The air thrummed with tension. The Archarbiter pressed a firm hand between Silas's shoulder blades and led the boy deep into the laboratory. Behind them, the others hovered like sentinels, watching and waiting. They stared at the carnage—animals sprawled in a pool of congealing blood and brain matter. A ferrous tang burned the back of the throat with every inhale. Scarlet droplets plinked from a table's edge into the blood below—louder than they should have been. Bloody bootprints trailed away from the gore—Silas's after-images as he was ushered along at Sorne's hip.

  Silas's chest hitched; his shoulders trembled with tearless sobs. I'm a murderer, he thought miserably. Silas didn't know who he feared most—Sorne, or himself.

  The Archarbiter stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "This mission is not over. Collect the carcasses. The logisters will want them intact for analysis."

  His words snapped the Arbiters out of their fugue. They blinked at each other. Ravelin stepped forward. She crouched above the deceased panther—careful to avoid stepping in the brain that oozed from its fractured skull like sap from a spile.

  Silas risked a glance at Sorne—his eyes darting up briefly. The Archarbiter's chin jutted forward. Pale light flickered in his eyes, a reflection of the smile he couldn't quite hide.

  Silas balked. Everything has unfolded according to his plan.

  Sorne paused beside a laboratory bench's cluttered surface. He plucked a spiral-bound notepad and flipped through the pages, reading aloud. "Neural grafting trials… cross-species integration of Unspoken supraesophageal ganglia…" Sorne inclined his head, watching Silas over the notepad. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

  Silas wasn't listening. Sorne's words passed through him like water through a sieve. He kept replaying the moment the tether snapped. Could he have stopped the rampage—saved the animals—without killing them? Sorne's eyes drifted back to the notepad.

  "Preliminary trials indicate partial cognition transference between donor and host—"

  Silas turned and walked toward the glass cylinders, ignoring the Archarbiter, who continued to narrate the notepad in his droning voice.

  Silas weaved between benches beneath the humming starbloom bulbs. Their light flickered and sputtered. Silas wondered how old their oil and algae were to cast such scintillating light. His eyes bounced from parchment to notepad, skimming their contents.

  Ravelin shouted above the effervescent hum. "Oscar, do not touch them with your bare hands! We don't know what manner of pathogens these animals carry."

  Oscar mumbled something indecipherable.

  "Are you well, Maris? How is your wound?" Stroud said gently, her voice low.

  Maris chuckled nervously. "It's numb right now, which is a mercy. But I know that won't last forever. At least the bleeding has stopped."

  "Go to the Sanctorium the moment we are back in Droswick," Stroud ordered. "Elsbeth is right to be wary of infection."

  "I will go with her," Drascourt drawled. "I, too, was injured by that insolent panther."

  Stroud snorted. "Come, now, Renald. Can you not handle a mere scratch?"

  Laughter followed Drascourt's feeble protest. The conversation diverted into small talk, and Silas stopped listening.

  He stood before a glass cylinder that matched his height. He bent at the waist, peeking through jagged shards of glass that outlined the hole in its center. Silas saw tufts of fur and blood pooling at the bottom, along with a thin liquid the color of sputum. Silas shuddered in disgust and stepped away. He stooped at the base, tracing the star pattern with his finger. Carved into the metal was a foreign string of words and numbers:

  Cryogenic Suspension Chamber Model HX-825 Interstellar Pilgrimage Series

  Interstellar? Cryogenic? These words were not in Silas's vernacular. Maybe they were a type of alchemy he was unfamiliar with. Silas scrunched his nose at the caustic smell permeating from the chamber. He turned and ambled back the way he came.

  Sorne was still scanning through documents and parchments. He leaned against a bench, one leg crossed over the other. He glanced up when Silas shambled into view.

  The Archarbiter inhaled through his open mouth. He began to speak, but was stopped short when Harlowe plowed forward—the bargemaster's cheeks red with fury.

  "Enough of your games, Archarbiter," the bargemaster seethed. He lifted a shaky finger, pointing at Silas. "What in the Emperor's name is that boy?"

  The room quieted. Silas's stomach dropped; heat flushed his neck. He stared at Harlowe's pointed finger, tracing it up to his face. When their eyes locked, Harlowe looked away first, fear and uncertainty pinched between his brows. Sorne closed the notepad he had been reading with a snap, holding it to his lips to hide his grin. The Archarbiter took his time to respond, savoring the uncomfortable silence he had created. His fingers drummed a measured rhythm on the notepad. Harlowe's eyelid twitched with each staccato beat.

  Sorne lowered the notepad and fixed Silas with a calculating leer. "This mission to Coldspire was a means to an end, Captain," he said. "The end being the answer to exactly that question."

  Silas inhaled sharply, sucking in air like he had been punched in the gut. I thought we were coming here to solve a mystery! To prove my abilities! Silas retreated a step, refusing to meet either Harlowe or Sorne's gaze. What—what is… what am I?

  Silas pivoted and bolted for the cryogenic chambers, shoulders hunched tight against his ears. Something rubbery and taut snagged his ankle. He pitched forward and hit the floor. Silas sat up and spun around, tugging at the thick black cord caught in his bootlaces. He freed his foot and held up the cord, staring at the metal prongs that protruded from its blunt end. His eyes followed the length of the cord to a cream-colored strip set with rows of holes arranged in a repeating pattern. Other black cords coiled from the strip, each one connected to a cryogenic chamber. A large cubical object behind the chambers hummed and vibrated as though alive. It reminded Silas of a sleeping beast; he feared it would wake at any moment and pounce.

  Something was lying on the ground between the cubical object and the cord Silas held. Silas climbed to his feet and approached cautiously—the cord gripped in his hand. His heart lurched. Silas's knees buckled; he sank to the floor, the cord forgotten. With trembling hands, he reached for the bundle of parchment secured with a sleek, black ribbon—the same ribbon Pa used to tie his hair.

  Silas gathered the bundle to his chest and swiveled his head left and right. Confident he was alone, he hurried behind the last row of cryogenic chambers.

  Pa, why did you come here? Silas thought, his eyes poring over the parchment stack. The black ribbon was tied tightly around the bundle, secured at the top in a delicate bow. Silas's head snapped up. He peeked around the corner of the chamber that hid him, studying the cord abandoned on the floor. Silas wedged Pa's bundle between two chambers and crept from his hiding spot.

  Did you trip over this cord, too? A sad smile curled Silas's lips. He padded to the cord and picked it up, examining the metal prongs. He turned around and considered the cubical object. Silas saw the same pattern of holes on the cube as on the strip he found earlier. Silas's eyes flitted between the metal prongs and the holes, realization dawning.

  He ran over to the cube and inserted the prongs into the holes. It was a perfect fit—a key into its lock. The cube shuddered. A deep thrum rolled through the floor, vibrating Silas's ribs. The cryogenic chambers came to life. Silas stumbled back until he slammed into the wall—watching in awe as the chambers flooded with harsh, synthetic light. It seared his retinas, so bright that closing his eyes did nothing to dampen the brilliance.

  There was a wet gurgling sound. Silas stepped away from the wall and approached the chambers. They bubbled and hissed, a yellow-green fluid filling them from the bottom. Silas pinched his nostrils shut against the sharp, sterile odor.

  Silas turned at the sound of bootsteps. The Arbiters filed into the space, staring—agape—at the cryogenic chambers. They were led by the Archarbiter, whose eyes widened in unmasked shock. Silas blinked. So even he doesn't know everything.

  Stroud spotted Silas and stepped forward. "What happened, Silas?" she asked, her eyes evading him. "Did you do this?"

  Silas nodded. He pointed to the black cord and the cubical object—a radiator, perhaps? Stroud frowned, stepping forward to see for herself.

  "I've never seen alchemy like this before," she said, rubbing her chin contemplatively as she viewed the cube from multiple angles. "How does it work?"

  "This isn't alchemy," Ravelin breathed as she read the words imprinted on a chamber's base. "It's… It's something novel. Something alien." She stood, squeezing her elbows in a solitary embrace. "This wasn't forged by human hands."

  A brief silence descended. Sorne stepped forward, his eyes narrowed studiously. "If that is so, then how is human language written on its surface?" As he asked this, he pulled a leaflet of pages from a pocket. "This is a 'user manual' for these… apparatuses. It says they were used to store organic material indefinitely—without decay."

  While the Arbiters were distracted, Silas slowly edged back into his hiding spot. He grabbed Pa's bundle and snuck deeper into the cluster of chambers. Silas felt like he was in a dense forest, staring up at towering cacti as he threaded through shattered glass and prone wires. He found a narrow crevice to wedge himself in and sat, his legs crossed to save room. He tugged at the end of the ribbon, watching it unravel. He twisted the ribbon around his wrist and knotted it in place before delving into the stack of parchment.

  Silas's pulse quickened, recognizing Pa's handwriting immediately. But as he read, excitement bled away into confusion. The notes were arranged as journal entries signed off by one Dr. Elias Harrow—an Imperial logister, it sounded like. The entries began fourteen syzygies ago, and continued until last eclipse. They were clinical, methodological—written in jargon that Silas had trouble understanding. Silas flipped to the beginning and started reading.

  Subject H-037 Observation Log

  08/18/945

  Material synthesis achieved using neural substrate from human and Unspoken donors.

  Rejection negligible. Synaptic growth remarkable.

  Brainwave patterns show irregular harmonics—resonance amplitude exceeding control subjects.

  Cognitive activity minimal but consistent with baseline human infant response.

  Recommendation: continue controlled nurturing in isolation.

  Minimize external stimuli to control for confounders.

  Notes: Subject responds to touch but does not cry. Eyes follow motion, though unfocused.

  Silas shivered. The author was talking about a human infant! How could he—how could Pa—describe an infant so clinically, so detached? Silas's throat tightened; he forced himself to keep reading. He squinted at the text, digesting it fully. It sounded less like the infant was born and more like it was grown. Silas flipped a few pages and started again.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  10/30/945

  Subject H-037 demonstrates precocious motor development.

  Reacts disproportionately to human voices over mechanical tones.

  Possibly recognizes mine.

  This may complicate objectivity.

  Requesting secondary handler for emotional detachment.

  None available since the evacuation.

  Silas reread this entry several times. What did Pa mean by 'evacuation'? Did something happen that forced the researchers to move? Is that why there was a laboratory hidden deep within the frozen caves of Coldspire? Silas glanced up, scanning the rows of cryogenic chambers around him. Maybe the Coldspire laboratory and the one Pa wrote about were unrelated. The one he currently sat in conducted experiments on animals, after all. Silas shrugged and turned the page, continuing with the next entry.

  11/05/945

  The laboratory is compromised.

  The Covenant's overseers ordered a complete purge.

  "No evidence left behind," they said.

  They'd rather start over from scratch than surrender our findings to the Empire.

  I refuse. I will not destroy him.

  Transporting the infant southeast to Droswick.

  The boy slept through the shelling. His breathing steadied when I carried him close.

  From here on out, I will no longer refer to him as Subject H-037.

  I will name him properly later—when we are safe.

  Silas's pulse raced. The parchment crinkled in his grip—then tore. Pa couldn't be talking about him, could he? Silas wasn't grown in a lab—he was Pa's family! He had parents. Parents who died in a vague boiler accident fourteen syzygies ago… Silas pressed his fists into his eyes. No, he wasn't an experiment. He couldn't be. If he kept reading, Pa would explain properly, and this misunderstanding would sort itself out. Silas opened his eyes and read, focusing on his breathing to calm himself.

  12/01/945

  We survived the journey.

  The Empire's eyes do not see this far into the Lower Districts.

  The boy remains silent, but alert.

  His attention is drawn to crowds.

  He startles easily when outside city walls—growing fussy and inconsolable.

  I have stopped all experimentation for now.

  I cannot bear to put him through such trauma.

  My worst fear has become realized—I have grown attached.

  Soon, I will name him properly.

  Silas's pulse quickened, a prickle rising along his neck.

  12/11/945

  I have decided to call him Silas.

  Silas dropped the parchment. His vision swam. Tears fell onto the page, blurring the ink. Silas drew his knees to his chest, burying his face between his legs to muffle the sound of his sobs. His sense of self fractured, unraveling everything he knew.

  He sat like that for some time, listening to his fluttering heartbeat. He recalled Pa's increasingly suspicious behavior over the past few syzygies—the secrets and lies accumulating each day. Silas was finally glimpsing the truth. He now understood what it meant to be blissfully ignorant. He wanted to forget. He wanted to extract this knowledge from his brain and throw it deep into Coldspire's abyss, where nobody would ever find it. With immense effort, Silas uncurled himself and reached for the parchment again. He told himself he would be the last person to read Pa's notes. He would finish what he started and destroy the evidence so nobody else learned the truth. He wiped away the tears and continued.

  The name means "of the forest."

  I find it fitting.

  He was made from the remnants of what was once natural and what we twisted to survive—to escape this dying world.

  He smiled when I said it aloud.

  Perhaps coincidence, perhaps not. He is not an experiment any longer.

  He is a person. He is my beloved grandson.

  07/05/948

  Silas is a skittish child, but he is curious and bright.

  He dislikes the dark.

  When the starbloom lanterns gutter out, he stirs and trembles until I take his hand.

  His pulse steadies when he feels my touch.

  I have ceased recording his resonance entirely.

  I would burn the old data if I had the courage.

  For the first time in my life, I understand what it means to be afraid for someone, not of something.

  If the Covenant finds us, they will not take him.

  I live to see his smile.

  I will protect his happiness to my dying breath.

  01/27/949

  The boy cannot speak.

  I originally assumed he was verbally stunted but would recover with time.

  I now believe our tampering with his neural circuitry caused irreparable injury to his Broca's area.

  I met with an old colleague today—Quin Warren, once of the Covenant, now living quietly in Droswick. He has founded the Foundry School for Education and Asylum, an act of contrition, I think, for what we once served.

  I confided in him about Silas's muteness.

  Warren suggested a woman on his faculty—an instructor fluent in hand-signs once used by the Imperial deaf. He offered to enroll Silas when the boy is old enough.

  He claims it would be good for the other children as well.

  09/15/951

  Silas has started school.

  He is a smart boy. His silence is not an impediment.

  He learns fast. He excels at reading and writing, and is on his way to fluency in sign language.

  He struggles to make friends, but does not seem to mind.

  Like me, he is a loner. He prefers solitude and introspection.

  He has nightmares often.

  With sign, he tells me whispers haunt his dreams after Dysol sets.

  I fear living in the city cannot hide him from them forever.

  There was a lapse in entries. Pa stopped detailing Silas's growth between the ages of six and fourteen. Silas flipped to the last page. The final entry was written last eclipse—on Silas's birthday. Pa must have scrawled this message immediately before depositing the parchment bundle in the laboratory. Silas returned to the first entry, staring at the date.

  Ah. I see. Silas thought back to the last eclipse as he read, remembering what he and Pa did to celebrate his fourteenth birthday. If only Silas knew then what he knew now.

  08/18/959

  Silas hears them clearly now.

  He calls them "Voices."

  When the episodes started, Dr. Strath—the Foundry School's resident physick—prescribed Powder of Neuroleptic.

  It has done nothing to prevent Silas from hearing them.

  The Voices have grown stronger as he grows older.

  He signs to me that they whisper when he sleeps.

  I tell him it is a dream, but I know better.

  The resonance has awakened fully.

  I fear our time together is drawing to a close.

  If the Unspoken find him, they will not let him go.

  I have hidden this bundle where only he might one day find it.

  And if you are reading this, Silas, then I have failed to tell you myself.

  I am sorry.

  I carried this secret too long, until it grew heavier than my heart could bear.

  You were not born to this world as others are, but you belong here all the same.

  You started as my experiment, but you are that no longer.

  You are my grandson.

  I hope you are safe. I hope you are free.

  —Elias Harrow

  Silas hugged the bundle to his chest. The parchment smelled faintly of musk and ink—Pa's scent, and home. Silas lumbered to his feet. He needed to dispose of the bundle. Nobody else could see what was written in its pages. Silas tucked the bundle under his arm and slunk between the chambers, slipping toward the laboratory benches.

  "There you are, Silas."

  He froze at Stroud's voice, his heart leaping into his mouth.

  There was a heavy sound behind him, like something falling to the ground. Stroud swore, her vulgar words heating the tips of Silas's ears.

  "What in the—how did you squeeze yourself back there, mouse boy?" Stroud asked, her voice edged with strain.

  Silas risked a peek over his shoulder, adjusting the bundle so his body blocked it from Stroud's view. She was tangled in a mess of cords, her bootlaces caught within their twisting snares. Stroud saw him looking and huffed, fluttering a lock of hair that escaped her bun.

  "Help me get out of this," she said, motioning to her trapped boots.

  Silas turned from her and ran.

  Stroud shouted after him. Her words did not reach his ears. Silas ducked through shattered glass and snaring cords—bobbing between cryogenic chambers on his flight to freedom. Silas exited the chamber cluster and paused for orientation. He spun to face the exit door. Grinding his teeth, he set off, clutching the bundle against his hip.

  Silas rounded a corner and nearly collided with Stroud. He changed direction—his boots squealing in protest. Stroud reached out to grab him, but he backed away—his eyes wide and frantic. Stroud glanced down. She noticed the bundle.

  "What've you got there, Silas?" she asked, her eyes glued to his hip. "Can I see?"

  Silas shook his head violently. He glanced both ways, searching for an escape route.

  Stroud stepped forward.

  Silas stumbled a step back.

  She frowned, her eyes narrowing as frustration rose. "Silas," she said sternly. "Give them to me." Her expression softened at the fear that haunted Silas's face. "Whatever it is, I can handle it. I swear." Her voice was like a gentle caress, calming Silas with every word.

  Silas bumped into something. A hand grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. Silas cried out, his arm going numb. The bundle tumbled from his grip, landing on the floor with a poof of dust.

  Silas pivoted, glaring upward. He rubbed his shoulder, massaging sensation back into his tingling arm. Sorne bent to retrieve the bundle. He stood and smiled, his eyes poring over the parchments' contents.

  No, no, no, no, no!

  Tears stung Silas's eyes. He wiped them away, but more welled up and spilled over, pouring down his cheeks. He backed himself against a cryogenic chamber, feeling the sharp bite of broken glass tear through his coat. Stroud watched him with pity. She reached out, then stopped herself—her hand falling to her side. She turned her attention to the Archarbiter, whose exuberance grew the longer he read. Stroud and Silas watched Sorne read in silence, the hum of machinery filling the space between their breaths.

  When he finished reading, Sorne raised his head and stared at Silas. The boy stood there with tears running down his face, feeling like everything he knew was crumbling down. His life was no longer his own. Silas was created for a purpose, and the Archarbiter aimed to exploit that purpose for his—and the Empire's—gain. He and Stroud had failed. They were pieces on Sorne's gameboard. The ending to the story of Silas's life had been written in advance, and Silas was powerless to rewrite the narrative. He could only move forward, each turn pulling him inexorably toward a conclusion decided before he was born—before he was made. Silas hung his head as Sorne passed the bundle to Stroud. She took it, holding it gently in trembling hands that betrayed her unease.

  Ravelin approached from the front of the laboratory. She took one look at the situation and decided whatever she had to say could wait. She spun and hurried back the way she came.

  Stroud read quickly. When she reached the revelation of Silas's origin, she paled. Her hands shook harder, the parchments quivering in her tremulous grip. When she finished reading, she clutched the bundle to her chest. She stared at the Archarbiter, her lips in a taut line.

  "Your clearance, Vera, has been granted. You may now pursue the Covenant of Fallen Stars." Sorne clasped his hands behind his back, his face falling to its usual blank expression.

  "The Covenant of Fallen Stars," Stroud repeated, the name rolling off her tongue. She swallowed hard, her eyes widening. "I've heard of it. There was an incident fourteen syzygies ago. I had just graduated from the Academy…" Her eyes drifted to Silas. The boy looked away, her pitying gaze tightening his throat.

  Sorne nodded slowly, watching the gears in Stroud's mind turn. "You've been chasing the Covenant's shadow for syzygies, Vera. You are now permitted to look upon its casting light." He smiled at Silas—menacing and cold. "And who else do you have to guide you to its source than the living proof of its endeavors?"

  Sorne walked away, leaving Stroud and Silas alone—the burden of new knowledge hanging heavy between them. Silas no longer cried. He stared at the floor, his eyes puffy and red. Stroud cleared her throat and adjusted the bundle.

  "We have a new lead, little mouse," she said, her lips trying to find a smile. She dropped the act, her mouth failing to form the expression. "This Warren fellow from the Foundry School. We will start there."

  Silas turned away from Stroud. He stared at his reflection in the cryogenic chamber. The glass warped his features—his nose too wide and his eyes too small. He imagined himself suspended in the chamber, like the animals had been before Pa disturbed their slumber. He pressed his forehead to the glass and breathed, inhaling the sterile funk. He marveled at his luck. It could have been him—waking from one of these chambers, only to be slain by an intruder bearing the illusion of freedom. Silas wondered how many more like him were out there, lying dormant, waiting to be set free.