Night had fallen over the Institute—slowly, but with an unusual density.

  Velara was climbing the black marble steps with a martial stride. Her heels struck the stone like a series of verdicts.

  Nothing about her suggested grace—everything was tension, nerves, and threat.

  When she reached the Dean’s office door, she didn’t stop.

  She blasted it open with a single motion of her hand.

  The massive wooden door tore free from its hinges in a terrifying crash, flew across the room, and slammed into the Dean’s desk with an end-of-the-world roar.

  Wood cracked. Furniture shattered. Papers burst into the air.

  The Dean jumped. Vernia, the secretary, let out a muffled cry and immediately recoiled, deathly pale.

  But Velara did not slow. She stepped through the debris, grabbed the Dean by the collar of his white tunic, and lifted him with one arm.

  "V–Velara?!" he stammered, already off the ground.

  "Be quiet."

  She dragged him across the office, tore down the evening curtains—the pride of the Dean—without ceremony, and hauled him straight to the edge of the Terrace.

  Still held by his tunic, the Dean found himself suspended over empty space.

  The evening wind howled against the Institute.

  Velara held the Dean at arm’s length, like an inconvenient parcel.

  She didn’t look out of breath. Not even strained.

  Vernia, frozen in the doorway, stood motionless. Her hands were shaking. Her lips had gone pale. A thin line of ink was still dripping from her forgotten pen.

  "Three Trame Bearers missing, Dean," Velara said in a calm voice, sharp as glass.

  "Three. Including Althéa of Soléandre."

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  The Dean, face drained of color, legs kicking in the void, tried to speak.

  "We’re doing everything we can! I’ve already sent signals to Unyielding specialists in spatial Trames. Fragmented as well. Several teams are analyzing Elantic resonances. I swear I—"

  "Your oaths do not interest me," she cut him off.

  She stared at him, impassive, then slowly pulled him back toward her… only to throw him to the ground without ceremony.

  The Dean collapsed at Vernia’s feet with a dull thud.

  He groaned in pain, his breathing short.

  Vernia, paralyzed, didn’t even dare help him.

  "Who altered the teleportation coordinates?"

  Velara’s voice cracked like a whip.

  The Dean, still on his knees, trembled slightly before answering.

  "We have a suspect. He’s already in custody. He is to be taken to the palace to answer for his actions before the Royal Council."

  Velara clicked her tongue, a short sound heavy with irritation.

  "No."

  She turned on her heel and left the terrace at such a rapid pace it seemed as though she were gliding above the ground.

  The guards stationed in the corridors instinctively stepped aside as she passed.

  In less than a minute, she reached the great gates of the Acropolis.

  Outside, under the pale torchlight, a carriage waited, surrounded by soldiers.

  Inside, the prisoner: a man in a servant’s uniform, trembling, head bowed.

  Velara came to an abrupt halt, her voice cutting through the surrounding din.

  "No. Absolutely not. You’re not getting away with this."

  She stepped forward. Two guards moved to block her path.

  "Orders from the Dean, ma’am. No one approaches the prisoner."

  She tilted her head. A smile, barely visible.

  "Then stop me."

  The guard on the left didn’t even have time to raise his shield.

  A rush of air, a sharp motion—and the carriage split cleanly in two with a metallic screech.

  The horses scattered, screaming. The guards stumbled back, stunned.

  Velara bent down, seized the prisoner by the collar, and lifted him off the ground with one hand.

  "Talk. Now."

  The man, in his forties, was shaking all over. His eyes darted away.

  The smell of fear was already rising.

  "I… I… I didn’t do anything on my own," he stammered.

  "A man… a man asked me… to slightly alter the coordinates outside the area… a dark cloak, a hood… I couldn’t see his face. He spoke… in a soft voice… almost… sing-songy…"

  "A name."

  "I… I don’t know it… he only wanted… the princess… to be sent outside the course zone… nothing more, I swear…"

  Velara clenched her jaw. Her gaze sharpened.

  "And the other two? Why them?"

  The man stared at her, dazed.

  "The… the other two?"

  He swallowed.

  "That… that wasn’t planned. They… they weren’t supposed to follow. I don’t understand…"

  Velara brought her fist down.

  The man’s head simply ceased to exist.

  No explosion. No sound.

  Just a brutal, clean absence—almost sacred—as if her blow had erased flesh and bone from reality itself.

  The body, deprived of a face, collapsed limply at her feet.

  She straightened slowly. Her gaze swept over the guards, still frozen.

  "Clean this up," she said simply.

  "And let the Dean know he’s just added a conspiracy to his file."

  She turned on her heel and walked away—slowly this time—but each step echoed like a promise of disaster to come.