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Atticus looked up from the sphere and caught his eyes. “We believe it’s a power cell of sorts. One of eight mounted atop Sanctuary’s perimeter.”

A chill touched his blood, icy and familiar. He took a step towards the sphere and breathed in deep.

“Gwen has already tried reigniting it with her own magic, but it had no effect. Neither can it be opened by any physical means that we’ve discovered. I believe it requires a spell, one only your expertise can craft.” From the opposite side of the sphere, Atticus angled a small mirror into the dark glass, sunlight dissolving into a dim refracted glow. Shapes emerged from the light, formless forms that drifted in and out of sight like ghosts, so dense it was like staring into a bottomless well of shadow. But he recognized a pattern to them, a logic that wasn’t entirely untenable, similar to his innate understanding of sigils and how they played with the laws of the world they commanded.

This was tech unlike anything he’d worked with before. Alien, enigmatic tech that these people had relied upon without understanding for hundreds of years—that they now needed him to fix.

“If it’s a power cell, it’s going to need a lot more Netherflame than what I can summon.”

“I saw what you did to Gwen’s magic, how you are able to replicate a small amount of Netherflame into something greater, even if temporarily, with a spell. Sanctuary needed a whole chasm for power. I don’t expect one mage’s magic to be enough. But if we can get it online, we can divert its power to Sanctuary’s more critical systems.”

Orpheus bit his lip and considered.

A pulse, like the cylinders of an engine firing, pressure that would propel Netherflame into whatever subsystems dependent upon it. If he could somehow mimic that reaction, even with a small amount of Netherflame, it may activate the rest of the line down. That was, if he didn’t destroy the object in the process. Beneath his hand, the glass felt delicate, the mass contained inside oddly volatile. Dangerous, if not outright ruinous.

It wasn’t a terrible idea. In fact, it might actually work. It would take a complicated webbing of spells, but Orpheus could imagine them already, and the urge to start scratching sigils out there across the stone walk while they were fresh made his healing fingers ache.

“Which of Sanctuary’s systems did it power?”

Atticus remained quiet for a beat, then said, “Light. It gave Sanctuary light.”

He could see it if he closed his eyes: the city afire, Netherflame coursing through its very veins.

All hells, what a sight that would be.

“I’ll need paper, a pen. Preferably—a notebook.” Orpheus bit off, then glanced up at Atticus, and found his attention locked on him. “I’ll need time.”

Atticus stared at him, sunlight catching his pale eyes and turning them translucent, the moment hanging, until something in Atticus gave way.

“Agreed,” he said, pocketing the mirror. “I will provide you with this and anything else you may need. And, so we’re clear, the Architects understand spellcrafting. They’ll know if you’re tricking us, I do not recommend trying them.”

Oh, to see how little Atticus and his precious Architects really knew. But that wasn’t the point. The point was buying enough time for Fenrir to get his shit together and do what he did best.

And get your magic back, the voice inside reminded him.

“I’d like Gwen to be involved, so she may learn from me.”

Atticus did not immediately snap No and Orpheus considered that a win.

“You do this, and I will consider it.”

“I’m not even sure it can be done,” Orpheus said, voice gone quiet, earnest if not truthful. “But I will try.”

Across the sphere, Atticus met his eyes, time stretching alongside the truth Orpheus desperately needed him to believe. A truth Atticus had no choice but to believe, because it wasn’t revenge that had compelled Atticus to drag Orpheus to Sanctuary. It wasn’t even hope.

It was desperation.

Orpheus felt a little guilty when Atticus finally nodded. “Then we have an agreement.”

Chapter XXII

Secrets

Just as he promised, Atticus provided everything Orpheus requested—and something he hadn’t realized he’d desperately wanted: a bed.

It wasn’t big and it wasn’t comfortable. The blanket was thin and smelled of mildew, the pillow more lumps than any kind of support. But it wasn’t hard obsidian stones or the iron floor of his wagon cage, and when Orpheus’ head hit the pillow there wasn’t even space for his dreams.

He woke to the sound of his door slot opening and the scrape of a now familiar tray sliding into his cell. It wasn’t much. For all the help Sanctuary needed, Netherflame couldn’t grow vegetables. But hunger was a familiar, old friend. The Gilded Palace’s orchards had fed many more mouths than his and Lore’s. The hermits, yes, but also the other children. Children he’d never seen but had heard their cries and wails and whispered sobbing through the stone walls of his tiny prison bedroom. At the time, he’d been too young to understand what the abrupt stretches of quiet meant, instead, simply grateful for the silence.