---Professor Eiden’s POV---
The hall was quiet in the way that only rooms full of dangerous people can be.
Not silent - there were sounds: The scratch of a pen, the slates whirring with countless private open folders, the clink of a glass being set down, the faint chanical whirr coming from Voss’s arms as he adjusted his grip on the table’s edge. But underneath those sounds, beneath them, holding them together like mortar between bricks - tension. Nobody acknowledged it. Acknowledging it would an admitting it existed, and admitting it existed would an admitting that the twelve smartest people in the known world were, at this mont, afraid of the sa thing.
I wasn’t afraid, not exactly. But I understood the room. I always understand the room.
The inner chamber was circular - stone walls, curved, glass ceiling, the kind of architecture that predated Ukai’s wooden expansion by centuries. No windows. One door. The conversations that happened here stayed here, and the world outside never learned about them.
Twelve seats around a curved table. Not all of them filled. Maren sat three places to my left - old, thin, her white hair pulled back so tight it looked painted on. She was the only one with her cloak pulled back, letting her head show She hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes, which ant she was either thinking or composing sothing devastating to say. With Maren, both were equally likely.
Across from her, the woman with the floating crown. The founder. I never learned her real na - nobody had, or if they had, they’d been convinced to forget it. She was in the Echelon long before any of us, and her whole existence was still a mystery. The crown hovered above her head in slow, silent rotation - fragnts of a dark material suspended by Eon so refined it was completely invisible. She watched everything, said little, but when she spoke, people stopped breathing until she finished.
Voss was at the far end. Aditional chanical arms - three of them, built from alloys that Neoshima’s own tallurgists couldn’t identify. The joints moved with a precision that organic limbs couldn’t match, and they made a sound - a faint, constant whirr - that I’d learned to tune out years ago but that newer mbers found deeply unsettling. Voss was loud, opinionated, and brilliant in the specific way that people who build things with their hands are brilliant. He understood force. Leverage. Application.
He did not understand subtlety. Which was, on occasion, useful.
I sat in my usual place. Third seat from the door - close enough to leave without drawing attention, far enough from the head of the table to avoid the appearance of authority. People who sit at the head of tables in rooms like this tend to find themselves responsible for things they didn’t want to be responsible for.
The discussion had been circling the sa topic for an hour. Eon healing. The bomb Elin suddenly dropped on all of us.
Everyone knew it had limits. That wasn’t new information - it was foundational, first-year curriculum. Eon could accelerate natural recovery, nd tissue, seal wounds, reduce inflammation. But it couldn’t regenerate. Couldn’t rebuild what was truly gone. Couldn’t reverse damage that went past a certain threshold.
The threshold was the question. Because nobody knew exactly where the line sat. We knew it existed - we’d seen it, docunted it, watched healers hit it and stop - but the precise point at which Eon healing transitioned from possible to impossible remained undefined, like a border with no map.
The Sky Sovereign said it almost casual, wrapped in that tone she used for anything important - the one that made you think it was trivial until a few days later when you realized it wasn’t.
"The limit isn’t fixed" Maren said, breaking the silence. "It moves. Depending on what’s being healed, and who’s doing the healing."
A moving limit. A threshold that shifted based on variables we hadn’t identified yet. If we could map those variables - find the exact conditions under which the limit expanded or contracted - we could push it. Stretch it. Extend the range of what Eon healing could do by understanding precisely where it stopped why it stopped.
That was worth more than any weapon or technique or advancent in combat Eon. And I kept the thought to myself, because the room didn’t need another theory. It needed data, and data required fieldwork that the Echelon was currently too fractured to organize effectively.
My hand flexed beneath the table.
The golden lines on dark skin were still there, running along my palm, up my wrist, disappearing beneath my sleeve.
The staff.
I didn’t want to think about the staff. I didn’t want to rember the expedition — the forest, the cold, the snow, the mont my hand closed around the shaft and dark Eon moved through the tal and into my skin. I’d told the Echelon it was a new form of Eon. I’d told them I was studying it. Both statents are true. What I hadn’t told them was that I didn’t understand it, that it behaved in ways I couldn’t predict, and that so nights, when I held my hand up to the light, the dark lines moved on their own - slowly, tracing paths through my skin like roots growing through soil, following a map I couldn’t read.
I hoped Raizen had given up on his plan. The boy was clever - cleverer than he let people see, which was itself a sign of high intelligence. The drugging attempt had been genuinely impressive, the sort of move I associated with trained operatives rather than first - almost second-year students. But he’d been after the staff, and I’d made my position clear. Whatever was running through the dark, it was mine to study. Mine to understand.
I hoped he believed -
The door snapped open.
Every head in the room turned. In a chamber where the twelve most powerful researchers in the world sat discussing matters that shaped the direction of human knowledge, doors did not snap open. They were opened carefully, respectfully, with advance notice and appropriate deference.
This was none of those things.
Through the dim sunlight outside, reflected by the slow raindrops, I saw the two guards right outside the door, with the sole task of guarding it, both on the ground. No blood. No cut. Just unconscious.
The figure that opened the door with her knee, it seems, stepped inside. It had a very big hat, with long brims, almost like the witch hats you see in children’s books.
The woman with the floating crown spoke first. Her voice was cool and asured, almost too peaceful. She spoke slowly, like soone who had known this interruption was coming and had been waiting for it.
"We’ve been expecting you" she said.
The crown completed one slow rotation.
"...Alteea Sage."
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