Fabrisse took a careful step toward the far corner of the cavern. Every loose quartz underfoot threatened to betray him with a clink, so he tested the stones in his path with gentle taps, trying to sound casual.

“This way,” he said in a hopefully steady enough voice and gestured toward a shadowed recess that neither of them had lingered near. “I think there might be an interesting cluster I overlooked before.”

He edged closer to the corner, peering at every formation until one caught his eyes: a cluster of dense, dark quartz with veins of green twisting through the surface. Its refractive pattern didn’t scatter the glow but seemed like storing it, which would be a hallmark of the conductor family, quartz known for retaining light or sound within its structure. Maybe he wouldn’t have to keep weaving lies.

He pointed at it, holding his breath. “There. See that cluster?”

Anabeth stepped closer, leaned forward, then pouted. “Hmm . . . yes. It does have the structure and density that suggest epic-grade potential. But,” she continued, narrowing her eyes slightly, “the coloration and vein pattern suggest it shouldn’t have reacted to the Stormglass the way it did. That’s odd. Highly localized resonance, perhaps?”

Probably because the reaction part was a lie . . .

“Exactly,” he said. “The ambient field must have triggered a temporary harmonic overlap. Very rare, but documented in some conductor variants. Timing-sensitive.”

Anabeth’s brow lifted. “Ah. Fascinating. So it could be epic-grade, but only under very specific conditions.”

“Yes,” Fabrisse said. “Which is why I missed it initially.” He sounded very confident just now, which meant the lie was obviously working.

Her eyes glittered, clearly intrigued, while Fabrisse felt a small surge of hope. I’ve got this.

“You know,” Anabeth said, tapping a finger against her chin, “I might have just the right spell to test this properly.”

Wait, no.

Before he could even open his mouth, Anabeth’s hands were already weaving the motions of her spell, the pale light from her fingertips stretching toward the cluster of dark quartz. “Stand back,” she said casually. “We shall see if it responds.”

His stomach twisted. She’s actually doing it. Right now. Her fingers traced the familiar runes and arcs in the air, flowing with the spell’s rhythm without a single mnemonic. Come on, come on . . . please be real, please be epic, please . . .

A pulse of light shot from her fingertips, touching the dark quartz. Anabeth clapped her hands together, eyes wide with delight. “By the Aether, it is epic-grade!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing in place. “Kestovar, this is a true Conductor’s Resonant Quartz. It can store imprinted human-made sound and light within its core, perfectly stable over centuries. A single strike of energy could preserve a melody, a signal, even the pattern of a ritual’s illumination!”

“Wait, really—” He shut himself up before he could rat himself out.

She leaned closer. “These are among the most invaluable quartz in stone thaumaturgy. Rare as they are, their applications have been extraordinary, used to record testimony in courts, preserve official decrees, even capture fragments of scholarly discourse.”

“I know that.”

Of course, the practical limitation was severe: only a handful of practitioners possessed the skill to trace an imprint centuries or millennia old. If more than three people in a generation could reliably read them, the archives of history would be incomparably richer.

Anabeth crouched, circling the cluster with careful scrutiny. “Great find, Kestovar! It’s so hidden that only those who really know their rocks could spot this one!”

He smiled wryly. I didn’t spot it, though . . .

She continued, “This is exquisite. We ought to bring this back to my estate at once. But not without having some fun with it.” Her grin grew wider.

“Fun? What kind of fun?”

I confess I lack the sensitivity to discern conversations preserved for centuries, but I believe my spell possesses sufficient potency to evoke the most recent sounds or visual impressions from the quartz. It should serve admirably for testing, at any rate. Any human-made sound or light. Would you care to spectate?”

“Uh . . . sure,” he said, though his mind was already racing. He didn’t care what the memory was. He didn’t care if it was a song, a voice, a ritual chant. What mattered was how the quartz would show it. He’d read about conductor-class resonance in textbooks, studied diagrams, traced the theoretical flow of stored energy, but he’d never seen it happen in person.

Anabeth’s hands poised just above the facets. Her spell fingers danced, sketching arcs of ivory light across the stone. “Watch closely,” Anabeth whispered, as if reading his thoughts. “It should manifest in a form that’s visible or audible, depending on the imprint type. And if the alignment is perfect . . .”

The cluster vibrated. Then, unexpectedly, a sound emerged. It was nothing more than whispers, barely audible. Two figures spoke, indistinct and muffled, syllables smearing together in a way that made Fabrisse’s ears strain to parse them. It wasn’t the words themselves that drew his attention—it was how the sound traveled. The quartz carried it with crystalline clarity yet preserved the sense of distance and age in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

Taken from NovelBin, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The first discernible voice was that of a man, cautious, almost whispering, “Are you certain there should be no ears here?”

A moment later, a woman’s voice replied, equally hushed, “Absolutely. Only the von Silberthals ever travel here, and no family members have been here in over a year.” There was something in the cadence, a lilting rhythm that didn’t match the precise tones of Raslanian speech. Her vowels elongated in ways unfamiliar, her consonants carrying a subtle musicality that marked her as foreign, someone from beyond the familiar borders of not just the Order but the entire Kingdom.

Fabrisse stared at Anabeth. She, too, seemed caught off guard, as her spell-waving hand ceased movement altogether. These were not voices he recognized from any recent memory, or from the accounts he’d overheard during the dinners at her estate.

“Do . . . do you recognize them?” he asked.

Anabeth shook her head slowly. It was rare seeing her talk less than him.

“It is the safest place in all of the Synod to speak. There aren’t many places like these, with Draeth’s eyes and ears all around,” the woman spoke.

“Is it, though? I daresay he could’ve built this cave himself,” said the man.

“Nonsense. Draeth loathes stonework more than he loathes apprentices asking too many questions. His sense for Stone has dulled significantly over the years, I’ve heard.”

Fabrisse’s ears pricked. Even muffled and distorted through the quartz, the disdain for stonework was almost comical.

They’re speaking of the Headmaster but they don’t know the truth. If they did, they’d know Draeth’s stonework is probably unmatched. These people aren’t from Draeth’s circle.

“What did the delegate from Raza say?” The woman asked.

Raza? The High Instructant that used to tutor Severa was a Razani, the very same one that could possibly be behind his void attack. Allegedly, at least.

The man’s voice resumed after a brief pause. “The Montreals are siding with Draeth. There is no point convincing the congressman or little brat Montreal; her stance has been clear. In fact, there is a very high chance they’re plotting something in return.”

The little brat? That can only be Severa. His pulse quickened, and he glanced at Anabeth, who seemed equally captivated, though wary.

The woman’s voice followed, tinged with exasperation. “She would rather side with Draeth and protect the Eidralith binder than seize power for herself. The fool. But have you told the Claw about it?”

“No. The plan is to be unchanged. If the Claw fails to exterminate the binder, then we remove her. It’s still our best chance to foil Draeth yet.”

The binder . . . that can’t be me, can it? Then the Claw . . . a her? Rubidi? It fits.

They’re talking about me.

The voices kept weaving in the stone. “Draeth is extending his tentacles to even the old archmagi from the Eastern banks. If they band together, they might start a movement so fierce even the Supreme Leader would find it hard to halt. Banning artifact research has proven unpopular already.”

Unpopular? Since when? Most of the magi I know publicly denounce artifacts, and stones for that regard.

The man said, “I have told Chains that murdering his artifact binders was a foolish idea. It would be much easier to murder the dungeoneers as a pretext to publicly issue dungeon closures, but he’s too afraid of upsetting the guilds.”

What is this?

“The guilds are powerful. The last thing we want is for them to join forces. We must take them out one by one, starting with Draeth.”

Is Draeth also a guild leader or something? How many lives does he live?

The man’s voice continued, “If we can’t kill the binders, why don’t we convince them? The thing about legendary artifacts is that they need vessels to exert their power. There’s the binder of the Markith, who’s obviously loyal to the Montreals, so we can’t sway her. But the binder of the Mostovin is only bound to him by scholarship. And the binder of the Reidowlein . . .”

Wait. How many artifacts are actually in the Synod? He ticked them off silently:

Markith. He knew that one—a legendary crossbow, currently wielded by a field commander. He couldn’t recall the name, though.

Mostovin. A fishing rod? He remembered the annual ritual dedicated to it at the Academy. Draeth himself had always insisted students celebrate it, but Fabrisse hadn’t realized it was a bona fide artifact with a binder.

Reidowlein. That one was unfamiliar. There was definitely no ritual for it. Have I missed a whole artifact somewhere?

The woman’s voice sliced through his thoughts. “Reidowlein, huh? She’s under the mentorship of Lugano. He’s got that poor girl under his leash, the cunning bastard.”

Lugano? Does she mean Lorvan Lugano? Then the girl . . . the binder of the Reidowlein? Could it be Veliane Veist?

Unlikely. Lorvan had something like twenty students under his mentorship. It could be anyone of those.

The man picked up again, tone now slightly heavier. “Then we’re left with the binder of the Eidralith.”

He stole a quick glance at Anabeth. She was holding her breath now, staring at him for the longest time.

“We are to convince the binders of the Mostovin and the Eidralith,” the woman concluded. “They’ll understand the reasoning. Draeth and Montreal wish to replicate artifacts en masse—an obvious threat to the stability of the realms. Nobody needs artifacts en masse unless they intend to overthrow the Order. The binders will be nothing but test subjects to him, discarded after he’s finished with his experiment. Draeth is evil, and the binders should know it. Removing him will ensure the prosperity of our people.”

“I shall inform the Archmagus at once,” the man said.

“She’ll agree to our plan. I’m sure of it,” the woman responded.

The imprint stopped there.

Anabeth’s cheek somehow got drained of some of their pinkness as the words finally landed. She looked at him and said, “They were talking about you.”

Fabrisse didn’t answer. He couldn’t find the breath for it; the cave suddenly felt too small and the quartz too loud.

“This is bigger than you and me,” Anabeth said. “We need to talk to a trusted source.”

“We?” Fabrisse finally said, the single word brittle. “This concerns me. I don’t want the information disseminated.”

“I did not intend to diminish your agency. By we, I refer to you and myself in concert—”

“I do not want the information disseminated, Von Silberthal.”

Anabeth rubbed her fingers on the fabric of her skirt and stayed silent for a moment. “Very well,” she said. “I shall not interfere where I am not invited. But I should ask you this . . . are you working for the Headmaster?”

Her calm tone did little to ease the suspicion bubbling in his mind. This part of the cave was meant only for the von Silberthals. Yet somehow, others had found their way in. He had come along uninvited; Anabeth could hardly have planned all this. Her presence seemed harmless enough, but what of the other von Silberthal members? And why, exactly, had Lady von Silberthal been so keen for him to sign that contract?

He locked eyes with her. “I’m not answering a single question,” he said, “until you explain the things I’m wondering about. How others got into this cavern, how information meant only for the von Silberthals came to light . . . I need a proper explanation. Otherwise, nothing you say means anything.”

Anabeth pursed her lips, then pouted, then pursed her lips again. “My mother is a Margenholt,” she said. “The Margenholts on her side also have access to this cave.”

“Ah. Then do you recognize the voices?”

“Mother has a younger brother, but this is not his voice. However, the Margenholts have several male cousins working in politics. It might be one of them.”

So that confirmed one thing at least: you really could simply pry a family secret out of Anabeth.