The five daggers glowed in Bozo’s fingers, their golden tips reflecting the light of Sir Vu’s expensive chandeliers. Silence fell. Rosalyn stared at them with curiosity while Sir Vu raised an eyebrow from behind the kitchen island, a glass in hand.
Bozo’s eyes suddenly flashed gold.
With a calm, precise motion, he hurled the daggers straight at Sir Vu. They sliced through the air in perfect formation, lethally quiet, fast as light. Sir Vu dropped his glass. It shattered against the marble floor, crystalline fragments scattering as the drink spilled across the surface.
Rosalyn gasped. The daggers stopped an inch from Sir Vu’s throat, hovering, perfectly aligned, perfectly still. All five tips were pointed at his pulse. Color drained from Sir Vu’s face.
He was just beginning to recover, a smirk forming, ready with a jab “Heh. What precision. Do you-” when Bozo’s eyes flashed gold again.
The daggers slowly withdrew from Sir Vu and pivoted midair in eerie synchronization toward Bozo himself.
Silence crashed back into the room.
And then with a flick of his wrist, the daggers shot forward. One by one they drove into Bozo’s chest, striking the exact same spot. He staggered slightly with each impact.
Rosalyn screamed, horrified. Sir Vu rushed forward but stopped short when Bozo raised a palm in a silent command to wait.
After a moment, the daggers drove out of Bozo's chest and resumed their hovering formation. Still.
“These daggers are Wisdom-coded.” Bozo explained, expression stoic “They only damage corrupted beings struck by Morter’s waves or beings straight up created by his waves. And…” he added with and intense stare “…they can inflict lethal damage to Morter himself. But as you’ve seen, they are harmless to all that's uncorrupted. They only passed through me, they had nothing to bite into.”
He paused. His eyes flashed gold once more.
One dagger stepped out from the aligned formation like a soldier breaking rank. With a fluid motion, it struck his extended palm. This time, a few drops of blood slid down his finger.
“They can wound however,” Bozo continued evenly, “if I release them with true damaging intent, and only when it is reasonable. Here, this wound was permitted because you both needed this demonstration of control, precision and endurance. As I said, Wisdom-coded.”
With a final flick of his wrist, the daggers dissolved into golden dust.
Sir Vu and Rosalyn stood frozen, still absorbing what they had witnessed. Bozo slipped on his jacket.
“Meet me on the canal bridge in three days. Nine p.m. I’ll show you our training grounds.”
He turned to leave when Rosalyn called out.
“Um…Bozo.”
He paused and looked at her, waiting. She hesitated.
“I wanted to ask you about the incoming Second Collapse… During my Choosing, the male voice told me that Morter’s hatred will transcend into something far greater and far more horrifying than during the First… Do you know what this ‘something’ will be?”
Bozo considered it silently, but then his eyes suddenly fixed on her with intensity. Instead of answering, he asked her a question she hadn’t expected.
“What male voice?”
“What do you mean ‘what’?” Rosalyn replied, genuinely surprised. “The one that spoke during the Choosings, explaining, giving information. You must have heard it during your own Choosing too. I mean, I assume it was the Tree of Humility’s voice for me, so it probably was your Tree’s voice as well.”
“The Four Great Trees do not have voices. They don’t speak traditionally. The ‘voice’ that spoke during my Choosing wasn’t a defined voice -it was like the voice of thoughts. Can you tell if a thought is male or female? Its timbre? No. It’s colorless, featureless.”
He glanced at Sir Vu. “Was it the same for you as it was for me?”
Sir Vu nodded.
Rosalyn’s eyes widened, her lips trembling, her heartbeat accelerating.
“But I heard a very clear, deep male voice…” she whispered.
Bozo’s observed her intently. He watched her shiver, her breath hitch, and her attempt at shaking it off, her forced smile.
“Actually… no. It was nothing.” she said quickly.
Bozo kept quiet. His eyes stopped briefly on her right shoulder, gold flashing imperceptibly, before returning to calm stoicism. He reminded them once more about the meeting, then left.
----------------------------
Early morning sunlight spilled through the greenhouse’s glass panes, scattering into thin rainbows as water droplets clung to the glass’ surface. The light streamed downward, breaking and refracting before settling across the paving stone floor. The tips of several shrubs’ leaves were gently kissed by this rainbow glow. The air smelled of moisture and fresh earth.
Lana was busy tending to the plants -pruning stubborn shoots and dead wood, her shears moving skillfully without once pricking her fingers on thorns. From time to time she paused, admiring a shrub or softly caressing an adjacent flower that brushed against her arm. Her gaze was full of tenderness and warmth. But soon her shears would return to their rhythm, the steady snap echoing in the large space.
This morning Lana was alone in one of the Academy’s smaller greenhouses, as usual the most eager volunteer among the botany alumni. She was so absorbed in her task that she didn’t hear the greenhouse door open nor the footsteps crossing the stone floor.
“Hi Lana.” A familiar female voice cut gently through the humid air.
Lana turned, and her face immediately brightened.
“Oh! Rosalyn! What a rare surprise! I should have guessed you would come -the roses have been behaving especially well this morning. They must’ve sensed you.” She caressed a velvety petal as if proving her point.
Rosalyn smiled faintly.
“I hope I’m not intruding.”
“That’s a lovely intrusion.”
Rosalyn stepped closer, standing beside her and surveying the flowerbeds.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“Just pruning the roses. And next up are the white Dicentras. They need a serious haircut. A few days of my absence and they already look like a mess.” Lana glanced at her warmly then. “Came to relax a bit?”
“I’m… not really allowed on the Academy Grounds for a while, so…”
“Ah… Yes. I heard.” Lana’s expression softened into something serious, almost regretful. “I’m sorry…”
“No, no, it’s okay!” Rosalyn waved her hands lightly, smiling to lift the mood. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about the Academy. I remember how you were wondering about its history the last time we talked in this greenhouse…”
“I still do. I have a secret historian hobby aside from botany.” She winked.
“Well… do you maybe know of any connection, any link, between the Academy Grounds and the name… Lightveil?”
“Lightveil?” Lana repeated thoughtfully.
She paused, genuinely considering it. Rosalyn waited, her heart racing in anticipation. But Lana gently shook her head.
“Unfortunately, I don’t recall that name in any of the documents I’ve ever read about the Academy or its Grounds. What does Lightveil refer to? A person? A coat of arms? A plant species?”
“It’s a person.” Rosalyn answered quietly.
Her shoulders drooped slightly, voice fading. Her eyes fell to the stone floor before she looked back up, offering Lana a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Thank you anyway.”
She turned and headed toward the door, leaving Lana standing there, pensive, her shrubs forgotten.
----------------------------
The Dream Factory hummed with activity as it did every morning -conveyor belts running at full speed, neon signs being stamped, glitter pumped into molds. But instead of the usual cheerful, far-too-loud gnome chants and chatter the air buzzed with tension. Every gnome felt it.
Their productivity heavily depended on Sir Vu’s mood which was, as far as they knew, permanently grinning. That’s what they thought until today.
Sir Vu had arrived earlier than usual, wearing a serious expression for a change. He did grin but the smile was too sharp, too piercing. His movements were curt, too quick, and he seemed easily irritated.
He briskly inspected the merchandise and assembly lines. Gnomes straightened instantly at his pace, their tiny spines shivering under his scrutiny. He then caught a small group watching Gnomish on the break room television. Normally, he would throw them a sly jab and a playful warning before walking away, leaving them scrambling but never truly afraid. He had never raised his voice.
Today, he slammed the door open so violently the gnomes yelped, nearly toppling over one another. His green eyes narrowed at the screen, where a toothbrush stood mid-tragic monologue on a balcony.
“If I catch you one more time watching this abomination during work hours, I’ll repaint every wall in this factory gray! GRAY, you hear me?!”
He stormed off, slamming his office door with such force the hinges rattled. The gnomes were left paralyzed.
Alone in his office, Sir Vu dropped into his chair and exhaled heavily. He remained there for a long moment, eyes closed.
“I shouldn’t be taking it out on them,” he muttered.
He sighed and stared at the ceiling. Then he opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the Sentinel excavation contract between him and David. He stared at it for a long moment before letting out a bitter chuckle.
“Well. He got me. Never thought I’d be excavating a mass murderer from five hundred years ago instead of a miracle soil machine.” he thought flipping through the pages, before throwing it sharply on the desk with disdain.
“I should’ve investigated more.” He rubbed his temple. “I did ask the CGIA to search their Cloud 9 Archive for Sentinel-related documents. Why the heck is it still taking them so long?”
He clicked his tongue and pressed a button beneath his desk. A very serious gnome voice answered very seriously through the speaker.
“Glitter, glitter.”
(CGIA's version of “roger, roger”)
“Agent McShoe, what’s the status of the Sentinel investigation search?”
“It’s ongoing, sir. We’ve run through every single volume in four-fifths of Cloud 9. So far, nothing. Not a single find. We began the final fifth two days ago.”
“It’s been four months since my request!”
“Yes, sir. And we sincerely apologize.” Agent McShoe replied evenly. “However we’ve been struck by major technical difficulties. The Rainbow Transit Column has been experiencing particulate crystallization along its inner curvature.”
“…Its what?”
“The interior of the tube, sir. Glitter exhaust residue from routine agent propulsion has begun bonding with upper-atmospheric condensation. The result is a semi-sentient prismatic buildup. Agents are encountering mid-ascent drag, rotational instability, and intermittent suspension at approximately seventy meters above ground level.”
Sir Vu stood up and walked toward his tall office windows. Outside, the massive rainbow tube rose proudly from the Dream Factory roof, disappearing in the clouds like the least discreet secret infrastructure in the world.
“I see nothing out of the ordinary in this enormous straw sticking out of my roof.”
“With respect, sir, the obstruction is internal.” McShoe replied gravely, “Due to this reduced propulsion clearance only three agents may safely ascend per cycle. Previously, we operated at twelve.”
Sir Vu exhaled sharply through his nose.
“That explains the manpower reduction.”
“Yes, sir. Investigation throughput has decreased by 75 percent.”
“And the repair status?”
“We’ve contracted a specialized engineering consultant. A Level-Seven Atmospheric Plumbing Theorist.”
Silence.
“He is currently conducting internal resonance mapping of the Rainbow Transit Column.”
Sir Vu stared at the tube, then sighed.
“Carry on.”
Sir Vu ended the call. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, brows furrowed in thought. His gaze drifted to the contract lying on the polished surface, then it shifted. On the prototype shelf nearby sat a peculiar device, something resembling a wildly disproportionate spray bottle, oversized nozzle, reinforced canister, hazard-striped trigger.
A spark flickered in Sir Vu’s eyes. He instantly pushed off the desk and strode toward the shelf, snatching the gadget and inspecting it from every angle. Slowly, his trademark fanged grin started returning.
“Davey boy, two can play this manipulation game.” he thought, turning the device.
His thumb brushed the trigger.
“I just happen to win at those.”
He pressed another button on his desk.
“Morris. To my office. We’ve got new merch to launch.”
----------------------------
Night had fallen when Lana finally finished her work. She was meant to lock up all the greenhouses for the evening when she decided to visit the Sleeper in the Crystal Greenhouse once again.
It was a giant bloom resembling a closed magnolia, standing alone at the back of the vastest Academy greenhouse. The oldest known plant on the Academy Grounds. It had never opened. Not even once. And yet it remained in perfect health.
Lana liked to visit it from time to time, hoping that one day she might witness it blossom.
The scientists had long packed up for the night. Lana stepped carefully through their cables, instruments, and hoses laying scattered across the floor, moving toward the pale silhouette in the distance.
She stopped before it.
The Sleeper looked as it always did: closed off, sad. Its snowy white petals reflected the moonlight streaming through the crystal panes, the glow making it appear carved from frost.
Lana sat on the low stone border surrounding it, gazing upward.
“Lightveil…” she murmured thoughtfully.
The name had lingered in her mind ever since Rosalyn left. It had threaded itself through her thoughts as she worked, persistent and strangely insistent. It felt important, relevant, somehow connected to these grounds.
“Lightveil… Lightveil…” she repeated softly as if repeating the name could make her understand who it belonged to.
She didn’t notice the subtle tremor at first. The Sleeper shifted. With each repetition of the name, one petal loosened. A faint, almost inaudible unfurling.
Lana froze. Her breath caught as she slowly rose to her feet, instinctively stepping back, eyes widening as the petals continued to open.
“Lightveil…” she whispered again, eyes fixed and unblinking, watching as the bloom kept on unfurling.
And soon, the Sleeper stood fully opened before her for the first time in centuries in its full glory.
Lana stepped closer, cautiously, observing.
Inside the bloom rose tall pistils, covered in fine, shimmering chrysolite-colored dust. The Sleeper was completely still now.
Lana didn’t hesitate. One final time she spoke the name:
“Lightveil.”
The pistils slowly stirred letting their dust loose. A luminous cloud formed, swirling gently above the bloom before drifting downward. It settled at Lana’s feet. Lines and deliberate patterns began to form on the soil.
Lana covered her mouth, her pulse thundering in her ears.
“No way…”
