Page 128 of The Nymph King

A ripple of unease passed through the council.

No one could pretend the events themselves were new anymore. Stralas had shaken, slips had opened where they should not, and instability had spread across the realm for years. What remained disputed was the cause. Plenty of witches still insisted these were violent but natural fluctuations in the Fabric rather than evidence that something fundamental was breaking.

This was the same old argument, and they were likely recoiling from the conclusion that the events were connected, worsening, and proof of damage rather than isolated natural disasters.

Imani stiffened, then winced at her injuries. Her hand went to her side, where dried blood crusted on her leathers. But she knew Esa would bring up her obsession with the Source and the Under, and now was the worst time to discuss it openly.

Despite her injuries, she kept her back steeled. “Esa,” she hissed.

Esa ignored her, except for her wings stirring like restless moths. Imani shook her head, trying to impress her importance.

Not here. Not in front of half the Mesial Realm. She pressed her lips together.

A razor-sharp glare shot from Esa to Imani, but the pixie turned back to the assembly. Her voice dipped to a conspiratorial whisper. “There is a way to stop this,” she said, raising her wand until its dark wood caught the torchlight. “The Fabric isn’t self-sufficient. It depends on a central Source. It’s an energy nexus holding everything together.”

“First Witch⁠—”

“I know what I’m doing,” Esa snapped at Imani, chin protruding defiantly.

“You know this is not information we share without counsel.”

Esa’s brow quirked. “And normally, I’d agree.”

“Normally?”

“A mountain just split apart,” the pixie reminded her. Her wings fluttered, tugging at her cloak’s hem. “You made me First Witch because I understand magic’s deeper currents. This is bigger than court secrets or succession squabbles.”

Imani’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t give you carte blanche to expose every arcane theory we’ve ever discussed.”

“No,” Esa said. “It gives me the duty to tell these people why their kingdoms might perish.”

Lore stepped in, fingers ghosting over Esa’s shoulder, then reconsidered and dropped his hand. “She’s right,” he said.

Imani whirled on him, but Lore stood unmoved. He curled his free hand into a fist at his side. “Every ruler here will decide—troop movements, magical ordinances, evacuations. If they think Kiran caused the Fabric’s failure, they’ll prepare for the wrong enemy.”

“They don’t need every scrap of knowledge you hoard,” Imani snapped.

“They need enough to confront the true threat,” Lore countered.

Esa pointed her wand at Imani. “You can rage at me afterward.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Imani muttered.

“Good.”

Esa bent close, whispering into Lore’s ear. He nodded, stepping back. She raised her voice to reach every corner of the hall. “The Source,” she declared, hands splayed, “regulates magical flow across realms. The Fabric’s decay is downstream. If the Source destabilizes, the entire network will unravel.”

Her stomach twisted as the scope of the inevitable collapse threatened every wall she had built around the memories of her family’s Fabric event. The one that killed her and Meira’s mother and her adoptive father. Her brow wrinkled, silent agony in her eyes as the secrets she barely understood were revealed.

“If the Source fails,” Esa continued, voice brittle, “the Fabric collapses with it. All realms.”

Silence followed. Even the torches seemed to hush. Lore flexed his fingers, as if he lacked a spell to steady his nerves. “We’ve traced the degradation but never located the Source directly. It lies beyond conventional magic.”

Esa shot Lore a knowing look, then said, “My brother studied it before he⁠—”

“He’s dead,” someone interrupted, voice small. “Whatever he learned perished with him.”

The Sprite pixie’s grip tightened on her wand, knuckles white. “Not lost. Just out of reach.”