CHAPTER 793: WHEN THE CRYSTALS SCREAMED WHITE (2)

"We do all of it."

The three Board members stared at her.

"We form a League strike team," Ryline continued. "A Special Operations unit. Jaev, you will select people who can operate under extreme mana stress. Voril, you will build them tools that can react faster than that reef can twitch. They will be ready as soon as we have a stable coordinate set."

Voril inclined his head, slow but accepting. Jaev grunted.

"At the same time," Ryline went on, looking at Halsen now, "we prepare... packages. Condensed versions of our data. Clean lines. No mention of certain anomalies. You may begin ’conversations’ with foreign buyers. Quietly. If they want to bleed in our place, we let them."

Halsen smiled, truly smiled this time.

"And the prince-consort?" he asked.

Ryline’s eyes went back to the graphs.

"He remains our consultant," she said. "For now. I will continue to feed him what he needs and remind him, politely, how much of this depends on us. If his pace slows, he will learn that genius is replaceable after all."

Her voice cooled.

"If he surprises us again, we will... reconsider."

A silence settled. Then Jaev stepped forward and placed a slate on the nearest table.

"Then you should sign this," she said.

The slate bloomed with text. At the top, in crisp League glyphs:

AUTHORIZATION: BLACK SIGIL OPERATIVES MISSION NAME: HARROW LANCE OBJECTIVE: DEEP-DUNGEON INSERTION – ASHEN RIVER

Ryline took the stylus.

For a heartbeat, she imagined the dungeon as a living thing, rolling slowly in its sleep under rock and river. She imagined a swarm of shadows already crawling through its bones.

She signed.

"Prepare them," she said. "The reef is not the only one allowed a reflex."

Far away, in a fortress perched on the spine of a volcanic range, the air smelled of ash and hot metal.

General Kael Vardon of the Kharadorn Dominion rested both hands on the edge of the war table and looked down at the glowing markers. The carved relief of the continent under his palms was old, scarred by years of edits. New borders scratched over old ones, old cities chipped away and replaced with different names.

One point pulsed brighter than the others. Ashen River.

"So," he said. "The Technomancers poked the beast and came back with a bleeding nose."

The spymaster who had delivered the report shifted his weight.

"A little more than a nose, General," he said. "Their pet prince almost died."

Kael’s mouth twitched.

"He did not, though."

"No." The spymaster nodded once. "Our sources say he reached for the core. The dungeon rejected him and threw him out. Silvarion’s queen kept him alive. The League is calling it a ’partial success.’ The readings show... turbulence."

He tapped the map. The pulsing light at Ashen River jittered.

Nearby, two other figures watched. One was a heavyset lord in layered armour, a scar down his cheek white against brown skin. The other wore the robes of a war-cleric, scaled metal peeking beneath.

"A partial success," the lord scoffed. "Either you break a dungeon or you don’t. This halfway talk is for cowards."

"The reef is not broken," the war-cleric said. "But it has been stirred. Look at the mana levels. They are rising. The place is waking."

Kael listened without looking up. His eyes traced the paths between Ashen River and their own borders, the League’s territories, Silvarion’s forest, the trade routes that fed the Sea-Glass cities.

"If the League and the forest witches take that core," the lord went on, "they’ll build light cannons big enough to cut our siege lines in half. They will say it’s for ’balance’ and ’security,’ but we know what that means."

"We do," Kael said quietly.

He straightened. The room fell silent.

"If we march openly on Silvarion’s borders," the lord began, sensing his chance, "we can force them to pull away from the dungeon. Make them split their forces. Strike while the prince is still weak, while their eyes are turned inward. We could—"

Kael held up a hand.

"Open war over one dungeon?" he asked. "On paper that is not even ours?"

The lord closed his mouth.

"Marching banners on their forest will give the League exactly what it wants," Kael said. "An excuse to ’stabilise’ the region with their machines. They will ride in as peacekeepers. We will be the villains in every story told for the next twenty years."

He gestured at Ashen River’s pulsing light.

"The thing we need to fear is not Silvarion’s pride or League’s speeches. It is that."

The war-cleric inclined his head.

"Then what do you propose?"

Kael’s gaze moved to a smaller, darker mark near the Dominion’s border. A symbol carved there long ago: a stylised raven.

"We send shadows," he said.

He looked up at the spymaster.

"Choose veterans who have walked through dungeons and come out laughing," he said. "Give them our best war-runes. The demon-steel armours we were saving for the northern campaign."

The war-cleric’s eyebrows rose.

"All of them?"

"Enough to make a difference," Kael said. "Officially, they will be deserters. Rogue mercenaries acting without our blessing. If they die, we will condemn them. If they succeed..."

His lips thinned.

"If they succeed, we will have a hand on the core, or on the trigger that breaks it."

The spymaster bowed his head.

"And their orders, General?"

"Penetrate Ashen River by any path the League is too proud to use," Kael said. "Side tunnels, corrupted wells, old mine shafts. Take what they can carry—relics, core fragments, coordinates. Bring home proof this power can be hurt. And if they cannot claim it..." His voice hardened. "...then they do whatever is needed to be sure no one else owns it either."

He reached into a box beside the war table and took out a small piece of black metal in the shape of a bird, wings spread.

When the captain of the chosen strike team entered the room—a tall woman with hair braided tight against her scalp and eyes like dark glass—Kael held out the insignia.

She took it without flinching.

"If the League wants to light the world’s powder-keg," Kael said, "we will decide who lives in the smoke."

The captain smiled, sharp and thin.

"As you command, General."

On the coast, the storm had chosen a bad day to come.

Waves slammed against the crystal walls of the Sea-Glass Concordat’s council chamber, sending sheets of white spray to crash and slide down the transparent facades. Outside, the sky was a rolling bruise. Inside, the light was soft, filtered through layers of enchanted glass.

Councillor Miren Sael sat at the head of the elevated table, fingers resting lightly on a stack of floating charts. Trade routes, tariff flows, the slow heartbeat of the markets—everything the Concordat cared about, shining in the air.

A clerk leaned down to murmur in her ear.

"New relay from our Serewyn contact, Councillor."

Miren did not sigh, though she wanted to.

"Halsen again?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Put it up."

A fresh panel unfolded itself in the air before the council, glyphs resolving into simple words.

ASHEN RIVER – INCIDENT REPORT DEEP ENTRY: FAILED PRIMARY AGENT: PRINCE-CONSORT OF SILVARION STATUS: SURVIVED CORE: UNTOUCHED / HIGH RISK / HIGH POTENTIAL

Below that, in a different colour, a note that pretended to be casual:

INTERESTED POWERS MAY SEEK GUIDANCE ON SAFE APPROACHES FURTHER CONSULTATIONS AVAILABLE

"Their way of ringing our doorbell," one of the older councillors muttered.

A wave smashed against the wall beside them, a reminder of how fragile even this shining city was, sitting on the edge of a wild sea.

Another councillor, younger, with ink-stained fingers, frowned.

"Dungeon wars ruin trade routes," she said. "Every time some idiot empire tries to tame a new S-rank, half the region’s roads are unsafe for a decade. We should stay out of it."

"We would, if staying out were possible," Miren said softly.

They looked at her.

"You’ve read the same reports I have," she went on. "If Ashen River is as deep as they say... if the core really can feed League machines or Silvarion rituals..." She tapped the floating numbers. "...then whatever happens there will rewrite prices for artefacts, cores, enchanted metals, for the next thirty years. We cannot pretend the storm will not touch our harbour. We can only decide whether we meet it naked or with a ship ready."

Some councillors shifted uncomfortably. Others leaned forward.

"So?" one asked. "We go to war over it?"

Miren smiled, small and amused.

"Please," she said. "We are a republic of merchants, not glory-crazed generals. We do not march armies for pride."

Her gaze flicked to the Serewyn note again.

"But when a fire starts," she added, "we sometimes sell very good buckets."

A few of them chuckled.

"We will not send a war host," Miren said. "We will send a contract."

She swept one hand through the air. The charts shifted to a new display—a list of independent companies, mercenary crews, adventuring bands.

Her finger paused on one name.

"The Silver Current Company," she said. "Good record. Flexible ethics. No official ties to us outside their pay."

"Their captain drinks too much," someone said.

"So do half the heroes in the old stories," Miren replied. "And they still brought back treasure."

She straightened.

"We draft a charter,"