The gondola moves through water that parts beneath us, dark and thick with reeds, while somewhere in the murk frogs croak in too many voices, overlapping in a sound that sits wrong in my ears. The Exarch stands at the prow, his silver mask catching what little light remains, but he does not speak and has not spoken since we departed. I sit in the center of the boat, alone except for Binah's flickering presence beside me.

  Other gondolas drift through the predawn gray, and I catch glimpses of platinum hair among them. The Urisius twins, each in their own vessel. Castor stands in his boat like he owns it, while Penelope sits with her posture perfect even here.

  Behind us, the shore recedes into mist where the matrons stand in their line, Chatelaines and High-Chatelaines at the front, Mother among them with her dark hair unmistakable even at this distance.

  I do not wave.

  Binah's form shifts between solid and transparent, violet eyes fixed on something I cannot see, and her presence presses against my skull like a headache, like something trying to get in.

  The water thickens as reeds close around us, their tops crowned with fog while the croaking grows louder. We pass beneath a stone archway carved with glyphs that shimmer faintly in the half-light, script I do not recognize but that makes my torq hum against my throat. Cold settles over the water, and my breath begins to mist.

  Lilies float past, luminescent. Their glow casts pale reflections across the wood, turning everything sickly and strange.

  The river widens as we emerge from the enclosed passage into open water where the mist thins slightly, revealing the curve of Malkiel's architecture rising on either side. Faces transition one into another in geometry that is impossible yet present, real. Through the haze I see windows, hundreds of them, light spilling from a few with warm, domestic glow while the smell of bread baking drifts across the water. Somewhere, a child laughs.

  I count the windows without meaning to. Forty-seven on the left, sixty-two on the right. The numbers calm me.

  Binah turns her head, watching the residential structures as we pass. Her expression is unreadable.

  The gondola glides beneath another arch, and my torq hums with a vibration I feel in my teeth as the air shifts around us. The spring dampness vanishes as heat rolls over me, sudden and oppressive, making my skin prickle with sweat beneath my cloak while the smell of coal smoke replaces bread and morning flowers.

  The domestic sounds fade.

  Metal rises from the water's edge in dark, geometric structures where furnaces pulse behind tall windows, their light angry and red, and the clang of hammers reaches us in rhythmic waves, relentless, as summer heat bleeds from the forges thick enough to taste. Shadows move inside the buildings. Workers, perhaps. Their forms flicker in the furnace-glow.

  Binah leans forward slightly. The shadows around her curl tighter.

  We pass beyond the industrial face. The hammering fades.

  The gondola rounds a curve where the river bends sharply, and another archway looms ahead, carved with patterns that shift as I watch, designs that never settle into readable form.

  We pass beneath. Pressure builds like diving into Nenuphar's waters. My ears pop, and the torq vibrates harder against my throat as cold slams into me, the summer heat dying between one breath and the next. Frost creeps across the gondola's wooden edge while my breath mists thick and white.

  The water ahead is gray and still, ice crusting the reeds at the edges, and beyond the shore a structure rises that stops my breath. Not a fortress, though it could withstand any siege. Too elegant for that word, too deliberate. Stone and glass spiral upward in configurations that hurt to follow, the structure's base lost in mist while its spires pierce the gray sky above, and banners hang from the ramparts in azure and silver, the sigil catching the pale light in a pattern I recognize but cannot name. House Azure's mark, but altered. Made theirs.

  Through tall windows I see movement. Figures in formation, their platinum hair catching the light as they move in synchronized patterns. Students, perhaps, or graduates. Training. Always training.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The certainty of what this place is presses against my chest. A Conclave. Stone carved with purpose, every angle declaring power.

  Binah's form flickers. Her violet eyes fix on the structure, unblinking. She does not move as we drift past.

  The Conclave recedes into mist, though the image remains burned into my vision like staring too long at the sun. The water narrows as we pass beneath a low bridge carved with more glyphs, their patterns shifting as I watch, never settling. My torq hums again, making my jaw ache.

  Winter breaks, and warmth floods back. Not the oppressive forge-heat but something gentler, spring air fresh and damp with the smell of turned earth and growing things. The haze thins, and fields emerge across the face in neat rows where grain sways despite the still air.

  Slaves move through the stalks in synchronized lines, their dark skin and bone-white antlers creating a pattern as they bend, gather, rise, move. They have always moved like that. Efficient. Silent.

  At the field's edge, a cluster of Armigers stand watch. Young, barely older than me, their platinum hair tied back and their kirans held loosely. The weapons hum faintly, a vibration felt more than heard, while their crystalline heads pulse with inner light. One Armiger yawns. Another shifts his weight, bored. Guard duty is tedious work.

  The gondola passes, and the scene recedes into haze. Binah turns to watch the fields long after they disappear, her shoulders rigid and her violet eyes unblinking while the shadows around her deepen, curling inward like something wounded. She looks at me once, a question in her gaze I cannot read.

  I look away.

  The water grows colder than winter, colder than the forge-face or the Conclave, and this cold bites deep, tastes of ice and stars. Wind cuts across the water, carrying nothing familiar. No bread-smell. No forge-smoke. Just emptiness.

  The haze clears above us, and I see sky.

  Real sky.

  Not the gray mist of the other faces, but black void scattered with stars. Cold and distant and true. A vast platform extends into the darkness, metal gleaming under starlight.

  A sound comes.

  Deep. Thrumming. Felt more than heard. It resonates in my bones, in my teeth. The gondola trembles slightly beneath me.

  And rising from the platform, three shapes.

  Vimanas.

  Massive vessels shaped like lotus blossoms, their petals gleaming gold and silver. Light trails from their engines, brilliant and searing, cutting through the darkness as they ascend toward the stars in silence. Graceful. Unstoppable.

  They climb higher, growing smaller. Their light fades. The thrumming continues, a pulse that makes my ribs ache.

  Then they are gone. Swallowed by the void.

  The sound fades slowly, like thunder rolling away across a vast plain.

  I realize I have been holding my breath.

  Binah's hand rests on the edge of the gondola. Her fingers are white, pressed hard against the wood. She stares upward at where the Vimanas disappeared, her expression something between hunger and grief.

  "Where are they going?" I ask.

  The Exarch does not answer.

  Of course he does not.

  Conquest.

  I know what they are for.

  The gondola moves forward as the platform recedes above us, and we pass beneath another arch where the torq vibrates again and the bone-deep cold releases. Warmth floods back, but it is wrong warmth, humid and thick, while the stars disappear and haze returns heavier than before, autumn settling over the water like a blanket with the smell of decay and wet leaves and something rotting beneath the surface.

  The architecture changes, less elegant now, rougher stone that might be older. The walls press closer to the river's edge.

  The water grows murky, green scum floating on the surface, and reeds appear with stalks pale and sickly. The luminescent lilies return, their glow casting everything in shades of corpse-light, while the croaking begins again. Louder now. Wrong. Too many voices for the space, too many for anything natural.

  Binah's form flickers violently. She turns her head, searching the reeds, her movements sharp and almost frantic.

  What does she see?

  The gondola angles sharply as the Exarch steers us around a bend, and the reeds part.

  Stone rises from the water ahead. The Mere, massive and looming, its entrance a dark mouth gaping and waiting. Carvings snake up the sides in intricate patterns winding like vines, and spires rise beyond, towers sprawling across the rocky terrain where windows glint here and there with flickers of light, life stirring within.

  The gondola approaches a broad set of stone stairs descending into the water, moss clinging to the edges, slick and dark, and the Exarch slows, guiding us in with practiced efficiency.

  I stand, and the boat rocks slightly beneath me. Binah rises with me, soundless.

  The platform is wet stone. My boots splash as I step onto it. Water drips from the hem of my cloak.

  Behind me, the Exarch turns the gondola without a word, rowing back toward the shore. Back toward the river. Back toward home.

  Other students disembark nearby. Castor strides onto his platform like he is arriving at a celebration. Penelope follows, her movements precise. Controlled.

  She looks at me.

  I do not look away.

  Then she moves. Fast. Her arms encircle me, brief and tight. Her breath touches my ear.

  "I am glad you survived."

  Her voice catches on the last word. She pulls back, sharp, as though my skin burns.

  I blink. "What do you mean?"

  But she is already moving toward the doors, her shoulders rigid beneath her cloak.

  Survived.

  The word sits strange in my mouth, and I taste its edges. What did she think would happen? What does she know that I do not?

  The great doors swing open, and golden light spills across the murky water, cutting through the haze. Warm. Inviting.

  A lie, probably.

  I step forward. Binah follows, a silent shadow at my side.

  The threshold passes beneath my feet.