I Copy the Authorities of the Four Calamities

Chapter 377: The Morning

The morning bled grey through the east-wing window, cold and uncompromising.

Vane was dressed long before the others woke. He picked up his spear from where it leaned against the wall, his fingers automatically finding their familiar grip. He turned and looked at the room. Nyx was sprawled elegantly across the foot of the bed; Isole was curled tightly on one side; Valerica rested quietly on the other. He mapped the way they had settled in the night, the way the room had organically arranged itself around him while he sat in the dark.

He set the spear back down.

Slowly, Vane sat on the edge of the mattress. And he waited.

It was something he had never done before. Waiting in a quiet room with sleeping people, instead of slipping out the door before the first ray of light could catch him. He hadn’t known what it felt like until this exact morning. What it felt like was that the room possessed a profound, terrifying weight—and for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to subtract himself from it just yet.

So, he waited.

Nyx woke first.

Her opal eyes snapped open and locked onto him immediately. Her Dreamscape was always running, always oriented, always calculating. She watched him in the dim light for a long moment, saying nothing.

Then, she uncoiled from the bed.

"You’re leaving today," she stated.

"Yes."

She stood before him in the grey morning light, her lavender hair loose and tangled from sleep. She looked at him with the specific, undeniable quality of a predator who had already made a decision and was executing it.

Closing the distance, Nyx reached out and took his face in both of her hands.

She just looked at him first. Those swirling opal eyes read him the way they read the rest of the world—comprehensive, entirely present, stripping away any mask he tried to perform.

Then, she leaned down and kissed him.

It wasn’t brief. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a deliberate, fiery stamp of intent, a message she had decided needed to be delivered in this exact physical language and no other. When she finally stepped back, her fingertips trailed away from his jawline with agonizing slowness.

"I’ll know where you are," she murmured.

He looked up at her, waiting.

"Not the Dreamscape," she clarified, tapping his chest right over his heart.

She turned, scooped up her coat, and glided toward the door. Pausing at the threshold, she didn’t bother looking back over her shoulder.

"Come back smarter than you leave, Vane," she said.

Then, she was gone.

Valerica woke next.

She lay perfectly still for a second after her eyes fluttered open, staring blankly at the ceiling. It was the look of someone who had woken up knowing exactly how much today was going to hurt, and was gifting herself one final second of peace before the clock started.

Then, she sat up.

She looked at him sitting on the edge of the bed. She looked at the spear resting against the wall. She looked at his coat, already buttoned and ready. She processed the entire reality of the room in two seconds flat, and her face locked into its flawless, aristocratic mask.

Reaching into the leather bag she had brought the night before, she produced four crisply folded pages. She held them out to him.

"The blend specification," Valerica said smoothly. "Full fourth version. The altitude variants for the northern territory are detailed on the fourth page. The primary spice has two distinct northern sources—the valley variety won’t produce the correct depth of flavor above a certain elevation. I’ve noted the exact conversion rates."

Vane took the heavy parchment.

He looked down at the precise, elegant handwriting. She had spent hours researching what crude supplies the harsh northern territory had available. She had calculated altitude variants and boiling points. She had drafted four pages of excruciatingly detailed specifications just so that, no matter what godforsaken frozen camp he ended up in, his tea would taste like home.

This was how Valerica Sol spoke. This was how she said the things she didn’t have the words for.

"Valerica," he breathed.

She was already standing. She crossed the room in two long strides and seized his collar in both hands. She wasn’t straightening it; she was just holding onto him. Her dark eyes met his, operating at their absolute maximum measure.

Nothing was managed. Nothing was contained.

"I don’t want you to go," she whispered.

Just that. Valerica Sol—the girl who brought ledgers to emotional conversations and wrote chemical specifications to say I love you—stripping it all down to the bone.

"I know," Vane said softly.

She kissed him. Both of her hands gripped his collar like a lifeline, her Celestial Heart humming at an ambient thrum between them. The gravity in the room subtly shifted, pulling the atmosphere tightly around the two of them without her even needing to direct it. When she broke the kiss, she didn’t pull away. She pressed her forehead hard against his, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Come back," she commanded, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.

"Yes," he promised.

She inhaled sharply and straightened. Before his eyes, she put her armor back on. The perfect composure reassembled itself—completely, correctly, locking away everything that wasn’t supposed to show. But her hands betrayed her. They lingered on his collar a fraction of a second longer than she intended, the desperate, physical holding of someone who has logically decided to let go, but finds the actual act of it nearly impossible.

Finally, she dropped her hands.

She walked to the door, her spine rigid.

"The fourth page," she said from the threshold, her voice perfectly level again. "Read it carefully."

Then, she was gone.

Isole was already awake.

Vane suspected she had been awake for a long time. Her pale bone staff was already clutched firmly in her hands—the automatic, unconscious reaching for the one thing that had never abandoned her. She was sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floorboards.

When the door clicked shut behind Valerica, Isole finally looked up.

Her mismatched eyes—one brilliant emerald, one vivid scarlet—were wet.

She wasn’t managing it. She wasn’t wiping them away or turning her head. She had simply let the tears come, and now they tracked silently down her pale cheeks. She was putting absolutely zero effort into performing strength. It was more exposed than the crypt. More dangerously open than the monster sleeping in his soul. Those had been secrets shared in the dark. This was a raw, bleeding wound she was deliberately letting him see in the harsh morning light.

"Isole," he started.

"Don’t say anything useful," she cut in, her voice surprisingly steady. Mostly.

He closed his mouth. He didn’t say anything useful.

She reached into the deep pocket of her robe and pulled out a small, worn volume. The Silver Wood numeral book. She held it out. Vane took it gently from her hands. He noticed the seventh numeral was marked, not by a stray scrap of paper, but by a pristine piece of silver thread she had meticulously tied around the page. It wasn’t an afterthought; it was a specifically prepared message.

He flipped it open to the seventh numeral.

He read the passage in silence.

He closed the book.

He looked back up at her.

Isole stood. She crossed the room, the tears still falling freely, making her vivid eyes shine like fractured glass. She didn’t grab his collar or cradle his face. She simply placed her palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his sternum, resting it there for a moment as if checking to make sure his heart was still beating.

Then, she slid her hand up to his cheek and kissed him.

He tasted the salt of her tears between them. She was crying against his mouth, making no effort to stop it, no effort to hide it. Vane reached up, threading his fingers gently into her dark hair. Isole let out a broken, painfully small sound against his lips—a quiet little noise that contained absolutely everything she refused to say out loud.

When she stepped back, she immediately looked down at the floor.

She took one deep, shuddering breath.

Then two.

She looked back up.

"The seventh numeral," Isole said, her voice locking back into its familiar, icy cadence. "It notes that the combat form is most correct when the weight is anchored over the left foot." She looked at him, her eyes still red, but the edges of her terrifying composure reassembling like frost over a lake. "I thought it was relevant."

Vane looked at her, understanding the profound weight of what she had just given him. An observation of his father’s stance. A key to surviving him.

"Yes," Vane said.

She turned, gripped her bone staff, and walked to the door. Her back was perfectly straight, her chin tilted at the exact, imperious angle of a Sylvaris heir. Her eyes were still wet, but her hands were completely steady.

She closed the door behind her without looking back.

Lancelot was waiting in the corridor.

The Knight’s crimson eyes ran their standard, merciless assessment of the space the moment Vane stepped out. His designation was operating flawlessly, even now. Even here, in a perfectly safe hallway with no active threats to neutralize and no principal to protect.

Lancelot’s eyes snapped to Vane.

Vane looked back.

The two killers stood in the quiet hallway, neither of them speaking a word.

"The Emperor," Lancelot said quietly.

Just one word. The exact same word he had spoken the night before, delivered in the exact same grim register. It was the shared point on the horizon. A blood oath spoken without elaboration, because elaborating to someone staring down the barrel of the exact same gun would have been redundant.

"Yes," Vane confirmed.

Lancelot held his gaze for one more, heavy second.

Then, the red eyes swept back down the corridor, returning to their patrol.

Vane moved past him, navigating the opulent halls until he reached the main entrance.

Anastasia was not there.

Given her position, she couldn’t be. But the empty space where the perfect maid usually stood carried its own suffocating presence. Her absence felt heavier than stone.

Vane pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped out into the freezing grey morning.

Varian was already at the gate.

His heavy coat was on. He was fully prepared. As Vane approached, he noticed the stance immediately—the man’s weight was subtly, perfectly anchored over his left foot.

Varian turned his head as Vane came through the courtyard.

Vane met his eyes, his face an emotionless mask.

Behind Vane, the towering Sol capital residence loomed in the mist. Varum was initiating its morning atmospheric cycle, painting the second district in cold, muted shades of beginning.

Without a word, Varian turned his back and started walking north.

Vane adjusted the spear on his back, and followed.