The Council Chamber didn't breathe so much as hold its breath out of spite.
The air was thick enough to chew on—moisture that refused to settle, resonance lamps burning their pale blue light against the darkness overhead where mist wandered through ventilation shafts like it had nowhere better to be. The chamber was old in the way that mattered: older than the men and women who thought they ruled from within it, older than the districts that hung suspended above nothing, old enough that the stone remembered being bedrock before Caelum learned to float.
The patterns carved into that stone still worked, after a fashion. They hummed just below hearing, keeping the chamber isolated from the Weave's constant pull and push. Tonight that isolation felt less like safety and more like being sealed in a crypt while still breathing.
The table dominated the room—black obsidian shot through with silver that might have been circuitry or might have been veins—and around it sat twelve chairs arranged in a circle that was meant to suggest equality but fooled no one. Eleven were occupied.
Mareth's seat sat empty.
Everyone kept looking at it. Couldn't help themselves. It drew the eye the way an open wound draws flies, the way a missing tooth draws the tongue.
Vessel-Coordinator Thane sat where a head of the table would be if circles had heads. He was tall even sitting down, with a salt-brown beard trimmed close and a jaw that looked like it ached from being clenched so tight. His robes were dark green edged in gold—agricultural oversight, which used to mean grain stores and now meant the resonance-soaked plants that powered half the city's infrastructure. He cleared his throat.
The sound died wrong in the charged air, swallowed by stone and mist before it could properly echo.
"This session convenes," Thane said, voice clipped in that way people spoke when they'd learned that hesitation invited wolves. "We're here to address the disturbances. To determine response."
No one answered him.
Across the table, Councilor Ilreth shifted. She had sharp features and bronze skin, her hair twisted into a crown braid that sat on her head like a real crown. Her robes were deep crimson marked with black geometry—enforcement and containment. She'd climbed the ranks by being thorough and ruthless and openly contemptuous of anything that smelled like sentiment.
Her eyes fixed on the empty chair.
"Where's Mareth?" Not loud. She didn't need volume to make words cut.
Thane's jaw got tighter. "Archive matters. He sends regrets."
"Regrets." Ilreth tasted the word like it had gone bad. "The city's tearing itself apart, we convene an emergency session, and our lead Archivist—the one man with access to precedent for an Anchor awakening—sends regrets?"
"He can't be reached."
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"Like hell it doesn't." Ilreth leaned in. "Mareth's been obstructing inquiries for some time. Delayed reports. Restricted documents. And now he vanishes when we need him?"
Murmurs rippled around the table. Unease spreading like cracks in winter ice.
Councilor Varyn—quiet, soft-shouldered, with a mind like filed steel—spoke carefully. "We should proceed without him. The Anchor won't wait for Mareth to decide he's ready to cooperate."
Ilreth's eyes flashed. "Or maybe his absence is the answer. Maybe he knows exactly what's happening and doesn't want to share."
Thane raised one hand. "We're not here to debate Mareth's calendar. Proceed with reports."
The councilors looked at each other. No one looked satisfied, but discipline held.
For now.
*******
A junior analyst approached the table like she was walking toward an execution—thin, nervous-handed, ink-stained fingers clutching crystalline data tablets. She set them down with the kind of care you'd give a sleeping child, then stepped back fast as if proximity to power might contaminate her.
Thane gestured. "Summarize."
The woman swallowed. "Seventeen documented anomalies across eastern districts. Past fourteen days. Each event shares characteristics: brief duration, minimal structural damage, residual signatures that fade within hours."
"Seventeen." Councilor Renis repeated it like he was tasting poison. He had a round face that always looked worried—an expression that served him well managing civilian safety. "That's what, forty percent increase over last month?"
"Forty-three percent," the analyst confirmed.
"Eastern districts specifically?" Varyn. Her voice stayed level but her fingers had started tracing patterns on the table's edge—unconscious tell when she was calculating odds she didn't like.
"Concentrated near Worker's Quarter boundary. Some spillover into residential zones. Epicenter remains consistent."
Thane pulled a tablet closer. "Seismic activity?"
"Negative. Infrastructure scans clean."
"Unauthorized Weave work?"
"Unknown. No registered practitioners in those sectors during event windows."
Silence dropped like a stone down a well.
Councilor Marlind—elderly, white-haired, liver-spotted hands that shook when he lifted things—spoke in a voice like dried leaves scraping pavement. "There's another report. Not distributed yet." He gestured to the analyst. "Show them the pressure readings."
The woman hesitated. Then tapped commands.
A three-dimensional map materialized above the table—Caelum rendered in translucent blue, districts outlined in pale light. Across the eastern sector, red markers pulsed like infected wounds.
"Weave pressure rising unevenly," the analyst explained. "Not from external sources. From within the foundation. As though..." She faltered.
"As though what?" Ilreth demanded.
"As though something's pressing against the Weave from inside. Pushing outward."
The chamber went still enough to hear hearts beating.
Someone coughed. Another shifted with a creak of old wood. But no one spoke.
Thane stared at the display. Red pulses reflected in his eyes. "So we're certain. It's an Anchor."
Not a question.
Renis tried anyway. "Could be infrastructure decay. Old conduits failing—"
"Those show predictable patterns," Varyn interrupted. "This is organic. Intentional, almost."
"Political sabotage," another councilor suggested. "Destabilize the city for leverage—"
"With what resources?" Ilreth cut in. "This needs skill and equipment we'd notice."
The word no one wanted to say hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Marlind said it. His old voice carried no inflection, just tired recognition of truth everyone else was dodging.
"Anchor awakening."
"We don't know that," Renis protested, but his voice had gone thin.
"Don't we?" Varyn's fingers stopped moving. She looked around the table, meeting eyes that flinched away. "Localized disturbances. Escalating frequency. Pressure from within the Weave itself. What else fits?"
"Many things could—"
"Name one." Ilreth's voice was flat as a blade. "Name a single alternative that accounts for the data."
Renis opened his mouth. Closed it.
Thane set down the tablet with deliberate care. "If it is an Anchor, we need Mareth's records. Precedent. Protocols. Last awakening was over a century ago. No one here has experience with—"
"I do."
Every head turned.
Warden-Commander Sera stood in the entrance. Must have arrived while they argued—silent, unnoticed until she chose otherwise. Her uniform was immaculate: reinforced pauldrons etched with rank, high collar fastened with storm-steel clasps, bracers inscribed with oath-lines. Dark hair braided into a tight knot. The scar along her jaw caught lamplight in a way that made it look fresh.
She moved into the chamber with controlled precision.
"Commander," Thane said carefully. "You weren't invited."
"No. But I'm relevant." Sera stopped at the table's edge. Didn't sit. "You're debating whether this is an Anchor. Stop wasting time. It is."
Ilreth's eyes narrowed. "You sound certain."
"I am. I was there last time." Sera's gaze swept the Council. "His name was Torven. Twenty-three. Resonance theorist. Worked in the Archives. Started showing signs—exactly what you're seeing now."
"What happened to him?" Renis asked quietly.
"The Council identified him. Implemented containment. Assured everyone it was for his safety, for the city's protection." Sera's voice stayed empty. Flat. "He lasted six months before the resonance tore him apart from inside. You were running tests—pushing limits, trying to understand mechanisms, treating him like a puzzle instead of a person. The Weave consumed him. Nothing left but ash and threads of light that took days to fade."
The chamber had gone cold enough to see breath.
"The official report," Sera continued, "classified it as unavoidable. Natural progression of unstable condition. But I was there. I watched you push too hard. Ignore warnings. Prioritize data over dignity."
Thane's face had drained of color. "Commander, that's—"
"True. Every word." Sera's expression didn't change. "So when you discuss this Anchor, understand what you're really asking: how quickly can we repeat our mistakes?"
Silence stretched like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath.
Varyn spoke first. "If there's an Anchor, we need to act. Before—"
"Before what?" Sera asked. "Before they learn control? Before they become too dangerous to contain easily?"
"Before they attract Beckoned," Varyn said quietly.
That stopped Sera. Her jaw tightened. "Explain."
Varyn pulled up another display—older records, fragmented text, illustrations of figures wrapped in light. "Anchors destabilize the Weave until they learn control or are claimed. That destabilization creates patterns Beckoned recognize. They're drawn to it. Compelled."
"How long?" Thane demanded.
"Depends on the Anchor's strength and awakening speed. Days. Weeks. Sometimes hours if the spike's severe enough." Varyn's voice dropped. "An unclaimed Anchor is a beacon calling things we barely understand through barriers we can't repair."
The weight of that settled over the chamber like grave dirt on a coffin lid.
Renis wiped sweat from his forehead despite the cold. "We need Mareth's archives. Containment methods that actually worked."
"Mareth's been withholding information," Ilreth said. "Again. See the pattern?"
"Or protecting it," Sera offered. "From people who'd misuse it. Again."
Thane slammed his palm on the table. The crack echoed like a whip. "Enough. We don't have time." He looked at the analyst. "The signature. Can we track it?"
The woman nodded shakily. "Old monitors captured fragmentary data. Signature doesn't match registered practitioners or known equipment. It's unique."
"Growing stronger?"
"Yes. Subtle but consistent. Three percent increase in baseline intensity over the past week."
Thane looked around the table. "Then we know what we're dealing with. Emerging Anchor. Untrained. Uncontained. Attracting the attention of things we can't let through."
"Send Wardens," Ilreth said immediately.
"No." Varyn. "Too public. Too slow. Too much protocol."
"Then what?"
Varyn's fingers traced patterns again. "Covert approach. Small team. Specialized equipment. Identify the Anchor quietly, assess, report back before we make moves that can't be undone."
"You want to hide this," Renis said. "From the public. From our own divisions."
"I want to avoid panic," Varyn corrected. "And give us room for informed decisions instead of reactive ones driven by fear and incomplete information."
Debate erupted. Voices overlapping, arguments colliding like swords in the dark:
"—can't justify secret operations—"
"—can't risk destabilization if word spreads—"
"—what about the Anchor's rights—"
"—what about everyone else's right not to be consumed—"
Thane let it run for thirty seconds. Then raised his hand.
Silence.
"We vote," he said. "Specialized retrieval unit. Small team. High-grade detection equipment. Orders to identify and assess only—no engagement without approval. Yes or no."
He looked around the table. Met eyes. Read faces.
"All in favor?"
Hands rose one by one.
Varyn. Ilreth. Marlind. Renis—reluctant, but he raised it.
Others followed until only two hands stayed down: Sera's and one other councilor whose name mattered less than his dissent.
"Motion passes," Thane said. "Authorization granted for three-person Retrieval Unit with resonance detectors normally restricted to Beckoned research. Mission parameters: locate source. Identify nature and threat level. Do not engage. Report directly to this Council."
He tapped commands into the interface. "Commander Sera, your objection is noted for the record."
Sera's expression didn't change. "Good. If only you'd take it into consideration"
She turned and left. Her footsteps echoed long after she'd vanished into the corridor's darkness.
***
The Council fragmented like broken glass.
Councilors rose, gathered tablets, exchanged words that wouldn't be recorded. The chamber emptied slowly—reluctant, as if leaving meant admitting what they'd authorized.
Thane remained seated until everyone had gone.
He stared at the empty chair. Mareth's chair.
"Why did you have to make this difficult?" he said to the absence.
The chair offered no answer. Just silence and the faint hum of old patterns carved into older stone.
Thane stood finally. His knees ached. His head ached. His conscience ached in ways he'd learned to ignore but never managed to silence.
He walked toward the exit, robes whispering against tiles worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. At the threshold he paused.
Looked back.
The empty seat seemed to watch him. Judging. Waiting.
"We're trying to save the city," Thane told it. "Remember that."
Outside, fog crept through suspended streets. Lamps flickered. Conduits pulsed their uneven rhythms. The city shifted in its sleep, unaware of decisions made in its name.
*******
A messenger moved through the Council building's lower corridors like smoke through cracks.
Young. Nondescript. The kind of face you forgot before they left the room. She carried a sealed dispatch case marked with symbols that meant classified and destroy after reading.
She descended three levels—past administrative offices, past archive storage, past the point where normal staff needed escorts.
At the bottom, a door waited. No markings. No signs. Just reinforced steel and a biometric lock that scanned her palm before admitting entry.
The room beyond was small and functional. Three figures sat at a tactical table studying equipment: resonance detectors, communication gear, armor that looked civilian from a distance but had been reinforced with Weave-resistant alloys.
They looked up as the messenger entered.
"Orders from the Council," she said. Set the case down. "Deploy immediately. Begin tonight."
A woman with sharp features and cold eyes opened the case. Read the orders twice. Committed them to memory before activating the document's self-destruct.
The paper crumbled to ash in her hands.
"Understood," she said. "We'll begin sweep operations within the hour."
The messenger nodded and left.
The three figures looked at each other. Said nothing. They'd worked together long enough that words were unnecessary.
They gathered equipment.
Checked detectors.
Synchronized communication frequencies.
Then they left through a door that opened onto an alley where fog already waited—thick and patient.