It was evening when Eamon Wynstros, one of four leaders of the Unbound, entered the museum through its secret entrance.
The underground passage was older than the Museum itself, carved sometime between the fall of the Primordials and the Remnant Wars. It had jagged stone walls and a vaulted ceiling that occasionally leaked sand. Eamon sneezed as a trickle of sand fell on his face. "Damned passage." He cursed when he sneezed again.
He tried to hurry, but the metal in his legs hurt more than usual, forcing him to opt for short, stocky steps. The metal made soft clicking sounds, signalling it had shifted again. It must have been when he hit his knees against the carriage door. "Damned driver." He cursed then sighed. He really hated coming to Eternis, and only did so for their secret meetings.
He unfolded his black robe as he walked and slipped into it. It swept the dustless floor behind him. He sighed and lifted the hem, feeling absurd—like a bride hiking up her wedding gown. The robe wasn't necessary. They all knew each other's names and faces. The theatrics tired him, but he kept up with them the best he could. He had a mission to fulfill and if it required him to wear a damned robe every waking day of his life, then he would.
He passed some rusted pipes, the passageway growing colder with each step down. "Almost there," he said to himself. At the end of the hall, a door waited—plain, iron, and humming faintly with warding runes. He hobbled up to it, placed his hand on the centre and said his name. The rune spell recognised him instantly.
The door creaked open and Eamon went in, shutting it as an afterthought. "Evening all." He said. The room beyond was also plain, lit by rechargeable lamps and amber stones embedded in the walls. A small telephone hung beside one of the lamps, and a heavy round table sat at the center of the room, surrounded by three other figures.
"You're late," one of them hissed.
"Calm your horses, Gerald. Unexpected delay at the mines—a quarrel. And then some crazy driver almost crashed into my carriage, and then two idiot gang boys ran into me. Hell of day." Eamon replied as he removed his robe and gloves and sat on the last empty seat. "What's been discussed?"
"The update from you first, Eamon. We've waited long enough." Lady Corenna Valeir said.
Eamon smiled at her, wickedly, "Afraid your treachery has been discovered, Lady Corenna?" The room tensed, but Eamon continued as though he didn't notice. "They got nothing out of our Devout. Lord Pyrethorn is keeping them alive still, I'm not sure why, but regardless, there's nothing for them to confess, is there? They're simply servants who received instructions. Our mission is safe. It continues."
Lady Corenna narrowed her eyes at him. "And the boy? The Echo Locator?"
"I believe it's best we lay low. We can get to that much later." Eamon said.
"He's right," Gerald added.
"That device can turn things around for us." Lady Corenna stressed. "We can get to all the Echos before they do and destroy them."
"And how do you propose we destroy the Echos?" Eamon asked.
Lady Corenna sputtered like a dying flame, then went quiet.
"Exactly." Eamon said, "let's keep focus on the things we can control…for now."
"Enough." The last person finally spoke. "We're not here to bicker. We have much to discuss. And little time. I must return before they notice I'm gone."
Eamon's jaw clenched. He wasn't some pampered highborn sneaking past curfew—and yet Prisma's tone made him feel like one. He held his tongue. Prisma was his childhood friend. They'd founded the Unbound together and spent nights sharing dreams, and for that alone, Eamon afforded some respect. "Lady E—" he started to use his friend's real name, earning him a sharp glare. He corrected himself quickly. "Prisma, do lead the meeting today."
"Of course. We were already discussing before you came in. Our last plan was effective. The highborns are unsettled, and there's some conflict between them now. The only hitch was Calder Pyrethorn not dying, but we will rectify that eventually."
"What if we leave him alive?" Eamon asked. Somehow, he didn't see how Calder Pyrethorn dying was necessary to their plans. He knew Prisma had special hate for the man but it was unlike her to make emotional decisions.
"He leads the Highborns in Sinai, Eamon. No one will admit it, but there's a clear hierarchy and he's at the top. Cut off the head, and the body is ours to feast on." Prisma answered. Her silver-streaked hair caught the glow of the stones, and her expression was unreadable. "If that is all, I would like to propose that our next attack be during the Gauntlet Trials. Gerald and Lady Corenna have already agreed. Your vote makes it unanimous."
"What?" Eamon breathed. He looked from Gerald to Lady Corenna. They both wouldn't meet his eyes. "You can't be serious." He scoffed. "The Gauntlet Trials? Those are children!"
"And thousands, if not millions of people, are coming to watch. Millions of people in support of
the lie that pain leads to glory. That the risk of children dying is worth it if they can get an Echo and get into some damned academy to rub shoulders with the elite. Burn that lie, and Sinai will never recover. We can rebuild a new Sinai, Eamon. Just like we planned. Where Echos don't exist and everyone, every single person is equal."
"You agreed to this?" Eamon turned to Lady Corenna.
Lady Corenna sighed. "Calm down, Eamon. People died at the festival, children included. They died for a better Sinai."
"That was a mistake. My fault for suggesting those bombs. We were to target only adults."
"And now their blood is on your hands. What difference does it make?" Gerald asked.
"I will not willingly sign up to murder children or thousands who have nothing to do with this. The trials bring people from all over Thaloria. How do we deal with the aftermath?"
Prisma waved her hand as though his worries were useless. "Someone will take the fall. Calder Pyrethorn, maybe if we plan this well."
"I vote no." Eamon stood up.
Prisma's lips curled faintly. "All in favour of the plan." She raised her right hand.
Lady Corenna and Gerald joined her.
"Three to one. It is settled. We begin preparations immediately. Gerald, send out letters to our Devout, people directly involved in the Guantlet preparations. Find new Devouts if you have too. Remind them never to attempt to find each other or learn of their names. Anonymity is our secret weapon. And Lady Corenna, return to Baridi for now. I will send for you when things die down."
"But—"
"Must you resist at every turn? Do as I say, Corenna, or risk taking the fall if anything goes wrong."
Eamon looked between them, his face decomposing with rage. He felt as though the ground beneath him had tilted. They were all nodding, murmuring their assent, ready to go along with a plan that felt more like revenge than strategy. Was he the only one who still had a grip on reason?
He could still remember the first time Prisma had come to him, her voice trembling with conviction, her eyes burning with something hopeful. She had spoken of a Sinai where blood didn't decide worth, where Echos weren't a weapon of oppression, and where no child ever had to wonder if they mattered. A dream for Sinai and for the rest of Thaloria. And back then, Eamon had believed in her. Even when her eyes sometimes burned with hate. The Primodials help him, he still did. But this… this was not what he envisioned.
"This isn't why we started this cause, Prisma. It is not what I agreed to. It is not what I put my life on the line for everyday!"
"Then leave Eamon. You seem to have forgotten where we came from. Remember? All those years I spent hungry because my father wouldn't feed me until I caved in and bonded. Years of you eating leftovers from trashcans until I got that mine for you." Prisma paused, swallowing, as though it was hard for her to say her next words. "There's still a lot for me to do. You're either with me or against me. Choose carefully."
Eamon didn't say another word. He straightened, his chair scraping softly against the stone floor, and swept his robe over his shoulder. He was suddenly feeling very cold, tired, and aged. His leg hurt even more.
"You're signing your death warrant if you leave this room." Gerald threatened.
The rechargeable lamp threw his shadow long across the chamber as Eamon turned and walked out, boots Echoing down the corridor.
"You let him go just like that?" Gerald hissed. "He's going to expose us."
"Shut up, Gerald. And put on your mask. You too, Lady Corenna. I'm inviting someone in." Prisma said, her voice flat with exhaustion.
"Who?" Lady Corenna asked.
Prisma did not so much as spare her a glance as she wore her own mask and then crossed the chamber to the telephone mounted on the wall. She dialled a number and pressed the receiver to her ear. The room was quiet, save for Lady Corenna anxiously tapping the ground with her heeled boots. The line connected, making a soft crackle as Prisma spoke into it—short, clear commands in a language they didn't understand.
Minutes later, a low creak Echoed through a hidden side entrance, and the Museum's guard stepped inside. He was still dressed in his dark navy coat, but his gait was sharp now, no longer lazy.
"Hello Soren." Prisma said to him.
Soren bowed to her and then to Lady Corenna and Gerald. His face stayed calm and unreadable, but his mind was racing. It had been months since the Unbound recruited him, yet this was the first time they'd called him down here. Apart from the first time when he led them through the secret passage, he'd never interacted with them. Three? He frowned. He could have sworn they were four.
"When I came to you, Soren, you were starving in the Lower City. Ran away from home, tired of working in your father's mines. And I saved you, did I not? I cleaned you up and gave you a good life. I gave you hope."
"Yes." He kept his head bowed but looked from the corners of his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of their faces, but he got nothing. Beneath their masks and robes, he couldn't recognise any of them. The mask seemed to distort their voices, too, somehow making them deeper. He knew the person talking to him was a woman; he just couldn't place the voice.
"That you would do anything to rise up the ranks. To serve me? To fulfil your role as my Devout?"
"Yes."
"In a way, Soren, you mean so much more to the cause than the rest of us. Without you here at the Museum, we would not be able to maintain this chamber as a safeholding for our meetings. You swore to serve with your life, and you have. For that, I thank you and I present you with a gift." Prisma said. She stepped toward Soren. The dim light caught the edge of something hidden within the folds of her robes. With a swift motion, she pulled out a slender knife, its blade gleaming coldly.
She took his hands, startling him with her touch, and she placed the knife in them. "One day, you will take over my place in this room. But before that, you must prove yourself to me. One of us has defected, and that means every single Unbound Devout is in danger. We remain in danger until he dies. That is your task Soren. Kill the defector. Can you do it?" She shifted her grip from the knife to his arm, holding him with urgency.
Behind her, the other two shuffled. Soren sensed that they, too, were nervous.
Soren's hands trembled as his fingers closed around the knife's hilt, its weight settling in his palm. When he left the mines, he'd promised himself never to go back, that he would make a name for himself beyond the mine owner's son. He'd been hungry and shivering in some derelict building in the Lower City, too proud to crawl back home to his father. And the woman before him had found him and given him a new life. Got him a job at the Museum, guided him through his Echo bonding. He owed her his life.
She'd promised to make him a highlord if he stuck with her.
That promise steadied him now, anchoring his nerves with a quiet, fierce determination.
"Yes, I can."
"Thank you Soren. Follow him through the other passage. He will take the lonely alleyway home. Wait till then. Then do it."
