The next session in Cyril Ravenshade's lab began with an air of clinical intensity that barely masked the possessive focus in his amber eyes. Alya was back in the Containment Field, and Cyril was determined to map the relationship between her emotional state and the chaotic output of her golden core.
"Yesterday, under high pressure, your core prioritized utility by producing a carriage bolt," Cyril explained, tapping a graph on the console that showed Alya's core energy spiking dramatically during the physical suppression. "Today, we target that threshold again. I want a tool for precision—a simple wrench."
Alya tried. She channeled focus, precision, and mechanic work. The result was a delicate, perfectly formed porcelain teacup painted with tiny, pastoral scenes.
Cyril snatched the teacup. "Social ritual again. You retreat to comfort when faced with analytical pressure." He sighed, running a hand through his purple hair. "Stellaria, we have six weeks until the Royal Auction. You are already at the center of political speculation. We need control, or your father will confine you, ending my research."
Alya seized on the political trigger. "Sir Cyril, I am serious about assisting with the political analysis. To produce the required utility, I need a more profound emotional anchor. Tell me about Prince Damon's trade deal. What is the precise nature of the failure you anticipate?"
Cyril looked surprised by her sudden, genuine interest in state affairs, but he quickly obliged.
"The failure isn't anticipated, it is already unfolding," he explained, leaning close to the glass, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "The iron ore shipment—critical for the Crown's defensive infrastructure—is scheduled to ship out in three days. My projections indicate a 98% certainty of sabotage during the transit phase. The resulting financial loss will devastate Damon's standing with the Council. It's a political move, not an accident."
The iron ore. Alya's internal clock was screaming. The substandard bolts.
"Sabotage is an act of calculated ruin," Alya whispered, her eyes wide with fabricated academic horror. "To counter ruin, one must manifest Absolute Security."
She closed her eyes, channeling her most desperate need: Survival through the protection of Damon's assets. She focused on the cold dread of execution, linking it directly to the success of the iron ore crates. I need to save Damon to save myself. Security. Inviolability.
She felt the familiar heat in her core, but this time, it was sharp, cold, and metallic.
Cyril immediately noticed the change. He rushed to the field door, his academic excitement overriding caution. "The core is stabilizing! The signature is shifting from organic to ferrous!"
The door hissed open. Cyril grabbed her arm, pressing his hand against the silver ring to anchor the reaction. This time, the physical connection was less about guidance and more about shared, frantic observation.
Alya channeled the last of her energy. Perfect bolts. Undetectable materials. Fix it.
The energy burst, not into a single object, but into a complex, intricate stream. When the light faded, Cyril was breathing heavily, his face inches from hers, his intense gaze fixed on her palm.
Alya held a perfectly formed Master Lock Mechanism, crafted from a solid block of gold-flecked iron, impossibly smooth and intricate.
"A lock," Cyril breathed, his voice thick with admiration. "Not just a tool, but a solution to security. Stellaria, you are not chaos—you are highly specialized, purpose-driven fate."
He gently pried the mechanism from her hand, his fingers lingering on hers. "The sheer utility is breathtaking. We need to test the scope of this utility."
Alya, reeling from the intense contact, knew this was her chance. She had the ability now; she just needed the opportunity.
"Sir Cyril," Alya said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "The core's exhaustion is immediate after a high-utility manifestation. I feel a residual mana misalignment that requires immediate rest. I must be alone to dissipate the instability, or I risk—"
"Another binding charm?" Cyril finished, a possessive smirk playing on his lips. "Very well. Disperse the residual energy. But you return here in two hours. I will be waiting to download your mental logs."
Alya raced out of the Ravenshade Wing, leveraging her exhaustion as an excuse to ignore Finn, the assistant. She slipped into a simple, dark cloak and headed straight for the lower docks—a maze of cranes, sailors, and shadowy deals.
Her book knowledge had given her the exact location: Pier 4, Warehouse 11.
She found the massive wooden crates, stencilled with the royal crest, containing the iron ore shipment. As predicted, the atmosphere was lax. A quick glance at the securing mechanisms confirmed her memory: the main iron bolts securing the crate lids were slightly duller, the threading clearly inferior, easily replaced by stone slag once they were on the open road.
Damon's political destruction is held together by these six substandard bolts per crate.
Alya huddled between two towering stacks of hemp sacks. She reached into her cloak pocket and pulled out the golden-iron Master Lock she had just materialized. She needed to focus the energy stream she used to create the lock and replicate the necessary items.
She reached out her hand and focused on the damaged shipment. She channelled the familiar heat, directing the energy outward, not inward.
Security. Function. Undetectable quality. Replace.
The golden light surged out of her palm, not in a single flash, but in six discrete, focused beams aimed at the inferior bolts on the nearest crate.
The process didn't create new objects; it transmuted the existing ones. The dull, grey, soft iron bolts instantly hardened, their threading tightening and their surface gaining a subtle, golden sheen—the exact color of Alya's core energy, now bonded with the metal. They were stronger, purer, and undetectable as new material.
Alya moved swiftly, crate by crate, until the exhaustion from the high-utility transmutation hit her like a physical blow. She collapsed against the rough wood, breathing heavily.
I did it. I anchored the shipment.
She had just manufactured high-grade royal assets, directly interfering with a major political plot.
Across the bustling docks, standing on an elevated gangway, Prince Damon watched the commotion of his pending shipment. He was dressed in plain, high-collared transit clothes, overseeing the final security checks before the morning departure. He was calm, observant, and deeply stressed about the inevitable sabotage.
"Prince," his lead foreman reported, scratching his head. "We ran diagnostics on the iron ore. The crates look secure, but... the primary securing bolts on every crate, sir. They seem to have been replaced with a gold-infused alloy. Impossible tensile strength. Purer than the specifications we ordered."
Damon, ready to find evidence of ruin, frowned. "Replaced? By whom?"
"No one, sir. They appear... transmuted. It's a high-level creation magic signature, but it's completely passive. It looks like the original material, only perfect."
Damon walked down, picking up a newly secured bolt. He ran his hand over the gold-flecked iron, feeling the perfect, cool precision of the material. Too perfect. Too controlled.
His first thought flew straight to Stellaria Vaelion—the girl with the chaotic golden core and the suspicious, utility-driven materialization. She had been assigned to Cyril Ravenshade's private research just hours ago.
Damon's cold, political expression didn't change, but his blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Stellaria was supposed to be a saboteur, yet her chaos seemed to have somehow enforced perfection on his critical assets.
Is she truly incompetent, Damon mused, turning the flawless bolt in his hand, or is she using her chaos as the ultimate cover for a very specific, very advantageous form of sabotage?
He gave a slight, subtle smile, a rare flash of charm hidden beneath his royal mask. The possibility of an intelligent, unpredictable opponent was far more intriguing than a simple, jealous fool.
"Proceed with the shipment," Damon commanded, pocketing the bolt. "Double the guard. And tell Cyril Ravenshade I want a full report on his 'Anomaly' immediately. This is no longer merely a magical investigation; it's a matter of Crown security."
Alya, weak but triumphant, had secured the first, vital crack in Damon's wall of suspicion. The six-week countdown had a new variable: a Prince whose hatred was now turning into calculated intrigue.