The wind grew more aggressive, as if they had uttered a blasphemy.
It wasn't a gradual increase.
It was a reaction.
Invisible currents slammed against the iron walls with a deep groan, tearing a metallic screech from the chamber. The glass containing the prism vibrated, and the cracks in the air widened just a little more—enough for everyone to notice.
Enough for everyone to feel fear.
Sikan raised a hand.
Not to stop the wind.
To impose silence.
And somehow, it worked.
The currents didn't vanish, but they recoiled, folding in on themselves like a wounded animal choosing to observe before attacking.
"Zephyr," Sikan said carefully, pronouncing the name as if every syllable carried weight, "was not a god in the sense that you understand gods."
Nero felt something tighten inside him.
"He was an active principle. A will that upheld a fundamental law of the world: movement. Change. Flow."
Merlin frowned.
"Doesn't sound very stable."
"He wasn't," Sikan admitted. "That's why he fell."
He stepped closer to the prism, always keeping an exact distance from the containment glass.
"When Zephyr was destroyed," he continued, "he didn't die completely. He couldn't. Laws don't die so easily. His soul fractured."
Lux let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"Fragments of a divine soul floating around? Great. Exactly what we needed."
Sikan didn't look at him.
"Each fragment contains a portion of his essence. Not memories. Not full consciousness. Functions."
Sunday tensed.
"What kind of functions?"
Sikan met his gaze.
"The kind that keep the world running."
Silence fell again, heavier than before.
Sikan pointed at the prism.
"This is one of those fragments. A piece of Zephyr's soul."
The wind reacted again, swirling more violently, as if confirming his words.
Kōri clenched her fists.
"Then why is it here?"
"Because someone found it," Sikan replied. "And had the intelligence—or the madness—to not activate it."
Nero looked up.
"Activate it… how?"
Sikan exhaled slowly.
"A fragment of Zephyr can be activated in two ways."
He raised one finger.
"The correct way."
Then another.
"The incorrect one."
Merlin tilted his head.
"Worryingly vague definitions."
"The correct activation," Sikan explained, "is to restore coherence to the fragment. Integrate it. Allow it to fulfill its function and then… let it go."
"Let it go where?" Lux asked.
"To wherever laws go when they are no longer needed," Sikan replied. "The fragment disappears. It is consumed. The damage it causes is reversed—or at least stabilized."
Sunday swallowed.
"And the incorrect one?"
Sikan smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
"Trying to use it."
The wind exploded against the glass, one of the air cracks snapping open and shut with a dry crack, like a bone breaking.
"Channeling it," Sikan continued. "Forcing it. Binding it to a human will."
A chill ran down Nero's spine.
"What happens then?"
Sikan looked straight at him.
"Everything goes to hell."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't exaggerate.
"The laws the fragment represents become unstable. Movement stops obeying the world. Change occurs without cause. Space tears. Time… desynchronizes."
Merlin pressed his lips together.
"In other words," he murmured, "a local catastrophe… that can become global."
"Exactly," Sikan said. "That's why this place exists. Why there are seals. Why no one who shouldn't be here knows this exists."
Lux stared at the prism with a mix of fascination and horror.
"And has anyone ever tried the incorrect activation before?"
Sikan didn't answer right away.
Resten stepped forward.
"More than once."
The wind howled again, lower this time. Deeper.
Nero closed his eyes for a moment.
Fragments of a god.
Correct activation: disappearance.
Incorrect activation: ruin.
And at the center of it all, an object reacting as if it were… listening.
When he opened his eyes again, the prism seemed to be spinning a little faster.
As if it were waiting.
Not for just anyone.
For him.
Nero swallowed, careful that every word leaving his mouth was the right one.
"And… what importance do we have here?"
The prism kept spinning, slow and constant. The wind stirred faintly, as if listening closely.
Sikan watched him for a long second before answering.
"You…" he said hoarsely.
He stopped.
Thought.
It wasn't a theatrical pause. It was real. As if he were measuring how much he could say without breaking something invisible.
Finally, he continued:
"You are responsible for stopping the Brotherhood from using the fragment."
Silence fell instantly.
Even the wind went still for a moment, folding back toward the prism—quiet, expectant. Not like a natural force.
Like a spectator.
Lux was the first to react.
"Oh," he said slowly. "Right. Stopping a cult obsessed with divine fragments capable of breaking reality. Totally within our skill set."
Sunday didn't smile.
"That doesn't answer the important question."
Sikan raised an eyebrow.
"Which is?"
"Why us?"
Merlin's expression was neutral. Too neutral. His eyes, however, analyzed every word, every silence, every vibration in the air.
Sikan exhaled.
"Because you don't exist in the important records," he said at last. "You don't belong to any major house. You aren't bound by strong political oaths. You don't answer directly to any higher authority."
Resten crossed his arms.
"You're… expendable," he added bluntly.
Kōri clenched her jaw.
"Nice way to put it."
"It's an honest one," Resten replied.
Sikan continued:
"Also, the Fillius Dei is too busy."
Nero looked up.
"Busy with what?"
Sikan hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"The civil war in the north."
That was enough.
The words hung in the air like another crack—unseen, but dangerous.
A civil war?
Nero felt the detail embed itself in his mind. Troops mobilized. Vickmolt involved. Resources diverted. Power unattended.
Vacuum.
And vacuums were always filled by something.
Lux whistled softly.
"There's always a civil war when something terrible is about to happen."
Sunday closed his eyes for a second.
"This is too big," he said firmly. "We're not a containment force. We're not inquisitors. We're nothing."
Merlin tilted his head.
"And," he added with dangerous calm, "if the Brotherhood wants to use the fragment, it means they're already desperate. And desperate people don't make small mistakes."
Kōri stepped forward.
"We're not accepting," she said flatly. "Not with incomplete information and no real support."
The wind didn't react.
Neither did the prism.
Sikan looked at them one by one.
There was no surprise on his face.
Only exhaustion.
"I expected that," he admitted. "That's why this isn't an order."
Resten clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed, but didn't argue.
"Very well," Sikan said. "Then this ends here."
He turned.
"Resten."
The man nodded and led them out of the chamber. No one stopped them. No one tried to persuade them again.
The staircase felt longer on the way up.
Heavier.
As if something down there had taken note of their decision.
The return walk was silent.
Not the tense silence from before.
Something more uncomfortable.
More human.
Finally, Resten guided them to a side section of the compound, protected by reinforced doors and two armed guards. The treasury.
Inside, a clerk waited without looking up much.
Resten spoke for them.
"Compensation for time lost and inconvenience."
The man opened a chest.
The sound of metal rang sharp.
"Three hundred Longs," he announced.
The coins gleamed under the cold light.
Lux raised an eyebrow.
"That's it?"
"It's more than most earn in a lifetime," Resten replied without emotion. "And more than you deserve for saying no."
Merlin took the pouch without protest.
"Consider it a reward," he said with a faint smile.
They left.
Once they were alone in the hallway, Kōri broke the silence.
"We just refused to stop the end of the Vickmolt."
"We refused to die without knowing why," Sunday corrected.
Lux sighed.
"Yeah, but I have a feeling that 'no' isn't going to last."
Nero said nothing.
His thoughts were still below.
On the prism.
On the wind.
On the way it had reacted when he spoke.
It hadn't officially chosen them.
But it hadn't dismissed them either.
And that… was worse.