24. The Hands That Guide #2
To think that if the tiny strand in Lu’ma’s hands had made it to her table—or the Council’s—Her Radiance could have been unmade from the inside.
The stolen thread could’ve been used in dozens of ways—summoning, hexwork, suppression webs, spiritual binding.
Even death, if twisted with the right rune.
And Lu’ma had no doubt the Council had even such forbidden artifacts in their possession.
The thought alone gave Lu’ma goosebumps and reinforced her steps as she descended to the Null.
She slipped through warded doors, snuck through abandoned passageways, and finally entered a room so dark she could hardly see within.
It was a circular chamber made of stone and mana-resistant crystal.
The only place in Krystopolis which utterly and completely dampened magic.
Deep within, nestled into black veined rock, burned a square forge.
Around it, runes of suppression and extinction were carved in circular patterns.
Some with tools. Some with blood. They pulsed with each flicker of the green flames within, and as Lu’ma approached, she had to stop herself from shaking with the drain on her body.
The moment she was close enough, the Null began to devour her mana. She wore none of the typical protective gear used to access this chamber. Had no time to think of how she might obtain them. All that mattered was burning this hair now. Ensuring it never made it into the wrong hands.
She pulled out her dagger once more—not to cut, but to shatter.
Pulling the vial from her robes, she set it on the ground before the forge. With three careful strikes, she broke the crystal casing into shards, releasing the hair inside. She held it between her fingers, took a breath, and blew it towards the emerald flames.
When the light touched the strand, a hiss filled the room. Like a god exhaling.
Lu’ma’s entire body went ice cold. The hairs on the back of her neck and her forearms stood on end.
Nausea filled her gut. If she stayed much longer, she would Deplete.
But she did stay, even when her hands began to shake.
Because she had to be sure. Had to be absolutely certain the strand was gone.
The fire hissed.
Crackled.
The hair disintegrated in a flare of white-gold, dissolving into pure mana, released. Extinguished.
The weight of it lifted something from her chest. Her fingers trembled, and she drew back, tossing shards of the vial into the flames as well.
Her task complete, she stood and shuffled from the room, restoring the ward, ensuring all evidence of her presence was eliminated.
She turned to go back the way she came, already thinking of where she needed to stop on the way to Her Radiance’s chambers.
The kitchens for her meal.
The Dripstone for fresh linens.
And the Scriptory to pick up any missives.
Conclusion: The bodies will be found later. But there should be no evidence to link This Nameless to the act. Her Radiance is safe.
I have done well tonight.
Lu’ma emerged from the lower corridors dust-covered, her sleeves rolled and her limp falsely pronounced.
Before going anywhere, she stopped beside a metal sculpture of the Destroyer in the hallway to check her appearance.
With a scrap of linen in her pocket, she wiped away a smudge of black on her cheek.
Using a comb in her pack, she brushed back her dark hair and tied it into a tight bun before donning her hood.
The dust at the hem of her robe might be noticed, but she hoped it would fall away as she walked.
In the kitchens, she gathered Her Radiance’s and His Quintessence’s trays, checking the food on each one, even griping at the Attendant serving the meals about shorting Her Radiance three whole grapes in her portion.
The man sneered, but gave her an extra vine when she threatened to tell the Handlers that he acted against the Resh’Agar’s decree by harming Her Radiance.
'First deformed. Now Frayed. How low can the Sokar fall to carry you, Nameless,' he signed.
Lu’ma’s hands moved with precision and apathy in response, 'Try to speak ill of Her Radiance once more, and this Nameless will ensure it will not happen again.'
With that, she picked up the trays and left for the Dripstone where she placed fresh linens, oils, and essences into her pack to take to the Resh’Agar’s wing.
The Attendants here were too busy to spare her any glances this day, and Lu’ma rushed to the Scriptory for a final check for missives before heading back to the Lattice stairs.
From this level, she had to ascend two flights to make it to the Resh’Agar’s wing.
She did so carefully, ensuring those who passed her saw her limping and struggling.
It was frustrating some days, pretending her stiff leg heavily limited her movements.
She hated seeing the worry in Her Radiance’s eyes, too. And the pity in the Resh’Agar’s.
She hated lying to her Host. But this was for the best.
Let the gossipers think she was slow and clumsy.
Let the Companions believe her incapable of self-defense.
When the time came to protect Her Radiance, this act would be a payoff no one would foresee.
The Reskala at the threshold of the stairs didn’t stop her.
None ever stopped an Attendant from moving to and from their duties in the Lattice.
Worthless. Nameless. Just hands moving about and scurrying to fulfill their tasks.
Bodies given orders that had no will behind their eyes.
An oversight that had allowed the Solutus to breed within their ranks.
And now, not even those of the Council knew how deep their reach truly was.
When Lu’ma arrived at her destination, the Resh’Agar’s wing was still hushed, still drowsy with morning. The warmth of the fluxhearths had not yet fully filled the air, and the Polis lanterns remained dimmed to half-light.
Balancing the trays and linens, she passed the carved threshold into the private chamber—only to pause when she heard voices.
His Quintessence.
The long onyx and gold curtains swayed with a breeze of morning air coming from the open balcony.
Lu’ma stood just beyond them, silent in the sliver of shadow where the Mirror Shaft’s light had not yet reached.
Her hands were tucked before her, the linen of her sleeves folded in a formal pattern signaling an Attendant at work.
Her steps halted. She had not intended to eavesdrop.
But she would not move—not now.
From the chamber beyond came the rustle of cloth, the faint tug of leather laces being drawn tight. A breath. A shift of weight.
“...Kail…”
The softest murmur.
Lu’ma stilled. Even her breath paused.