The council chamber was carved from obsidian and glasssteel, suspended in high orbit around Vehrmath. Formally known as the Council of Shadows, this body served as the supreme arcane oversight authority—tasked with monitoring pulse phenomena, ancient glyph reemergence, and any threats to interstellar magical stability. For centuries, the Council operated in secrecy, its existence hidden from the public and even most arcane institutions. This concealment was deliberate—a safeguard forged during the aftermath of the Foundation War to ensure that decisions affecting magical stability, planetary integrity, and interstellar artifacts could be made without interference from political or commercial factions. Formally known as the Council of Shadows, this body served as the supreme arcane oversight authority—tasked with monitoring pulse phenomena, ancient glyph reemergence, and any threats to interstellar magical stability. Twelve thrones circled the central lattice projection, each occupied by a figure cloaked in layered robes, their faces hidden beneath runed veils. One seat remained empty.
The walls shimmered with suppressed pulse feedback, a constant reminder that even here—at the height of arcane authority—Vehrmath's tremors could not be ignored.
Benedict stood at the edge of the projection ring, arms crossed as the pulse recording from Echo Team One played in slow loops. The Pulse—a planetary and orbital magical frequency that powered communication, arcane systems, and stabilizers—had always been considered semipassive. But recent anomalies hinted it was shifting, becoming something more than just infrastructure. Glyph traces, stabilizer data, and the ghostly echo interaction hovered like a storm of logic around him.
"Sector 7A was not a simple disturbance," he said, voice level. "It was a message—and a test."
A deep, dry voice replied from the First Throne. "You claim the pulses were aware. That they evaluated the team."
"Not claim. Confirm," Benedict said. He tapped the glyph recording. "This symbol matches one found in Foundation War ruins beneath TowerDelta. Presplit civilization glyphwork—buried and erased."
The Fifth Throne stirred. "Erased by whom?"
"By necessity or design, I don't know," Benedict said. "But this isn't the first resurfacing. There've been others—coded tremors near Virex, that incident near the dust orbit of Carthis Prime. All linked by glyph symmetry."
Another councilor leaned forward, voice clipped. "And yet they left the team alive."
"They didn't just leave them alive," Benedict said. "They interacted. They uploaded data. They signaled approval."
Whispers rippled around the chamber. One voice muttered, barely above a whisper, "Last time someone suggested listening, we ended up with talking fungus on Arx Vellum." Another chimed in, "At least the fungus didn't overwrite our spellcores." A dry chuckle followed from the Eighth Throne. "Speak for yourself. Mine started growing roots."
From the Fourth Throne, a female voice, sharp and formal: "You propose... diplomacy with ghosts?"
Benedict didn't flinch. "I propose observation first. We watch. We let them speak—if they will."
The Sixth Throne shifted, tone cold. "We've seen what happens when dead civilizations 'speak.' Last time it ended with three star systems destabilized and an entire tower lost."
"We don't know if these are remnants or scouts," Benedict said. "But either way, ignoring them is no longer an option."
"And provoking them?"
Benedict met their unseen gazes. "Would be reckless. Which is why I'm not suggesting we send weapon platforms. Just more stabilizers. More listening posts."
The Second Throne scoffed. "And who'll fund your listening posts? Your salvaged credits from the TowerDelta forges?"
Benedict smiled slightly. "Actually, yes. And surprisingly, people love funding the end of the world—if they can slap their name on the salvage rights."
The Second Throne muttered, "Typical. Sell doom with a shiny label."
"Better than pretending it isn't coming," Benedict replied. "At least I'll have a frontrow seat and funding."
The Fifth Throne hummed thoughtfully. "What if this is an invitation to ascendancy?"
The First Throne cut in sharply. "Or a trap."
Before Benedict could answer, the chamber dimmed.
A glimmer of static shimmered through the lattice. Benedict stepped closer, expanding the reading.
One pulse glyph had shifted its orbit by two degrees. Aligned now with Sector 9D.
His voice dropped. "They moved."
"Independently?" asked the Third Throne.
"Yes. No artificial gravity manipulation. No outside signal. This was intent."
"I'll send Echo Team Two," he added.
From the empty Twelfth Throne, a voice finally spoke. It came from nowhere—and everywhere. The Overseer—a virtual presence encoded into the council's core lattice—was not a living figure, but a hyperintelligent construct left behind by one of the Grandmaster's original students. Unlike Calder, who had inherited the title of disciple, the Overseer had pursued a different path: integration into arcane systems, becoming the Council's eternal arbiter and its final vote in deadlock.
"Let him proceed."
The other councilors turned but said nothing. The Overseer's authority was absolute—its design coded to bypass all hierarchy. For many on the Council, its continued influence was a relic of a darker age. But none dared oppose it outright. It was the Council's secret spine—the final hand guiding civilization through arcane storms that no living being could weather alone.
Benedict narrowed his eyes. "Thank you... Overseer."
The Ninth Throne let out a low exhale. "Still weird every time it speaks. You'd think a virtual voice could learn sarcasm."
The Fourth Throne added, "Or at least timing."
"Next upgrade," Benedict muttered.
The voice did not reply.
As the lattice projection dimmed, he turned away, mind racing.
Not ghosts.
Messengers.
And this time, they were choosing where to speak.
Outside the chamber, Benedict passed through a corridor of obsidian mirrors. His reflection flickered with every step, cast against recursive visions of himself at different moments: younger, hungrier, reckless.
He paused at a junction and activated his personal comm node. "Send a coded update to Kael. Tell him Team One's intel is confirmed. Also... prep Team Two for deployment. Same protocols. Nonhostile contact emphasis."
"Copy, sir," came the reply. "Destination?"
"Sectors 9D and 9E. But have them ready for flexibility. The pulses are watching."
He closed the comm, then stared out through the clearsteel wall.
Below, Vehrmath spun slowly—veined with flickering glyph light, pulsing in black and silver.
If they were speaking again, what else might wake up?
And what did they want remembered?