I tucked the damp piece of paper Cyrus had handed me into my inner vest pocket. It was scorched at the edges and reeked of vinegar-soaked ash, but the name "ARIN" was written in a cold, precise script that made my stomach churn.
I ushered Cyrus and Mira back into their hiding spot with a firm nod, then turned to face the music.
A few minutes later, I was standing in the doorway of the Principal's office. It was a disaster. Foam—thick, white, and smelling like a brewery's nightmare—was sliding off Albrecht's mahogany desk. The Grey Cloak was frantically trying to salvage a stack of parchments, his gloves dripping with white suds.
"Master Verne!" Albrecht roared, standing up and shaking a glob of foam from his sleeve. "What in the name of the High Heavens have you done to my office?"
I didn't flinch. I put on my most distressed, "Academic in Crisis" face. I rushed into the room, nearly slipping on the suds.
"Oh, mercy! The Oxidized Backflow! It's worse than I feared!" I cried, grabbing a rag and pointlessly dabbing at a puddle. "Principal, I am so sorry, but this is exactly why I warned the Courier about the resonance! You see, the Academy was built on a limestone shelf. Over time, the moisture in the West Wing air creates a high-alkaline buildup in the... uh... 'decorative' copper trim."
I gestured broadly to the ceiling.
"When my cleaning agent—a standard acetic compound—met that buildup, it created a high-pressure gaseous release. Because your office is at the lowest point of the West Wing's acoustic arc, the laws of physics dictated that the foam would seek the path of least resistance. Which, unfortunately, was your primary ventilation shaft."
The Grey Cloak looked at the foaming lion's head on the wall. He looked at me. His eyes were narrowing, but the logic—the sheer, boring, chemical logic—was too solid to argue with.
"It's a common 'Suds-Surge' in buildings of this era," I added, sounding exhausted. "I'll have to bill the Academy for the extra vinegar, but I suppose we can waive the fee given the... state of your rug."
Albrecht sank into his chair with a wet squelch. He looked defeated. "Just... finish your work, Verne. And keep the 'cleansing' contained to the pipes."
"Of course, of course," I said, leaning over his desk to "help" him move some papers. I kept my voice casual, the way a man might ask about the weather. "You know, seeing all these records reminds me... I was chatting with the town registrar the other day. He mentioned you've been taking a special interest in the Verne family files. And now, during my inspection, I keep seeing my children's names on these 'Aptitude Lists.'"
I looked Albrecht directly in the eye, my glasses reflecting the dim light. "Tell me, Principal. As a man of education... what do you think of my Arin and Lysa? Is there a reason they're being tracked so... specifically?"
Albrecht exchanged a look with the Grey Cloak. The Courier gave a short, dismissive nod—the look of a man who was done dealing with the father.
"Your children, Ilyas," Albrecht said, wiping a bit of foam from his ear, "are a curiosity. On the sensors, they are... remarkably flat. No spikes, no surges. In a school full of gifted orphans and potential 'Peaks,' they are like two grey stones in a field of wildflowers."
"Stones?" I repeated, playing the offended parent.
"Boring stones," the Grey Cloak added bluntly. "We track them because the Empire doesn't believe in 'perfectly average.' We look for the outlier. But after today... after seeing the father..." He gestured to the foam-covered room. "...I'm beginning to believe the 'flatness' is simply genetic. Your son spent forty minutes talking to me about the texture of gravel, Verne. No one with that level of genuine dullness is hiding a secret."
"Gravel is important!" I huffed, clutching my satchel.
"Go home, Architect of Mud," Albrecht sighed, waving me away. "The list is just for... administrative symmetry. Your children are safe from our interest. They are far too uninteresting to be of any use to the Empire."
I bowed low, hiding the flash of predatory triumph in my eyes. "Well! I shall take that as a compliment to our stable household! I'll just finish the South Gutter and be out of your... hair. Or foam."
I walked out of the Academy an hour later. My heart was singing, even as the paper in my pocket burned with the weight of the names. I had confirmed it: They think we are nobodies. But as I reached our garden gate, I saw Avaris standing there. She hadn't moved. She was holding a sharpening stone, and the rhythmic shick-shick-shick of her blade told me she was ready for war.
"You're late," she said, her eyes scanning me for bruises.
"The gutters were... complicated," I said, pulling the charred list from my pocket. "But I have the list, Avaris.
After the tension at the garden gate, the interior of our cottage felt like a sanctuary—though a very busy one. Avaris moved with the silent efficiency of a shadow, setting the table while her eyes remained fixed on the windows.
I sat at the head of the table, still smelling faintly of vinegar and ancient dust. Arin and Lysa were practically vibrating in their seats, their dinner bowls of stew completely forgotten.
"Father," Arin whispered, leaning across the table so far his chin almost touched the gravy. "Cyrus told us what happened before he went back to the dorms—he came down from the Academy to tell us. He said the walls started screaming foam! He said the Grey Cloak looked like he'd seen a ghost, and the Principal was literally drowning in bubbles!"
Lysa's eyes were wide, her notebook open beside her spoon. "He said you didn't even flinch. You just stood there in the middle of the chaos, lecturing them about... what was it? 'Hydro-Pneumatic Burps'?"
"It was a very technical term for a very messy situation," I said, trying to maintain my humble scholar's dignity while taking a sip of water.
"But the fool!" Arin jumped up, mimicking a panicked guard. "The Grey Cloak! Cyrus said the man was ready to draw his sword, and you just... you just bored him back into his chair! You looked him in the eye and talked about lime-scaling until his brain turned to mush! How did you stay so calm? Weren't you afraid he'd see through it?"
I set my glass down with a precise clack. "Arin, the secret to a perfect lie isn't the lie itself. It's the sheer weight of the truth surrounding it. I wasn't lying about the limestone, or the vinegar, or the pressure. I was simply giving them so much 'truth' that they didn't have room in their heads for suspicion. To them, I wasn't a threat; I was just a nuisance with a ledger."
"It was legendary," Lysa scribbled furiously. "Observation: The Architect uses 'The Truth' as a smokescreen. The more boring the detail, the thicker the fog."
"And when you asked about the list!" Arin cheered, his voice rising in excitement. "Cyrus said you sounded so... so offended! Like a grumpy dad who was mad about his kids' grades, not a Mastermind checking the enemy's hit-list! You actually got them to tell you what they think of us!"
Avaris walked over, placing a hand on my shoulder. She leaned down, her eyes catching the candlelight. "He's right, Ilyas love. To walk into the lion's den and make the lion feel sorry for having to listen to you... that is a special kind of 'cool.' Even I'm impressed."
I felt a flush of pride creep up my neck. "Well, I did have to mention the 14-year legal battle over the Salt-Licked Pond again. That usually does the trick."
"The 'Salt-Licked' Gambit!" Arin shouted, punching the air. "It's unbeatable!"
But then, the laughter died down as I pulled the charred, damp paper from my vest and laid it on the table between the salt cellar and the bread. The name ARIN stared back at us, the Crossed Circle looking like a dark omen in the flickering light.
"They think you're 'Anomaly' stones," I said, my voice losing its playful edge. "They aren't done with us. They think I'm a fool, yes—but they want to be absolutely sure that you two are fools, too."
Arin's excitement faded, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity. He looked at the list, then at me. "So... tonight is the final exam?"
"Tonight," I said, "is the night the Architect and the Sentry show them exactly how boring—and how dangerous—this house can be."
Avaris grabbed the Wooden Spoon from the center of the table and held it up. "Dinner's over. Arin, Lysa, clear the table. We need to prep the 'Verne Style' defenses. If a guest arrives tonight, we're going to give them a welcome they'll never be able to report to their superiors."