The twenty-four hours that followed their return to the Gearhouse were a suffocating fog of antiseptic smells, hushed whispers, and the oppressive weight of failure. The adrenaline of the escape had long since faded, leaving behind the bitter, metallic taste of defeat. While Borin and Greta worked behind the closed doors of the infirmary, the rest of the team was left to drift in the tense, silent aftermath, each processing the disaster in their own way.
Liam found himself unable to stay still. He paced the cold stone floor of the corridor outside the infirmary, his every step a measured beat in the silent vigil. He couldn't bring himself to go any closer. The low, rhythmic hum of the Captain's conceptual devices, the tools being used to save Isolde's life, was a constant reminder of how utterly useless his own powers had been. He, a Sealbearer of Time, had been powerless to affect the most critical moment. He could only watch as it unfolded, a passive, helpless observer.
He leaned his head against the cool iron of the infirmary door, closing his eyes. He didn't need his power to see the events of the ambush; they were seared into his memory. But the Seal was a part of him now, and it responded to his turmoil. A faint, unwanted [Temporal Echo] of the room beyond the door seeped into his consciousness. It wasn't a clear vision, but a chaotic storm of sensory fragments from the past day: Isolde's sharp, indrawn breath as the poisoned blade struck home. The clang of the dagger on the floor. The scent of ozone and Borin's focused anger. Greta's muttered curses. The echo was a loop of pain, and his own grief was the magnet that pulled it toward him.
His deepest, most shameful desire surged within him—the desperate, childish wish to turn it all back. To rewind the clock to the moment before they entered Sub-station 7, to shout a warning, to choose a different path. He wanted to seize the threads of time and force them into a shape that didn't include Isolde's suffering. But he knew, with a certainty that felt like a physical weight in his gut, that this was the very antithesis of his Ahenk Law. His Seal was the "Watcher of the Moment," not its master. This internal war—his duty versus his desire—left him feeling hollowed out, his connection to his own power feeling frayed and unstable. He was a clockmaker who could no longer bear to look at a clock.
Across the Gearhouse, in the dark and silent strategy room, Ronan Sullivan was engaged in his own form of self-flagellation. The large table, usually his stage for predicting probabilities and weaving strategies, was now his tribunal. He sat alone in the dark, the schematic of Elias Vance lying accusingly in a pool of moonlight. He hadn't touched his ivory dice since their return. He didn't need to. He could feel the outcome of his own failure in the bitter currents of fate that now swirled around him.
He had been arrogant. He had read the initial probabilities of the mission—high chance of information, low chance of direct confrontation—and had treated the Redactor as a predictable variable. He had failed to account for the true nature of a fanatic. He hadn't seen the trap for what it was: not a gambit to kill them, but a calculated move to wound them, to test their capabilities and measure their resolve. The Redactor wasn't just a Sealbearer; she was a strategist who used her pawns with chilling efficiency. She had played him.
His desire for control, his belief that he could always find the winning path, had been his undoing. He saw now that he didn't guide fate; he tried to wrestle it into submission. He saw the most likely path and tried to force everyone down it, ignoring the fainter, more dangerous threads that branched off into darkness. The result was Isolde, bleeding in the infirmary. His power was meant to be a compass, but his pride had turned it into a set of blinders. He felt like a navigator who had confidently steered his ship directly onto the rocks, all while boasting of his ability to read the stars. The silence of the room was a far harsher judgment than any shouted accusation.
Even the other members of the Compact were a reflection of their failure. Cain moved through the Gearhouse like a phantom, his usual silence now laced with a sharp, angry edge. He spent his time meticulously sharpening his blades, his movements precise and deadly, the expression on his face making it clear he was channeling his frustration into preparation for a fight he felt they should have won. Greta, on the other hand, was a storm of contained fury. She wasn't training; she was punishing the equipment in the yard, her powerful blows against the training dummies echoing through the Gearhouse like thunderclaps, each impact a testament to the rage she couldn't yet unleash on their true enemy.
The entire facility was a coiled spring of guilt, anger, and anxiety. They were all waiting. Waiting for news about Isolde. And waiting for the Captain's judgment.
Late in the afternoon of the second day, the summons finally came. A young apprentice found Liam and Ronan.
"The Captain will see you in his office. Now."
The tone was flat, official, and left no doubt. The time for silent reflection was over. It was time to face the architect of the Iron Compact and account for the damage to his machine.