Knight Headquarters – War Room, Nondicci
The chamber was dim and cracked, barely surviving the last tremor. Dust clung to old banners, and the air reeked faintly of scorched ozone. A circular table—half-charred—sat at the center, surrounded by those who remained to steer the sinking capital.
Liam Passart stepped into the room with Layla Ackerman. His synthetic frame moved with measured precision. Layla's mutated aura pulsed faintly, wrapped in a long coat to hide the shifting scars.
Every head turned.
Belore Bart, leaning heavily on the hilt of his sword, gave them a tired nod. "They're here. We can begin."
Liam scanned the table—every individual present wielded influence, power, or danger. Some he respected, some he distrusted, but all of them mattered now. He sighed. "You've gathered quite the list, Belore."
Layla frowned openly. "Most of them would never sit together unless the world was ending."
"Which it is," said High Inquisitor Seraphin Vale, her eyes glowing with restrained power. "The mana is corrupted. The deeper my prayers go, the more pain I feel. It's like something is poisoning the very essence of magic."
Archmage Lorien Quavek, still robed in ceremonial silks, looked graver than usual. "Ley lines have ruptured. I've lost control of three towers to magical anomalies. The more power you have, the more quickly you deteriorate."
Liam stepped forward. "We're calling it Arcane Contamination. I've confirmed it through AISAR's data sweep and physical autopsies. High-mana individuals are experiencing cellular breakdown, magical feedback loops, and full cognitive degradation. It begins with headaches, hallucinations, and sensitivity to light. Then comes madness. Then death."
Dr. Kessian Thorne nodded. "It behaves like an invasive mana-based infection. Magic is turning toxic. Even healing spells accelerate symptoms. I've had to ban them in my clinics."
Lady Ysolde Calwin scoffed. "Then what's left? Without magic, our supply chains collapse. I've got merchants going blind from light runes they used all their lives."
Layla cut in sharply. "Magic is no longer a tool—it's a ticking bomb. Keep using it, and you'll detonate."
Marquess Vaelros Nightbane chuckled darkly. "So the nobles rot in their towers while the rats survive in the alleys. Poetic."
Mistress Calra Vynn leaned back, unbothered. "My followers already embrace hallucination and pain. But now they dream in foreign tongues. Something deeper than us is whispering through the weave."
Magister Orvax Grimm, the city's necromancer, lifted his skeletal hand. "I've tried raising the dead for labor. They return twitching, raving about burning skies and mirrors that bleed. Even the dead are infected."
General Hadrek Vorn, his armor scorched and dented, growled. "So what, we put down our weapons and pray? I have battalions still breathing. We need a chain of command, not riddles."
Then the last voice came—a whisper from the veiled figure in the corner:
The Oracle of Broken Glass.
"The weave is cracked. Magic flows wrong. The stars are bleeding. The light inside your bones will eat you from within."
Silence fell.
Belore's voice was rough. "This city stands by threads. This room is what's left of our leadership. Like it or not, we are the council now."
He gestured to the table, fingers tracing the cracked city map.
"If we can't cooperate, then Nondicci is dead. And if we don't find the source of this contamination, the rest of the world will follow."
Liam nodded, face calm but eyes sharp. "We need a solution, not panic. I'll trace the root of the corruption through mana filtration and leyline diagnostics. But I need time—and access."
Layla folded her arms. "And protection. Because if Liam dies, so do our answers."
Everyone looked at each other—enemy and ally, schemer and soldier.
The room reeked of magic, blood, and desperation.
Outside, the city burned beneath a sickening, ash-filled sky.