The distraction in the East Wing began with a sound like a thousand angry hornets. Mira's "Frenzy Salts," when introduced to the copper-rich drainage pipes of the alchemical labs, didn't explode—they screamed. A thick, iridescent fog began to roll out of the floor grates, smelling of sulfur and burnt sugar. It was a harmless reaction, but to a Senior Auditor trained to look for instability, it was a "Grade-B Corrosive Event."
I watched from the workshop window as Vane's clinical gray coat disappeared into the fog of the East Wing, followed by a squad of panicked guards.
"Go," I whispered.
Cael stayed behind to watch the corridor. Gareth and Mira slipped into the workshop with me. The gray wax seal on the door was cold. I didn't break it with a hammer. I used a thin, heated needle to melt the microscopic seam where the wax met the wood, prying the entire disk off in one piece.
"If we're not back in twenty minutes, he'll know," Mira whispered, her breath hitching.
