NOVEL NEXT Chapter 159: [159] Unmoored
Xavier woke to the sensation of ice crawling up his spine.
Not the comfortable warmth of volcanic stone and silk sheets that surrounded him in his luxurious prison. This cold came from within, alien and patient, like winter given consciousness and purpose. The King's Gaze had been quiet during his sleep, but now it stirred, pressing against his thoughts with the clinical curiosity of a scholar examining a particularly interesting specimen under glass.
He sat up slowly, testing the boundaries of the mark's influence. The alien presence receded slightly at his conscious resistance, but didn't withdraw entirely. It never did anymore. Not since that night in the temple.
Moving to the window, Xavier gazed down at Hearthome's terraced courtyard where early morning mist rose from thermal vents in ghostly tendrils. Guards moved in predictable patterns between buildings, their routes as regular as clockwork.
Then the mark flared.
For a drawn-out instant, the world resolved into a different spectrum. People vanished, replaced by nodes of light in a vast network—lines of influence connecting guard captain to subordinate, servant to master, information broker to client. The social hierarchy of Hearthome spread before him like a tactical map drawn in light and shadow, every connection visible, every weakness exposed.
The guards weren't just following orders; they were executing a pattern with flaws he could exploit. The servants weren't randomly busy; they were part of a system with predictable inefficiencies that created blind spots every fourteen minutes. Even the steam rising from the vents followed principles that could be used to mask movement through the lower courtyards.
Fascinating, whispered the alien presence, its voice like icicles forming in his mind. Your kind builds such elaborate structures, yet remains blind to their own design. So many vulnerabilities. So many points of failure.
Xavier jerked backward from the window, pressing his palms against his temples as if he could physically push the invader from his thoughts. When he looked down at the courtyard again, he saw only people—tired guards walking their routes, servants going about their morning tasks in the chill air.
But the knowledge remained, etched into his consciousness. He knew which guard would be distracted by the kitchen maid's smile. He understood which servant carried gossip between the noble quarter and the temple, and exactly what secrets they'd revealed last night. The patterns were burned into his mind like afterimages from staring at the sun.
"No," he said aloud, his voice harsh in the morning stillness. "Those are my thoughts. My observations. Not yours."
And yet, when he blinked again, he saw the kitchen maid smile... right on schedule.
===
In the temple's lower levels, Naomi adjusted her servant's headscarf and picked up a water pitcher. The coarse brown wool dress she'd acquired from the laundry made her invisible—another anonymous face among the dozens of staff who kept the temple functioning. Her own past had taught her that invisibility was the most valuable currency in a place where information meant survival and discovery meant death.
The senior acolyte she'd targeted sat alone in the record-keeping chamber, surrounded by scrolls and ledgers that chronicled the temple's daily operations. Brother Fulton was forty-something, with the soft build of a man who spent his days with books rather than devotional exercises, his thinning hair a stark contrast to his ink-stained fingers. He was exactly the type of man who valued knowledge over strength.
"Brother Fulton?" Naomi entered with the perfect balance of deference and familiarity, her eyes properly downcast. "Sister Miren asked me to bring fresh water for the archives work. For your throat, she said. The dust down here..."
"Archives?" Fulton looked up from his ledger, confusion creasing his forehead. His eyes tracked over her, seeing nothing but another servant. "I wasn't aware of any current research projects requiring—"
The pitcher slipped from Naomi's hands with perfect timing, water cascading across the stone floor in a great splash that sent scrolls scattering. "Oh, no," she cried, immediately dropping to her knees to snatch at the soaked parchments.
"I'm so sorry! The handle was wet, I didn't—please don't report this, Brother, I'll lose my position! My family needs this work!" Her voice pitched perfectly between panic and desperation.
Just as she knew he would, Fulton hurried around the desk to help. He knelt beside her, reaching for the scattered documents.
"The Sealed Archives are so important," she babbled, watching his reactions from beneath her lashes. "I know I'm not supposed to know about such things, but everyone talks about the High Burner's research down there. So mysterious, so sacred. The blood wards alone must be—oh no, this scroll is completely ruined!"
"Blood wards?" Fulton paused in his gathering, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "How do you know about those?"
"I... I clean the upper archives sometimes. The acolytes whisper about the deeper levels, how only the Flameheart bloodline can pass the seals." Naomi's eyes widened with calculated innocence. "Is it true they're keyed to family blood? How does such magic even work? That sounds like something from the old stories."
Fulton glanced toward the door, checking for listeners, then leaned closer. His breath smelled of mint tea and pride. "The seals were created centuries ago by the first High Burner. They recognize the family line through... well, through essence patterns in the blood itself. Very old magic, very powerful. Few understand the principles anymore."
"Essence patterns. How fascinating." Naomi gathered the last of the scattered scrolls, her fingers trembling with excitement rather than fear. "I suppose that's why Lord Torval spends so much time down there, researching his family's history. Such dedication to tradition."
"Family history..?" Fulton's expression grew troubled, his brow furrowing with concern.
The opening was small, but Naomi had learned to exploit the smallest cracks in a person's certainty. "You don't think it's family history?"
"I... I shouldn't speak of such things." Fulton stood, brushing water from his robes with nervous hands. "But the records he requests... they're not genealogical. They're about binding rituals. Containment procedures."
Naomi's pulse quickened, but she kept her expression innocently curious. "Binding rituals? That sounds frightening. Like something from the dark times."
"Ancient practices, mostly theoretical. Ways to... to anchor souls that have become unmoored from their proper vessels." Fulton realized he'd said too much and stepped back, his face closing. "I really shouldn't discuss temple business with cleaning staff. Forget I mentioned anything."
"Of course not, Brother. I understand completely." Naomi gathered her cleaning supplies, mind racing with implications. "Thank you for helping with the spill. I'll be more careful next time. Sister Miren would be furious if she knew."
She left Fulton to his ledgers, but the information burned in her thoughts as she walked the empty corridor. Containment procedures. Binding rituals. Souls unmoored from proper vessels.
Seven students who'd fallen through a dimensional gate, wearing faces that weren't their own. Seven souls transplanted into bodies that belonged to someone else. And now a high-ranking temple official researching ways to bind those souls permanently.
The question was: bind them to what?