The first time someone painted a relay node purple, it was a joke.
Nim Tealeaf had found a crate of violet scrap dye during a salvage run and, in a fit of chaotic inspiration, daubed the top of a working relay node with a swirling pulse spiral. The next day, three different kids from the Deep Tunnels started asking for the "purple pulse box."
By the end of the week, purple-pulsed nodes dotted half the undercity.
"You realize," Eline said, squinting at the bright swirl painted on a node near the Greenglass corridor, "you've accidentally branded a revolution with a color."
"It's better than gray," Nim said proudly. "Gray's for towers. Purple's for people."
What started as a splash of color turned into something else. Everywhere the purple pulses showed up, stories followed. Couriers coordinating faster routes. Medica runners saving lives by receiving help ahead of time. Lost kids found within minutes thanks to open signal pings. Even a fire in the Lower Ductline was resolved before the station's official alarms could finish warming up.
It became a symbol: if there was a purple pulse nearby, someone cared.
But that was exactly what Vassian Arcten feared.
Three days after the Lower Ductline incident, Vehrmath's most prominent arc-news outlet published a feature:
"Unlicensed Relay Systems and the Risk of Mental Contagion: A Noble's Duty to Prevent Disaster"
The article, paid for by House Arcten, described Benedict's network as "untested, unsupervised magical interference nodes" and suggested the relay pulses were carrying subliminal enchantments.
One columnist even wrote:
"These pulses—if indeed powered by residual spellcores—may bypass consent wards. We must protect our citizens from mind theft."
Posters followed. Rumors surged. Mentions of "soul bleeding," of devices implanted with tracking glyphs. Stories of people hearing voices when using the purple pulses.
Some locals hesitated. Some tore out the relay cores. A few even handed them over to local Arcten enforcers in exchange for small bounties or civic points.
At one point, an Arcten-backed patrol raided a small undercity clinic, confiscating three purple nodes and detaining the medic for "unauthorized magical operations." The medic's release came only after widespread protest—protest that, ironically, was coordinated via Benedict's relays.
But most? Most turned to the man himself.
Benedict set up a public demonstration in the Greenglass Commons—neutral territory with open access for all classes. He stood beside a deconstructed relay node, surrounded by everyday citizens, minor guildspeople, and more than one undercover observer.
He walked them through every piece:
No tracking glyphs.No thought enchantments.Only open pulse logic, rooted in crowd-distributed signals.
"Anyone here with mage-sight or forensic certification," he said, "verify it."
A half-dozen spellcrafters stepped up. Each confirmed the same thing: no invasive magic.
When asked why the pulses were purple, Benedict smiled faintly. "It's what the people chose."
Then he added, with a glance at the Arcten posters nearby, "They chose because no one asked them first."
Applause broke out—not orchestrated, not loud, but sincere. And more than a few walked away that day carrying their first purple node.
One elderly artificer, leaning heavily on a mana-stabilized cane, clapped Benedict on the shoulder and said, "This is what I hoped the Third Master's dream would become. May it finally live."
Later that evening, as he packed up the demo gear, a young girl approached. Dirt-smudged, eyes fierce.
"My brother's alive," she said. "'Cause of your purple box."
She handed him a paper flower—folded, bent, and wrapped in violet ribbon.
Benedict took it, quietly.
Arden later found him in the workshop, staring at it.
"Still thinking it's just a gadget?" the dwarf asked, gently.
Benedict didn't reply. He just placed the flower on the prototype table—beside the next iteration of the node.
That night, he coded a new failsafe into the firmware: a pulse beacon that could be activated with a breath—no incantation needed, no calibration. Anyone, even a child, could use it.
By week's end, purple pulses weren't just tools. They were signs—symbols daubed on doors of trusted healers, allies, and safehouses. One street bard wrote a song:
"If you see the purple spark, Follow fast into the dark, For where it beats and where it glows, The signal flies where tower won't go."
Local street artists joined the wave. They started painting murals of swirling pulse spirals across undercity archways—images of hope rising from gutterlight. Some drew glowing hands passing a purple spark. Others etched slogans into alley stones: "No Guild, No Chain, Just Signal."
In some corners of Vehrmath, people began using the pulse color as a greeting—three fingers tapped against the collarbone and a subtle nod. A whisper of connection.
At night, kids played tag using pulse beacons to call each other. Small businesses began advertising "pulse discounts" for customers using Benedict's devices. Even a rogue theatre troupe staged a street play called "The Signal of the Spark," reenacting the Ductline fire and the undercity's response.
Realizing fear alone wasn't enough, Vassian pivoted. He sponsored new nodes—sleek, gold-inlaid, brand-sealed. Free of charge. With noble registry inscriptions.
"Safer, certified communication," the posters read. "Trust tradition. Trust Arcten."
His advertisements flooded upper-market zones and elite taverns. Guild enforcers were given free branded charms. Slaver brokers received private channels with redundant security.
The uptake was… limited.
Because unlike Benedict's system, Arcten's didn't speak to the people.
It spoke for them.
One street vendor summed it up best: "Why use a node that makes me prove I deserve to speak?"
Even slavers began to reconsider. Arcten's charms came with loyalty locks and brand traceability. Benedict's didn't. In the criminal underworld, that difference was worth more than gold.
When Calder Vance reviewed the city's pulse-maps that week, he saw a new shape overlaying the grid. A network not optimized for guild quotas, but for community traffic.
He whispered, as he sipped his tea: "Purple. Hm. Didn't expect that."
The revolution wasn't loud.
It blinked.
Once. Then again. Then a thousand times.
And it was... beautiful.