Chapter 10 — The Space Between
Moments
The night was unnaturally still.
No wind brushed the stone walls of the Falkenrath estate. No distant sounds of the city carried upward from Blackridge Dominion below. Even the torches along the western wing corridor burned low, their flames barely flickering.
It was the kind of quiet that preceded mistakes.
Adrian Falkenrath sat on the edge of his bed, boots already on, dark coat fastened neatly over his bandaged shoulder. His movements were slow, deliberate—careful not to disturb the rhythm he had spent days memorizing.
Outside his chamber, two Church guards stood watch.
Their armor was white and silver, polished but scuffed from long hours of duty. One was tall and broad with a thick neck and cropped black hair, his posture rigid from habit. The other was leaner, younger, with pale brown hair and tired eyes that drifted too often toward the far end of the corridor.
Bored.
That was the danger of obedience.
Adrian closed his eyes.
He breathed in.
And then—
He did nothing.
For ten heartbeats.
Twenty.
Thirty.
The Church sigils etched into the walls pulsed once, releasing their corrective sweep.
Adrian let it wash over him.
The pressure brushed his presence, found nothing resisting, and passed on.
That was the key.
Fate corrected motion.
Stillness confused it.
Adrian rose.
He crossed the room soundlessly and knelt beside the wall, fingers finding the hidden hatch with ease now. The metal fragment slid into place. A gentle twist.
No sound.
The hatch opened.
Cold, stale air breathed out from the undercroft passage beyond.
Adrian did not look back.
He slipped through and sealed the panel behind him.
The undercroft tunnel was narrow and steeped in neglect.
Dust coated the floor in thick layers, disturbed only by old footprints half-erased by time. The stone walls were damp, rough beneath Adrian's fingers as he moved slowly, carefully, mindful of his injuries.
Every step sent a dull ache through his ribs.
Every breath burned slightly.
He welcomed it.
Pain kept him present.
He followed the tunnel by memory and instinct, counting turns, noting the faint slope downward. This part of the estate had been built before House Falkenrath's rise—when nobles still feared rebellion enough to prepare escape routes.
The tunnel opened into a small maintenance chamber.
Rusty pipes lined the walls. A drainage grate ran along the floor, leading into darkness. Above, a narrow shaft angled upward toward a sealed stone slab.
Adrian stopped.
This was the threshold.
Beyond this point, he would no longer be contained.
He would be missing.
Three soft taps echoed faintly from above.
Adrian looked up.
The stone slab shifted.
Clara Falkenrath peered down.
Her face was pale in the dim light, lips pressed together tightly. She wore a servant's cloak now—plain gray, hood drawn low. Her chestnut hair was hidden, but her hazel eyes shone with nervous resolve.
"It's clear," she whispered.
Adrian nodded once.
She stepped back, bracing herself as he climbed carefully upward, each movement measured. When he emerged into the narrow supply corridor above, she quickly slid the stone slab back into place.
For a moment, they simply stood there.
Breathing.
"You don't have to go," Clara whispered.
Adrian met her gaze.
"If I stay," he said softly, "they'll eventually decide to end me quietly."
She swallowed. "And if you leave?"
"Then they won't know where to look."
Clara's hands clenched at her sides. "They'll punish me."
"Yes," Adrian admitted. "But not severely. You're still useful to them. And they don't believe you capable of betrayal."
Her voice trembled. "You're certain?"
Adrian reached out and gently squeezed her hand.
"I am," he said. "And I will come back for you."
Her eyes glistened.
"When?"
"When it's safe."
She nodded slowly.
"Then go," she whispered. "Before I lose my nerve."
Adrian inclined his head—an old noble gesture, formal and sincere.
"Thank you," he said.
And then he turned away.
The supply corridor led to a forgotten section of the eastern wing, where renovations had been halted decades earlier. The walls were unfinished, the floor uneven. Adrian moved through it like a ghost, slipping past shadowed doorways and unused chambers.
At the far end waited an unassuming wooden door.
Beyond it lay the estate's outer service yard.
Adrian paused.
He felt it then.
A tightening.
Not physical.
Conceptual.
The Loom noticed absence.
Threads strained, searching for continuity where there was none.
Adrian did not rush.
He waited.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Then he opened the door and stepped outside.
The night air hit him like a blade.
Cold. Sharp. Alive.
The service yard was empty, lit only by a single lantern near the gate. The outer wall loomed high above, its stones dark and weathered.
Adrian walked.
Not running.
Running drew attention.
He reached the gate and examined the lock.
Old. Iron. Worn.
Clara's fragment slid into place again.
A soft click.
The gate opened.
The moment Adrian stepped beyond the Falkenrath estate—
Something snapped.
Far away, in the sanctum of fate indicators, a line flickered violently.
Magister Alaric Fenrow stiffened.
"What—?"
Several lights dimmed at once.
Not vanished.
Misaligned.
"…Impossible," he whispered.
Containment markers blurred, failing to resolve Adrian Falkenrath's position.
The anomaly was no longer where it was supposed to be.
Adrian did not feel victory.
He felt silence.
The oppressive pressure that had followed him for days—weeks—fell away like a cloak.
Not gone.
But distant.
For the first time since arriving in Gala Prime, Adrian stood somewhere fate was not actively correcting.
He leaned against the cold stone of an alley wall, chest heaving, vision swimming from exhaustion.
And laughed.
Quietly.
It was a short sound, quickly swallowed by the night.
"Found you," he murmured to the darkness. "The gap."
Footsteps echoed nearby.
Adrian froze.
A figure emerged from the shadows—a man bundled in layers of worn cloth, hood pulled low. He was short and broad, with a thick beard streaked with gray and sharp black eyes that assessed Adrian in an instant.
This was Brannik, a night porter.
A nobody.
A man fate ignored completely.
Brannik frowned. "You lost, lad?"
Adrian straightened slowly, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Yes," he said honestly. "Very."
Brannik snorted. "Happens."
He jerked his head down the alley. "Shelter's that way if you've coin."
Adrian glanced in the indicated direction.
Then back at the man.
"How much?" Adrian asked.
Brannik named a price.
Adrian reached into his coat and withdrew a single silver mark—taken days earlier from the western wing's forgotten stores.
Brannik's eyes widened slightly.
"Follow," he said.
As they walked away, Adrian felt it again.
Not pressure.
Confusion.
The Loom searched.
And failed.
Because for the first time—
Adrian Falkenrath was standing in the shadow of someone who did not matter.
And in that space between moments—
The villain disappeared.