The rest of the meal passed in a state of quiet. While the buns were indeed as delectable as Pelka had promised, the shadow of the wall of thorns in Virelle’s mind lingered over the table. Virelle made a few passing remarks about the lack of theatrical plating for the fruit parfaits, but the sharp, biting arrogance she usually reserved was noticeably absent.

  Aiven watched her out of the corner of his eye. Her hair seemed to hang a little heavier than usual, and the glow in her eyes was dimmed, lost in a distant, pained reflection. He hated seeing her like this—quiet, subdued, and haunted.

  "Pelka," Aiven said, turning to the analyst in an attempt to break the gloom. "Are there any... interesting places to visit on the island? A park or a garden we could see before the mission tomorrow?"

  Pelka’s sheep ears twitched with surprise, and she started to brighten up. "Oh! Yes! The Vulpine Botanical Gardens are just two floors down, and they have bioluminescent lilies from the Southern Isles that are—"

  "There is no need to go anywhere, Master," Virelle interrupted. Her voice was flat, lacking its usual melodic flair. She didn't even look at Pelka; she just stared at the empty porcelain plate in front of her. "Staying in our room is quite sufficient. There is nothing on this island that would interest me at this moment."

  Pelka, sensing the heavy atmosphere, didn't push her luck. Once the plates were cleared, she stood up and adjusted her bangs. "T-then If you're finished, I’ll escort you back to the 30th floor."

  The walk back was uneventful. Pelka led them through the emerald-carpeted hallways, the silence only broken by the soft click-clack of her hooves and the low hum of the Spire’s environmental magic. When they reached Room 102, she gave a stiff, nervous bow. "I’ll see you at dawn the day after tomorrow."

  Aiven tapped the keycard, and the door hissed open, revealing the tropical luxury of their suite. He walked in and sat at the edge of the large bed, his right hand absentmindedly rubbing the empty space where his left arm should be.

  "Virelle," Aiven began, looking up at her as she hovered near the fern in the corner. "Are you really okay with this? Just... staying in this room and doing nothing until the mission starts?"

  Virelle drifted toward him, her skirts brushing against the silk linens. She didn't look at the fern or the expensive decor; she only looked at him. "Master, your concern is as adorable as it is unnecessary," she said, her voice soft but regaining a hint of its usual silk. "Sharing a space with you, even one as clinically comfortable as this, is exactly what I want. Your presence is quite sufficient."

  They spent the next few hours in a comfortable, heavy silence. Aiven tried to read one of the leather-bound books on the desk, but his eyes kept drifting back to Virelle. She would occasionally ask a silly question—wondering if the tortoise on the buns was a local deity or if the carpet was made from the wool of Pelka’s ancestors—but beneath the playfulness, Aiven could sense her restlessness.

  He knew what was bothering her because it was bothering him, too. The wall of thorns in her mind. Whether she was a protector or a harbinger of the disaster that took Lyra away was a question that felt like a splinter in his mind. He wanted to know the truth, yet he was terrified of what it might be. And for now, that truth was locked behind a door they couldn't force open.

  Suddenly, Virelle stopped mid-air, her eyes widening as if a bolt of lightning had just struck her prismatic orb.

  "Master," she breathed, turning to him with a sudden, sharp intensity. "I have just realized something. This 'Loom-Breaker' the fox spoke of... the artifact that can unmake any seal, no matter the level or complexity."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Aiven sat up straighter. "Yeah? What about it?"

  Virelle drifted closer, her hands reaching out to hover near his left shoulder. "Your star in a bottle. Your mana. Now it’s like a valve that is sealed shut.”

  She looked him in the eye, her gaze burning with a sudden, fierce hope. "But what if that valve is simply another form of a seal? If the Loom-Breaker can truly unravel any lock, then it should be able to unmake the seal placed on you. With that artifact, you could finally utilize and control the flow of that abundant mana without having to be on the verge of death or relying on a brass bypass."

  Aiven stared at her, the gravity of the suggestion making his breath hitch. "You mean... I could actually use magic? Real magic?"

  "Not just magic, Master," Virelle purred, her theatrical smugness returning in full force. "You would be the ocean itself. And with me to guide the tide... there would be no force that could stand in our way."

  Aiven looked at his lap, his heart hammering. The mission wasn't just about a deal with a fox anymore. It was a chance to finally stop being the clerk who needed saving.

  "Then we definitely aren't coming back empty-handed," Aiven whispered.

  Virelle nodded, and Aiven could see her regaining her cheerfulness.

  He knew she had been racking her brain all day to find a way to be useful, trying to make up for not being able to recall her memories earlier.

  For a moment, Aiven closed his eyes. In the quiet theater of his mind, he saw himself—not as the clumsy delivery boy of Hearthport or an average clerk of Lowhaven, but as a proper adventurer. He imagined the white light of his mana finally breaking free from its cage, flowing through his veins like liquid starlight. He saw himself casting actual spells—shields that didn't just flicker, but endured; blasts that didn't require a brass conduit to stabilize.

  Suddenly, the impossible puzzles of Virelle’s past and the tragedy of Hearthport didn't seem like insurmountable walls. They were simply problems—equations that an ordinary clerk could never tackle, but that a man with the Loom-Breaker could finally solve. He felt the phantom weight of the artifact in his mind, the key that would allow him to finally move, to stop being a bystander in his own tragedy, and to become the master of the tide he carried within.

  The next morning, after another lavish breakfast that Aiven ate with distracted haste, Vane arrived at their door. He escorted them back down to the 48th floor.

  Noirelle was waiting for them, looking like she hadn't slept a wink. Her dark hair was even messier than before, and her lab coat was covered in fresh oil and mana-scorch marks. On the table before her lay the Armvil Mark 3, but it looked different—sharper, the brass plating now boasting a matte obsidian finish with glowing cyan etchings.

  "He’s ready!" Noirelle cheered, her green eyes wide with manic exhaustion. She gestured to the limb with a flourish. "After careful consideration, I decided the standard punch-and-blast routine was a bit beneath a Vulpine asset. I’ve added some specific tweaks to the mana manipulators."

  She began to point out the new features as she prepped Aiven for installation. "Instead of merely firing raw blasts, the palm vent can now weave condensed mana into high-tensile nets for non-lethal capture. And here—" she tapped a thin, recessed socket along the outer forearm, "—you can now manifest a mana blade for close-quarters slashing. It’s perfect for when you don't have time to charge a bolt."

  Noirelle’s tail gave a frantic, excited wag. "But my favorite feature? I call it the Aetheric Echo. It’s a sensory pulse. If you're near hidden mana sources or traps, the arm will give a low-frequency vibration directly into your humerus. It’s like a sixth sense for treasure hunters!"

  With a series of expert clicks and the familiar, cold jolt of the neural sync, Noirelle installed the arm. Aiven flexed the fingers, feeling the increased responsiveness. The weight felt more balanced, the power more refined.

  While these tools were incredibly useful in their own right, Aiven’s mind was elsewhere. He wasn't thinking about mana nets or vibration pulses. He was focused on the islet shrouded in mist, and the jagged crystal key waiting at its heart.

  The Armvil Mark 3—and perhaps the Mark 4 now—was the bridge. The Loom-Breaker was the destination. It was the key to his dream, and he was finally ready to take the first step toward it.