudden death to avoid whatever tribunal was about to unfold.
Director Thalen came to a stop before them, leaning slightly on his cane. He was old—ancient, even—but in that terrifyingly powerful way where the wrinkles aren’t signs of age so much as battle scars from wrestling the universe into submission.
His eyes, barely visible beneath their heavy lids, gleamed with something sharp and deeply amused. Not kind amusement. No, this was the kind of twinkle that said: I have lived long enough to find your suffering entertaining, and I refuse to apologize for it.
"Well," he rasped, clearing his throat loudly enough to make Quentin flinch, "I suppose I should start by congratulating the two of you." He paused, letting silence cling to the air like a widow’s veil. "It takes considerable effort to draw my attention away from the third floor. Do you know how loud you were? Do you have any idea how close I was to calling for an evacuation because I thought the structural integrity of the Spire was failing?"
Quentin opened his mouth, but the director raised one finger. Just one. Fractionally. But it shut Quentin up faster than a gag and a boot to the ribs.
"I do not recall granting you permission to speak," Thalen murmured.
Quentin lowered his head again, making a tiny whimper that sounded like something between a dying mouse and a confession.
Iskanda—ever the picture of stoic violence—remained still, but I could see her jaw flex. Even she was sweating. That, more than anything, made my pulse climb.
Director Thalen sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Let us review the sequence of events, since evidently neither of you heard the proverb about recounting your sins before someone else does it for you. I was on the third floor," he said, planting his cane with a sharp tap, "attempting to enjoy a rare moment of peace. And then—" he gestured vaguely at the destruction around us "—this happens."
He swept his free hand around the demolished chamber, the shards, the cratered floor, the burst veins of frost stretching like white lightning across the marble. "A magical event so violent I thought we’d sprung a leak in reality."
I clasped my hands behind my back to keep from laughing. A squeaky hiccup still escaped.
His eye moved to me—just briefly—and I shut up so fast I swear time reversed.
"Now," he went on, pacing slowly before Quentin and Iskanda, "I’ve heard the rumors swirling already. The staff on the first floor are buzzing like flies, and half the operators on the second are already betting on whose fault this debacle was." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a gravelly rumble. "Imagine my delight when I realized it was both of you."
Quentin made a noise of dying hope. Iskanda stiffened.
Director Thalen rolled his wrist, shifting his cane. "Let us address you first, Quentin." The young man lifted his chin an inch in terror. "You unleashed elemental force in a confined chamber. You bypassed every safety regulation we painstakingly drilled into that soft skull of yours."
Quentin swallowed hard.
"And worst of all," Thalen said, voice tightening into something razor-thin, "you allowed your authority—your station—to be debased by someone beneath you."
The air seemed to crystallize.
"Iskanda?" Quentin whispered, hopeful.
Thalen’s brows lowered. "No. Her, boy." He jabbed his cane toward Elvina without even looking; the gesture alone made her squeak and collapse into a stuttering curtsy.
Elvina. Still trembling. Still damp from her earlier humiliation. Still trying to shrink into whatever spiritual hole she prayed would open under her feet.
Quentin’s lip wobbled.
"And you," Thalen said, turning his gaze to Iskanda, "circumvented conflict resolution procedures, escalated violence to lethal levels without approval, destroyed sanctioned property that I will now have to fund repairs for, and attempted to execute a subordinate without filing so much as a preliminary form."
Iskanda actually winced. I didn’t know Iskanda could wince.
"You both," Thalen said, gesturing broadly with the cane, "have wasted my time, the Spire’s resources, and Tora’s patience."
Behind him, Tora—the painfully beautiful Glasswick—straightened slightly, cheeks coloring in embarrassment. Saints, he was radiant. Even his shyness glowed.
Quentin raised a trembling hand. "Director, sir—please, I—I can explain—"
"No," Thalen said.
"But, sir, I swear—"
"No."
"But if you’d listen, I—"
The director lifted his cane and tapped it twice on the floor. The sound echoed with unnatural emphasis.
"I said no, Quentin. No explanations. No excuses. No impassioned speeches about honor, misunderstandings, or destiny. If I wished for theater, I’d descend to the slums of the city and watch the street performers juggle knives for pocket change."
Quentin’s shoulders slumped in utter defeat.
Iskanda inhaled, then spoke carefully. "Director Thalen, if I may—"
"No."
She shut her mouth instantly.
Director Thalen let out a satisfied sigh, as if savoring the silence like a vintage wine. Then he began pacing again—slow, wandering strides that somehow commanded the entire room.
"You know," he began, settling into a tone that made my stomach curl because it sounded very much like the beginning of a lecture from hell, "this situation reminds me of an old principle we once drilled into our recruits. A simple one. Elegant. Almost poetic, really." He paused thoughtfully. "Tora, what is Rule Number Three?"
Tora startled. "N-never engage in a conflict you do not fully understand, sir."
"Correct." Thalen nodded. "And what is Rule Number Seven?"
"Remedy internal disputes with procedure, not aggression."
"Good boy," Thalen murmured.
In that instant, Tora’s shoulders curled inward like a startled kitten, his breath catching in a tiny, helpless hiccup that seemed to escape him before he could swallow it down.
His eyes flickered up for one second, wide and luminous, before he remembered himself and snapped his gaze to the floor again. A blush rushed up his neck so quickly I half expected him to combust.
The sight of it sent an electric jolt straight into my spine because Saints, I wished that had been me.
Focus, Loona.
Thalen tapped his cane again. "Rules and regulations," he said, voice rising, "they exist because without them, we devolve into chaos. Chaos leads to assumptions. Assumptions lead to conflict. And conflict, when left to the whims of emotionally unstable young personnel—" he gestured dramatically to Quentin "—turns perfectly good rooms into frostbitten wastelands."
Quentin let out a broken sob.
"Furthermore," Thalen continued, "authority is not a whim. It is not for you—" he jabbed the air at Quentin "—or you—" now at Iskanda "—to brandish like a toy sword. Authority is structure. Structure is order. Order is what prevents all of us from descending into madness, anarchy, and burnt paperwork."
He paused, closing his eyes reverently.
"Gods, the paperwork," he whispered like a man recalling a trauma. His breath hitched—quiet, controlled, but edged with something volatile, as though each inhale cost him restraint.
Tora lifted a hesitant hand toward him, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to intervene. "Sir, your blood pressure..."
"Let it rise," Thalen growled. "It thrives on the incompetence of children."
I bit my knuckle, teeth sinking in just enough to keep the rest of me from leaking sounds I’d definitely regret.
Thalen exhaled—slow, deliberate, spine-stiffening—before turning his gaze back to the kneeling pair like a judge considering which crime to execute first.
"This," he said, voice smooth as polished steel, "is precisely why we have rules. This is why we have procedure. This is why we maintain discipline. Gods above, I should have the both of you thrown back into the Labyrinth."
Both Quentin and Iskanda tensed violently.
Ah. That word again.
The Labyrinth.
I didn’t know what it was, and frankly, judging from how Quentin’s face had instantly drained of blood, I didn’t want to know.
Silence hit the room like the drop of a guillotine. Iskanda’s eyes slid shut, her jaw tightening. Quentin’s hands flew together in a trembling clasp, praying to any deity willing to take pity. The shift was instant—no theatrics, no dramatics—just pure, unfiltered terror bleeding into the room.
The Labyrinth wasn’t a punishment. It was a threat. A promise. A place that broke people.
And they knew it.
They waited—breaths held, faces pale, eyes closed—for the verdict of their fate.