We stood outside a door so big it looked like it had trauma.
Runes glowed around the frame. The air pulsed like a heartbeat. Even the stone beneath our feet was etched with words I couldn't understand — but felt like they were watching me back.
Rayleigh took one look and said, dead serious:
> "I'm not going in."
> "Wait, what?"
> "I have... chronic anti-council exposure disorder."
> "Is that a real—?"
> "Last time I went in, someone spoke in Old Vowelic and a chair tried to eat me. So no. I'll be in the Archive. Tell them I'm gardening. Or possessed. Or both."
And with that, he turned and vanished into the nearest scroll cloud like the mysterious wizard uncle he was.
I stared after him.
> "Was he serious?"
> "He once faked his own magical funeral to avoid a lecture," Aari replied. "So yes."
The giant council doors opened with a sound like thunder muttering Latin.
I followed Aari inside.
---
The Council Chamber was a circular room made entirely of scriptstone — each word carved into the walls still glowing faintly. Seven massive seats rose around the edges like thrones, each occupied by a very intense-looking person.
And I mean intense like... "I have two PhDs and a pet fire-dragon shaped like a semicolon" intense.
Aari leaned over to whisper:
> "That's the Council of Seven. Don't blink too fast. They think it's disrespectful."
Great.
One of them — a tall woman whose hair looked like inkwaves and whose eyes were literal quotation marks — leaned forward.
> "State your name and core language."
I swallowed. "Leo. Uh… French. I think."
The room didn't explode. So that was something.
Another Councilor — wearing a floating monocle and a robe made entirely of enchanted sentences — raised a hand.
> "You are Tongueborn. A foreign speaker who activated a core. That is... highly irregular."
> "He also set an old man on fire," Aari added helpfully.
> "ACCIDENTALLY," I hissed.
The Grammar Seat councilor — stiff posture, tight bun, aura of death-by-ellipsis — clicked her tongue.
> "Untrained. Inconsistent. Unqualified."
> "Also very flammable," I muttered.
The Silent Seat didn't speak — just stared.
They hadn't blinked once. I was starting to wonder if they were even alive or just an illusion powered by unresolved vocabulary trauma.
Another voice — smooth, accented, like it belonged to someone who taught forbidden poetry in secret — spoke up from the Phonetics Seat:
> "You say your core activated through broken promise. Through loss. Through love?"
> "More like I deleted Duolingo and the bird cursed me."
They all flinched slightly.
One even whispered, "The Owl Pact... still holds?"
I turned to Aari. "That... sounded important."
She just shrugged. "They're dramatic."
The Lexicon Seat finally spoke.
> "You are not a threat… yet. But we will monitor your progress."
> "Monitor how?"
> "Your spells. Your speech. Your thoughts, if they get loud enough."
> "Oh. Fun."
They stamped a rune. A scroll zipped from the ceiling and smacked me in the chest.
> [Provisional Caster Pass: Issued]
Access: Local Scroll Archive, Public Casting Zones
Restrictions: No singing spells, no advanced dialects, no scroll dueling, no summoning snack spells near government buildings
> "You may go," they said. "For now."
As we stepped out of the chamber, I finally exhaled.
> "Well, that wasn't too bad," I said. "Nobody exploded. Nobody cried. I only sweated through one layer of clothing."
> "They didn't kill you," Aari said. "That's what we call a success around here."
I nodded, following her down the hall.
But just before the door closed behind us...
I heard something.
A voice — a whisper — not spoken aloud, but heavy, like it had crawled out of a crack in time.
It wasn't French.
Wasn't Thistlish.
Wasn't even a language I knew existed.
It was old. Ancient. Twisted.
Something that felt like it was made of dust, vowels, and forgotten lullabies.
But somehow... I understood it.
> "One note. One note is all it takes."
I froze mid-step.
The doors behind us were already sealing, but I looked back.
All the council seats were empty…
Except one.
The Silent Seat.
Still sitting. Still unmoving.
Still staring.
He hadn't said a word the whole session.
And yet... that whisper had come from him.
He tilted his head — just slightly — and I swear…
He smiled.
---