Eat. Drink. Work out. Sleep. Wake up. Sit. Stand. Read his stats. Sleep.

  Ethan had to use the hole in the floor. And he really missed plumbing. No showers. No water when he wanted it. He would have loved a glass to drink, or even just enough to rinse the grime off his hands — or his whole body. Instead, there was only the hole. It was the worst. He didn’t even think the hole went anywhere. It looked like it just dropped into a pit full of slimes. Poop-eating slimes.

  Ethan shuddered at the thought as he tried not to get too close to the hole while using it.

  Then finally a change came. Boots in the corridor, keys, a rasp of iron. The upper slot slid open; a flat eye looked down, then vanished. The door creaked wide and the smell of oil and damp stone rolled in.

  Ethan was elated for the break and change in the monotony of not seeing anyone.

  “Up.” A gauntlet tapped the bench. “On your feet.”

  Ethan stood. His legs felt hollow, his shirt stiff with old sweat. A guard pinched his nose as if the air offended him; the other muttered something about “hose first.” Shackles clicked around Ethan’s wrists, then his ankles. They marched him out.

  The corridor air tasted cooler but carried the same stale bite. They didn’t take him far—just to a tiled alcove with a drain and a rack of hooks. One guard twisted a valve; a battered nozzle coughed, then blasted a sheet of cold water that stole Ethan’s breath. He gritted his teeth and turned his face into it anyway. The spray stung, hammered grime out of his hair, ran brown across the tiles and spiraled away.

  “Arms up.” The order came flat. They cut his shirt down the front and peeled it off like old bark. Boots next. Pants last. Each piece hit the floor with a wet slap, then a guard lifted it with two fingers and carried it to a waiting coffer. Ethan saw the jumble inside—his storage rings, the slaver’s old bag, the satchel, the chalk-dusted scraps—and, atop it all, the heap of filthy clothes, thrown in without a second look. The Homestead lay where he’d last seen it in his mind’s eye, buried among the satchel’s contents. Soul-bonded. Safe from curious hands, even if the hands belonged to the city.

  They poured bucket after bucket over him, water splashing cold across the stone until the runoff ran clear and the drain stopped choking. Ethan raised his voice over the drenching. “Hey—before I forget. Who made the gruel? It wasn’t half bad.”

  The next bucket paused mid-swing. One of the guards blinked, voice dipping, almost wounded. “Gruel? That wasn’t gruel. I made a stew. Have you been calling it gruel this whole time? I… I worked hard on that.”

  Ethan straightened, water dripping down his face, and gave the man a solemn nod. “Then it was the best stew I’ve ever had. Five stars. Would recommend.”

  The guard huffed, clearly stung, and dumped the last of the water on him in sulky silence, like a child pouting through chores. No towel. When he was done, another tossed Ethan a bundle: rough trousers, a thin tunic that smelled of lime soap and mildew, and a pair of cracked-soled shoes. He dressed with wet fingers while water still dripped from his hair.

  When they clipped the shackles back on, the metal felt colder than before. The guards didn’t meet his eyes. One kept his head turned away and breathed through his mouth. The other tightened the wrist chain an extra notch, then tugged once to test the fit.

  “Move.”

  They took him toward the stairs. Each step pulled at calves that had done more pushups than walking for two weeks. The chains clinked with every stride, echoing up the stone stairwell. Air thinned as they climbed. Light sharpened from sickly yellow to day-bright, and the smell of ink, wax, and polished wood began to thread through the older scents of mildew. Ethan’s throat felt raw, but he forced the words out anyway. “What’s happening? Where are we going?”

  The guard yanked the chain forward. “Shut up. Move.”

  Keys rattled at the next landing, the sound sharp against the hush. Ethan kept his footing and let the chain pull him onward.

  The guards hauled him through a final archway, and the stairwell gave way to a wide chamber. The air was brighter here, lit by high windows and mana lamps that hummed faintly. His eyes caught on the coffer shoved against one wall—his bag, his satchel, even the knife he hadn’t seen in weeks had been dumped in a pile nearby, as though someone had dragged it all out to make a point.

  But he barely had time to take that in before he saw who was waiting. Aldric stood near the council table, shoulders square, his Guild cloak hanging loose. Mabel clutched a leather folder so tightly the pages inside bent. Professor Tahl leaned on his cane, watchful, sharp-eyed. Gwenna was there too, her gaze flicking between Ethan and the guards with obvious distrust. Beside them stood a man Ethan didn’t know, dressed in the crisp robes. Only one of his dogs was present; it was Buster.

  And Lyra.

  The second the chains rattled him into the chamber, she broke rank. The foxkin sprinted across the marble, ears flat, eyes bright with unshed tears. She hit him in a hug so fierce the guards nearly lost their grip on the chains. Ethan staggered under her weight, caught between iron pulling him down and her arms holding him up.

  The guards shoved him forward into the chamber and halted near the council table. One exchanged a glance with the other before setting his jaw and unlocking the shackles.

  “No funny business,” the taller one warned, voice flat. “You’re surrounded. Try anything, and it won’t end well.”

  Cold iron slipped from his wrists and ankles. Ethan flexed his hands, the joints stiff after the climb, and glanced around. Guild guards lined the walls, spears upright, eyes sharp. Even without chains, he wasn’t free.

  “You’ve got a third of an hour,” the second guard added. “Proceedings start after that. Make yourself ready.”

  The chains clattered as they were carried off. The weight was gone, but the eyes stayed.

  The man in fancy robes cleared his throat. “Leave us. I need to speak with my client in private.”

  The guards grumbled, exchanging looks like they didn’t want to give up their post. One finally jabbed a finger toward Ethan. “Remember—you’ve got about a third of an hour.” With that, they stepped out and slammed the heavy door behind them.

  Silence pressed down for a moment.

  Through the bond, Buster’s grumble came clear. “That’s fifty-five minutes and thirty-three seconds. Basically an hour. Don’t let them make it sound shorter.”

  Ethan blinked, then thought about it. I did think it was shorter… forgot about the time differences. The thought stayed in his own head, but he gave the faintest nod and a small smile in Buster’s direction. The mutt might complain nonstop, but once again he’d been the one to cut through the noise. That mutt seems smarter than me even though I know we have the same intelligence.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The man smoothed his robes and gave Ethan a small nod. “Hi, my name is Roman, but you may call me Counsel. My class is Adjudicator — I’m here to guide you through the proceedings.”

  Lyra was still somehow clinging to him, arms tight around his middle. Ethan shifted, trying to extract himself enough to reach out a hand. Roman caught the hint and stepped forward.

  Lyra blinked, realizing what she was doing, and scrambled back a single step. Her ears twitched, and her face flushed nearly as red as her hair.

  Ethan tried to ignore the embarrassment oozing through the bond from her as he clasped Roman’s hand.

  Ethan’s eyes flicked around the chamber. “Where is everybody else?” he asked as he looked back towards Lyra and Buster.

  “They would only let so many people in here,” Lyra answered, a flush still warming her cheeks as her tail flicked once.

  Ethan’s brow pulled tight. “Where’s Moose? I thought he’d be the first one through the door.”

  Lyra’s ears dipped as she reached through the bond, steady but gentle. He wanted to come. But he stayed back. He’s working on it, Ethan. Facing the distance instead of letting it break him.

  Buster’s gravelly grumble followed, the bond carrying it clearer than his voice ever could. The big lug’s training. Hard. Professor Tahl’s got him running drills till his legs shake, and he doesn’t quit. He’s holding steady instead of pacing himself raw. First time I’ve seen him manage that without you right there.

  Ethan let out a slow breath. Moose not being here wasn’t failure. It meant he was choosing to stand his ground, even if it hurt. That mattered more than charging into the room.

  He closed his eyes and pushed along the bond himself, now unhindered without the cell’s dampening pressing him down. Moose’s presence answered at once—anxious, restless, but firm in a way Ethan hadn’t felt before.

  Ethan set his palms against the table to steady himself. “There’s something I haven’t told anyone outside the Pack. I don’t know how people here would take it, and I don’t want to find out in front of the council. But if I’m going to stand under a Truthstone, you need to know.”

  “My home isn’t on your maps. It isn’t across the sea. It’s another dimension entirely. I didn’t walk through a gate or a ritual. I woke up here with the System already in my head, and I don’t have a way back.”

  He kept his tone even. “If they ask me where I’m from under a Truthstone, I can’t lie. I’d have to say it. I don’t know what happens after that—and that uncertainty is what worries me.”

  Roman inclined his head, voice calm. “Most of what the council raised has already been addressed. Miss Tristane filed the permits, paid the fees, and closed their easy angles. On paper, you’re in order. The only meaningful lever left is the Truthstone.”

  Ethan ran a hand over his face, leaning his weight against the heavy table. “I need to understand something before we go in there,” Ethan said. “Was I actually arrested, or was that just… something else?”

  Roman met his eyes calmly. “No,” Roman said. “You were detained.”

  “That doesn’t feel different,” Ethan replied. “Where I’m from, they don’t get to chain you up and toss you in a hole unless you’re charged with something. Innocent until proven guilty is the baseline for everyone. That's how it's supposed to work.”

  Roman’s mouth twitched faintly, though not with amusement. “That is not the baseline here,” Roman said. “In this city, authority does not require guilt before it applies pressure. You were compelled to appear while the council reviewed your standing to determine if any law could be applied to you.”

  “So they were hunting for leverage,” Ethan said, his mouth tightening. “Anything they could make stick.”

  “Yes,” Roman said. “Permits, registrations, fees, technical oversights. Not because the paperwork matters on its own, but because a technical violation provides a lawful lever. Once authority has a lever, it can justify escalation. Seizure of assets. Restrictions on movement. Continued confinement. Control.”

  Ethan stared at him for a beat. “And they can do all that without proving I did anything wrong.”

  “This is a system where law supports authority; it does not restrain it,” Roman explained evenly. “The inquiry comes first. The charge follows only if they can manufacture one. The City Lord isn't looking for justice; he treats people as assets to be managed or contained.”

  Ethan’s gaze flicked toward Aldric and Gwenna, then back to the counselor. “So why did he push it? He didn't have to keep me there.”

  Roman hesitated, choosing his words with practiced care. “The City Lord was once considered measured. He was firm, but predictable. In recent months, that restraint has thinned. He presses harder and more openly than he ever has before. People have noticed.”

  “And that’s how rebellions start,” Ethan said.

  “That is how resentment hardens into organization,” Roman agreed. “Which is why everything must appear procedural to the public. If he is seen openly abusing power, the city remembers. If it’s framed as paperwork and process, most people shrug and move on. He needed a reason to keep you that wouldn't look like an outright kidnapping.”

  Ethan nodded slowly, the political reality finally sinking in. “So it wasn’t about justice. It was about opportunity.”

  Roman inclined his head once. “Exactly. And that is why we stop discussing motives and start discussing the instrument they intend to use — the Truthstone.”

  He set the folder aside. “It doesn’t punish. It shows. Green when you speak plainly. Red when you lie. Every shade between when you hedge. Your job is to keep your answers green enough that they can’t make the color itself an argument. Here’s how you do that: answer only what is asked. Keep it short. Choose truths you can stand on. If a question touches your origin, say, ‘Far from here—outside what your people know.’ That’s true. If they push, add only what you still believe. When you need to be ambiguous, be honest in the way you hold it. If you believe what you’re saying, the stone will read it as clean. Stay calm. Let the stone work for you, not against you. Miss Tristane’s groundwork has set the field in your favor. Hold your ground, and you’ll walk out.”

  Aldric gave a short nod. Mabel shut her folder with quiet precision. Tahl’s cane touched the floor once, sharp against the silence. They didn’t need words—each gesture was enough.

  Through the bond, Lyra pressed steady warmth against Ethan’s thoughts. Buster’s rumble followed, dry as gravel. Short answers, green rock. Even you can manage that.

  The folder stayed open between them as Roman moved on to the finer details. Procedures. Precedent. Names of councilors Ethan had never met and probably wouldn’t remember. He listened, nodded where he had to, and let the words wash over him. Ten minutes gone, maybe more. The third of an hour would run out soon enough.

  Mabel slipped out and came back with a bundle of clothes, insisting Ethan change out of the damp tunic and trousers. The fabric they’d given him before felt like burlap, scratchy enough to make his skin crawl. He ducked into a corner, turned his back, and pulled on the cleaner set just to look halfway presentable again.

  With Roman and Mabel pressing the point, the guards relented and let him put his rings and equipment back on. No one wanted to carry the decision up the chain; better to let it slide and avoid attention. The way things worked in this building, the higher ranks did the yelling, and everyone beneath found shortcuts to keep trouble off their backs.

  Ethan dug through his things the second they were shoved back into his arms. He didn’t pull out the Homestead Anchor first. No—first came a pair of sweet cakes, one in each hand, both crammed into his mouth before anyone could blink.

  Crumbs sprayed as he tried to talk around them. “What? Haven’t eaten in, like, two weeks. Or at least nothing worth chewing. The gruel wasn’t bad, but come on—cake.”

  Lyra just shook her head, ears flicking in exasperation, but he could feel her laughter bubbling through the bond. Only after he licked the sugar from his fingers did he slip the Homestead Anchor free and press it into her hand. “Keep this safe,” he muttered.

  Her fingers closed tight around it, silent as ever, but the bond carried back her promise: she’d guard it with everything she had.

  Buster gave him a strange look, ears twitching once before his gaze locked on Ethan. The bond shifted—quiet, focused—and Ethan froze, listening. Whatever the mutt sent across left him blinking, then slowly grinning in a way that made the others in the room glance at him sideways. It wasn’t the time for smiles, and that grin didn’t belong here, but Ethan couldn’t help it.

  “Buster,” he murmured, still grinning. “You might be the smartest one in the room.”

  He dug back into his things, pulled out another sweet cake, and pressed it into Buster’s mouth.

  The retriever-doberman mix blinked, surprised, then chomped it down in one bite. The bond carried a flicker of smug satisfaction that made Ethan laugh, even as the others stared.

  The door banged open, iron hinges groaning. Two guards stepped inside, chains hooked to their belts.

  “Time,” one barked.

  Roman closed his folder, and Ethan pushed to his feet. The cuffs went back on, cold around his wrists, but lighter this time — the guards knew where he was headed. They flanked him, nudging him toward the wide corridor that led deeper into the Dome.