The air shifted as they reached the great chamber. Mana lamps blazed high overhead, throwing light across polished stone and rows of benches. Already a small crowd had gathered, voices hushed, every eye fixed on the proceedings about to begin.

  Ethan’s chest tightened when he caught sight of them. Pixie perched on a bench, her tail thumping in frantic bursts the moment she saw him. Amelia crouched between the Silverthorns, her ears flat, but her eyes locked on Ethan like she was trying to pull him across the room with sheer will. Mara and Jorrin sat stiff-backed beside her, their hands resting protectively on the cub’s shoulders.

  And beyond them — more faces he hadn’t expected. Durgan Ironheel, arms folded and beard bristling. Ed and Sam squeezed together on one bench, trying to look casual and failing. They weren’t supposed to be here, but somehow word had spread, and every ally he had in Celdoras seemed to have found their way inside.

  Professor Tahl, Aldric, and Mabel peeled off from his side, climbing to the gallery seats to join the others. Gwenna went with them, her posture rigid, eyes fixed on the council table below.

  Roman kept pace at Ethan’s elbow, his robe whispering with every step. The guards led them to the front of the chamber, where the council’s dais waited and, at its center, the Truthstone glowed faintly on its stand.

  The guards brought Ethan to the chamber’s center and removed the cuffs. A pedestal waited there with the Truthstone—an opaque block of crystal, cool under his palms when he set his hands to it. Roman stood just behind his right shoulder.

  The council sat along the dais opposite. The hawk-nosed official took the center seat with a scribe at his elbow. To his left, the Guild representative watched with narrowed eyes; to his right, the Academy man adjusted his spectacles and murmured to his clerk. Cruella occupied one of the forward seats, chin high and expression carved into disdain. Two more councilors filled the remaining places, robes layered, quills ready at their sides.

  Above and to the right, a raised viewing box overlooked the floor. Lord Merrow sat there, separate from the panel, a step higher than the chamber proper. Beside him waited a man in royal colors, the signet of the capital bright on his hand. They observed. They did not sit with the judges.

  A sharp rap of wood on stone cracked across the chamber. The hawk-nosed official leaned forward in the center seat, his voice cutting through the quiet.

  “Proceedings are called to order.”

  Scribes bent to their parchments, quills poised. The Guild woman folded her hands on the table, eyes narrow. Cruella lounged back in her chair, lips curled in the same disdainful smirk Ethan remembered from Lantern Row. The Academy man adjusted his spectacles, gaze flicking from the Truthstone to Ethan’s face as though cataloging every twitch.

  “Ethan Cross,” the hawk-nosed man said, each syllable crisp. “You stand before the council under examination. You will answer truthfully, as measured by the Stone. The record will be kept, and judgment passed accordingly.”

  The Truthstone stayed cool under Ethan’s palms. Opaque. Silent. Waiting.

  Roman shifted a half-step closer to Ethan’s right shoulder, his tone calm but carrying. “He is prepared to comply.”

  The hawk-nosed man nodded once. “Then let us begin.” The official’s voice carried. “Ethan Cross. Did you register all companions before entering the dungeon?”

  “Yes.”

  The Truthstone glowed green. Quills scratched, but several scribes exchanged uneasy looks.

  The hawk-nosed looked flabbergasted. "Even though you claimed that the golem was not a member of your party beforehand and you still registered before entering the dungeon?"

  “Yes.” Ethan repeated.

  The Guild woman leaned forward. “And every item you recovered from the ruins — was it catalogued and accounted for with the Guild records?”

  “Yes.”

  Green again.

  Cruella cut in, her voice sharp as glass. “Liar. You paraded a golem through Lantern Row without license or fee. Do you deny it?”

  “I deny that it was unlicensed,” Ethan said flatly.

  The stone pulsed a deeper green.

  A stir moved through the benches. Cruella’s jaw clenched, but she pressed on. “Then answer this: were all fees, taxes, and permits paid in advance before you built your… residence?”

  “Yes.”

  Green.

  The Academy scribe frowned openly now, his quill hovering. “Every tax? Every filing? Already satisfied?”

  “Yes.”

  Green again.

  The murmurs grew. It should have been impossible, but the Truthstone showed no flicker of doubt.

  It went on like that, question after question.

  “Did you submit your residence plans to the city archives before laying the first stone?”

  “Did you report every Piece and Bit of profit earned from adventuring within Celdoras?”

  They asked impossible leading questions, all designed to trip Ethan up. Questions about his past, and even if he had ever knowingly—or unknowingly—broken any law in any way, even slightly, even by accident.

  Green. Always green, casting Ethan in the best possible light.

  The pattern repeated, the councilors pressing harder, their questions more cutting. Each answer came back the same, and each time the Truthstone glowed steady. The scribes hesitated in their writing; the gallery whispered behind raised hands. The council looked more and more infuriated, but the stone gave them nothing—nothing but Ethan’s innocence.

  The last question died in the air, and silence pressed down over the chamber. Lord Merrow sat rigid in his high seat, expression dark as ink, while the royal envoy leaned forward and spoke a few quiet words. When the hawk-nosed official cleared his throat again, his voice was clipped.

  “The council finds no fault. Ethan Cross is cleared of all charges.”

  The Truthstone dimmed under Ethan’s palms, its glow fading to a dull gray. Chains clinked again at his wrists, but only as formality. The guards guided him out from the circle and down the long corridor.

  The gallery erupted into whispers. Pixie barked once before Mara caught her scruff, Amelia whining in answer. Durgan Ironheel rumbled something approving, his voice like gravel in a barrel. Ethan caught only pieces of it before the great doors boomed shut behind him.

  Roman walked at his shoulder, silent. The others filed out through separate passages, scattering into the current of people until Ethan and his Pack were left to the guards’ escort. Out through the Dome’s lower halls, out into the city air.

  By the time they reached Lantern Row, the sky had dimmed toward evening. The Silver Thorn Inn stood warm against the street, lamplight spilling through its windows. The moment the door opened, Mason was there waiting, his eyes glowing faintly as he had kept watch.

  Inside, the Pack closed in on Ethan at once — fur brushing his legs, bond surging tight. Mara pressed a mug of tea into his hands, Jorrin muttered that supper would be up shortly, and Gwenna dropped into a chair with her bow across her knees, scowling at nothing in particular.

  Ethan sat down at the nearest table and let the noise wash over him. He was free. He had barely taken a drink before Buster flopped down with a grunt, tail sweeping the floor. “Told you it’d work,” he said aloud, smug as a king.

  Mabel’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Work? What worked? Because that Stone burned green through impossible filings. You’re telling me this man has never once, even accidentally, stepped out of line? You’ve never jaywalked in your life, Ethan?”

  Ethan smirked into his cup, too tired to bother answering. Buster rolled onto his side, stretching like a cat. “Simple. I just asked him the questions louder. Over and over, right in his head. He answered me. The Stone the read truth. Green every time.”

  The table went still for a beat, then Pixie let out a bark of laughter so sharp it made Amelia jump. “YOU MEAN WE WON ON A TECHNICALITY? BEST. HEIST. EVER.”

  Buster thumped his tail, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction. “Not a heist. Just smarter than the lot of them.”

  Ethan smirked into his cup. “Smart? I was just answering questions truthfully.”

  Buster’s tail wagged, betraying his calm facade. “Yeah. Mine.”

  Mabel sat back in her chair, glasses slipping down her nose as she stared at him in open contemplation. “I was going crazy trying to figure out how you were doing it…” She tapped her ledger, lips pursed. “…and all along it was that simple?”

  Pixie snorted. “SIMPLE? He just outfoxed the entire council!”

  Lyra’s ears went flat, her eyes narrowing. “Outfoxed?” Her voice carried an edge. “That’s not a compliment where I come from.”

  Pixie froze, mouth half open, then stammered. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Lyra’s gaze held a moment longer before she looked away, the bond carrying her irritation like a ripple under the surface.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Pixie’s ears drooped. Through the bond came a rush of apology — quick, earnest, and clumsy, but unmistakably sincere. She hadn’t meant it as a slur; she hadn’t meant anything cruel at all.

  The sincerity bled through so clearly that Lyra’s irritation crumbled at once, leaving only a prickle of embarrassment that she’d bristled so fast. Her ears flicked back, then eased upright again.

  Sometimes the bond solved what words tangled. Misunderstandings burned away in an instant when the truth of intent could be felt, plain as touch.

  Pixie immediately bounced back, tail wagging as she pivoted her energy toward Buster. “And YOU, mister genius loophole, acting like you’re some big-shot lawyer. Don’t think this means you get to boss us around.”

  Buster cracked one eye open from where he sprawled on the rug. “Didn’t have to boss anyone. Just had to be smarter than the council.”

  Pixie let out a bark of laughter. “Smarter? You nearly gave Ethan a headache shouting in his skull!”

  “Worked, didn’t it?” Buster grumbled, but there was a smug curl to his voice that no one missed.

  Then Moose finally pushed himself up and padded over, dropping down heavily at Ethan’s side. He leaned against him, solid and warm, as if anchoring himself there. Ethan’s hand found its way to Moose’s head without thought, rubbing between his ears the way he used to when Moose was just a pup.

  Contentment rolled through the bond — calmer than it had been in weeks. Moose wasn’t clinging in panic or pacing the floor. He was simply there, leaning close, showing with his presence that he’d fought through the worst of his separation anxiety and won.

  Ethan’s chest tightened with pride. “I know, buddy,” he said softly, rubbing his head and face with slow strokes. “You’ve been working so hard. Who’s a good boy.”

  It might have looked silly to anyone else — speaking that way to a sapient companion — but the bond made it different. Ethan’s quiet “Who’s a good boy” wasn’t habit or mockery. The joy that rolled back at him through Moose, deep and unguarded, proved it was understood exactly as he meant it.

  Mason made his way over and tried to sit next to Ethan on the bench. The wood groaned under Mason’s weight—then, with a sharp crack, the bench split right down the middle, dropping both of them to the floor.

  There was a beat of silence before laughter broke out around the room.

  Ethan got to his feet, brushing off his hands. “Sorry, Jorrin. I’ll cover a new bench.”

  Mason stood, unfazed, and gave Ethan an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  If I do replace it, I really need to buy sturdier furniture—or maybe figure out if I can enchant the benches to be stronger, Ethan mused to himself.

  Later that evening, the front door swung open again. Professor Talh stepped inside, scanning the room until he found Ethan and the Pack.

  “I heard someone beat the dungeon,” Talh said. “Once I got the description, I figured it had to be you.”

  He made his way over, giving the Silverthorns a polite nod and the Pack a quick, approving look.

  Ethan introduced Professor Talh to Mason, letting the professor give the golem a quick once-over. Then he leaned in and said quietly, “Can we talk for a second?”

  He pulled Talh aside, just far enough from the crowd to keep their conversation private. “He’s not an ordinary golem,” Ethan said, lowering his voice. “I was able to talk to the dungeon core. There’s a piece of its consciousness inside Mason—a sliver, at least. He’s more than just stone and magic.”

  Talh studied Mason with genuine fascination. “Remarkable. I’d like to observe him further, if you’re willing. See just how much he understands. Cases like this are unheard of—and if there’s a fragment of dungeon consciousness in there… well, that’s the sort of discovery scholars wait their entire lives for.” He looked back at Ethan, lowering his voice. “Next time you go back to the dungeon, let me know. It’s not every day a researcher can question a dungeon directly.”

  Ethan nodded. “Happy to help—as long as it goes both ways. Quid pro quo.”

  Talh paused, brow furrowing. “Quid pro…?” He tilted his head, studying Ethan. “That’s not a phrase I’ve heard before. It almost sounded like Common, but not quite.”

  He hesitated, curiosity sharpening. “You pick up language oddly fast, Ethan. And your accent isn’t quite from around here, is it?”

  Ethan managed a lopsided smile. “It’s a habit.”

  Talh only looked more interested, but let it go for now.

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur of food, tired laughter, and a dozen short stories retold for the inn’s regulars. After a while, the Pack slipped away upstairs, leaving the Silverthorns to close up for the night. Ethan followed, feeling the day’s exhaustion settle in at last as he headed for his bunk and the comfortable chaos of Pack bedtime routine.

  Ethan sat back on his bunk, system log open. “Anyone holding out on spending their stat points?”

  Buster stretched and grinned. “Strength, both times. It’s what I do.”

  Pixie wagged her tail, aiming a look at Buster. “All strength? You just want to make sure you can carry all the snacks back from the kitchen.”

  Buster snorted. “Someone’s got to do the heavy lifting. Don’t act like you wouldn’t steal half of them on the way.”

  Amelia purred, “Dexterity. Maybe now I can snag a treat before Buster gets there.”

  Lyra smirked. “Luck, of course. Otherwise we’d have starved or blown ourselves up by now.”

  Moose nodded. “Constitution and wisdom. Both, every time.”

  Pixie shot Buster another grin. “Don’t let him fool you—Buster does the meat math for all of us. He just complains the loudest.”

  Buster grumbled, but you could tell he was pleased. “Somebody has to keep you all fed.”

  Ethan laughed and slid his points into intelligence. “As long as nobody’s hoarding their points, we’re good.”

  The Pack’s laughter filled the room, the sound warm and familiar as the night settled in.

  A short time later, the room had settled into quiet. Buster had claimed the farthest bunk, already sprawled on his back, paws in the air, snoring loud enough to rattle the shutters.

  Moose and Amelia shared the rug by the door, their bodies curled together in a silent, solid tangle—Moose’s big head pillowed on Amelia’s flank, both breathing slow and deep.

  Pixie had made a nest of her own on the edge of the nearest bed, somehow managing to wrap herself and most of Sir Fluffington into one fuzzy, contented lump. Every now and then her tail thumped, even in sleep.

  The Pack’s familiar noises—the soft huff of Amelia’s dreams, Buster’s uneven snore, the rustle of Pixie’s paws as she shifted under the blanket—made the room feel safer than any lock or ward.

  Ethan took it all in—these small sounds, the shared heat, the ordinary mess of Pack bedtime—and felt his own nerves begin to unwind. He was just starting to relax when he realized his attention had drifted to Lyra.

  She stood by the window, perfectly silhouetted in the soft lanternlight, one white-tipped ear outlined in gold. Her copper hair spilled in a silent cascade down her back. She wasn’t on guard, wasn’t watching the street, just… gone, somewhere private behind her eyes.

  Finally, he cleared his throat—quiet, just above a whisper. “Can’t sleep?”

  Lyra didn’t turn, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Just thinking,” she said, her voice as calm as ever. “You?”

  Ethan settled next to the window, leaning his shoulder just far enough from hers to be polite. “Not really. After a night like that, it’s like my head won’t shut off.”

  He let out a quiet breath. “I keep replaying everything, wondering if I missed something. Doesn’t make for restful sleep.”

  The Foxkins tail curled tighter. “You did fine. We all did. Even Pixie, and she barely stayed awake through half the council.”

  He grinned, glancing back at the rumpled shape on the bed. “Pixie’s got her own kind of diplomacy. Mostly involving snacks, intimidation, or making up her own rules and enforcing those rules onto people.”

  Lyra let out a quiet laugh. “She gets away with it, too. I think the city guards were more afraid of her than the council was of you.”

  Ethan shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “If she ever figures out bureaucracy, we’re all doomed. Half the reason I survived today was because nobody wanted to argue with Pixie twice.”

  Lyra’s smile softened. “You survived today because you kept your head. I could tell you wanted to push back, but you didn’t. That’s not always easy.”

  “Well, that—and Mabel was a bureaucratic beast that the council had no answer for. I’m glad she was on our side.”

  Ethan looked down at his hands. “I’m not great at letting things go. Where I’m from, arguing usually made things worse. My family—well, if you won the fight, you had to do the dishes. Nobody wanted to win too often.”

  She tilted her head, studying him with real curiosity. “What was your family like?”

  He hesitated, surprised by the question. “Normal, I guess. Maybe a little too careful. My mom loved puzzles. Before my dad died, he built things—gadgets, little machines, computers, you name it. I picked up a lot of that. Fixing things felt safer than arguing about them. My sister was always bossy and noisy. But she always meant well, though. I think. I do miss them. In a way, I feel like I lost them too now, just like my dad. Now that I got moved and stranded in a new world… at least I got some of my family with me.” He looked in the direction of his sleeping dogs. Then his eyebrows crinkled, and he got this really worried expression on his face.

  Lyra noticed, and with a hint of concern, asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m wondering what happened to my goldfish, Frank. If all of my pets were moved over here, would I just not notice him in the tall grass?”

  Lyra got this confused, perplexed look on her face. “What’s a goldfish?”

  “It’s a small pet fish that I was able to keep in my house.”

  “You had a pond in your house?” Lyra asked.

  Ethan shook his head in amusement at Lyra’s remark but still had a flicker of concern about his fish. “No, just a glass box where I had to feed it and keep it alive.”

  “Interesting,” Lyra said.

  Ethan then tried to change the subject. “How about your family?”

  Lyra considered, ears angling toward him. “I used to fix things too, in my own way. My mother led our skulk. If there was trouble, I’d smooth it over, or distract people, or make them laugh. It worked, sometimes.”

  Ethan smiled. “Is that why you’re so good at handling the Pack?”

  Lyra rolled her eyes, but there was affection there. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just used to chaos.”

  Ethan let himself relax a little, feeling the ease in their conversation. “I’m glad you’re here. I can’t imagine all of this working without you.”

  Lyra hesitated, then let out a small, real breath. “You know, it was just me growing up. No siblings—just me, my mother, and a lot of expectations.”

  She offered a crooked little smile. “She tried to teach me how to be diplomatic, how to listen. Some days I think she wanted me to be the next high priestess. Other days, I think she just wanted some peace and quiet.”

  Ethan’s voice was gentle. “That sounds like a lot to carry.”

  Lyra nodded, her gaze going distant for a heartbeat. “It was. I got good at being what everyone needed, I think. But… I never really figured out what I wanted.”

  She glanced over, more open than before. “It’s strange, but being with the Pack, with you—it feels more like home than I expected.”

  Ethan’s smile warmed. “That’s how I feel, too. Like I finally found the right place to land.”

  For a moment, Lyra looked away, ears dipping just slightly. “You don’t have to imagine it. I’m not going anywhere.”

  They talked quietly for a long while, voices low so as not to wake the others. Stories and worries, old memories and new hopes—sometimes serious, sometimes silly—traded back and forth until the world outside the window grew quiet and distant. Somewhere in the middle of it, Ethan realized he’d stopped feeling like an outsider, and Lyra stopped holding back quite so much.

  Just as the conversation found a comfortable lull, Pixie let out a sudden yip and started kicking her legs in her sleep, paws thumping against the mattress as if she were chasing something in a dream. Sir Fluffington slid halfway off the bed, and a pillow thumped to the floor.

  Ethan covered a laugh with the back of his hand. Lyra shook her head, smiling softly.

  “She’s going to run herself right out of bed one night,” Lyra whispered.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ethan replied, grinning.

  He stretched, the weight of the day finally settling in. “We should get some sleep.”

  Lyra nodded, her voice gentle. “Goodnight, Ethan.”

  “Night, Lyra.”

  Afterward, with full bellies, Ethan finally ate real food instead of the surprisingly tolerable gruel they’d given him in the cell. Later, sinking into a soft bed instead of stone, he felt the ache of exhaustion finally ease.

  But more than the meal or the comfort, what warmed him most was being back with his family.