Chapter 112 People Talk
Bella
One of the older women smiles slowly and carefully, like she’s testing whether the expression still fits her face.
“Well,” she says, glancing around the small room, meeting each pair of eyes in turn, “if there’s one thing we can do… it’s talk.”
No one laughs. No one dismisses it. The idea doesn’t sound small in here. It sounds dangerous... and liberating.
She pushes herself to her feet with a quiet grunt and straightens her layers. “We’ve been quiet long enough.”
Then another stands, and another, and suddenly the room isn’t a gathering anymore—it’s a decision in motion. These are the first people to decide they want their freedom.
“Carefully,” Mara says, already thinking three steps ahead. “Quietly. One conversation at a time.”
“That’s how it starts,” the silver-haired woman agrees. She looks at me once, eyes sharp but not unkind. “You stay where they can see you. Let them wonder.”
And just like that, they split. They drift out in twos and threes, slipping back into the corridors they know so well, voices low, postures relaxed enough not to draw attention, carrying nothing but hope, trust and possibility.
I step back into the main courtyard and immediately make a conscious effort to look like I belong. No hovering, no skulking, just another elemental moving through the Sanctum like this is where I’ve always been. The space is wide and open compared to the corridors below, carved high into the mountain’s interior, with layered walkways and platforms that ring the cavern walls. Ice channels thread through the stone like veins, reflecting pale light upward and outward, and people move through it all with the careful precision of a place built on habit. I wander, and I watch, and I see everything. A pair of women stand near the channel, heads bent together, voices barely audible. One of them glances over her shoulder, then back at her companion, eyes shining with something that looks suspiciously like hope. The frost along the channel beside them thins, melts just slightly, then steadies again. A man hauling a crate pauses mid-step, frowning as if he’s forgotten what he was doing. His breath fogs heavier than it should, then evens out when someone claps him lightly on the shoulder and murmurs something I can’t hear. The ice at his feet cracks, just a hairline fracture, then stops. Further along, a group of younger elementals hover near a support pillar, pretending to argue about work assignments while very clearly listening to someone just out of sight. One of them laughs and a burst of snow flutters around her boots before she clamps down hard, cheeks flushing as she forces it back. That’s the thing. Their power responds to emotion here, enough to tell the truth of what they’re feeling even when their mouths won’t. Doubt looks sharp and brittle. Hope looks warm. Fear is cold, but different from the rest, it's rigid, clinging, desperate to stay in control. I keep moving and let others notice me without asking for attention. I stop near one of the ice forges, watching a craftsman shape a brace with careful hands, his brow furrowed in concentration. Someone speaks quietly behind him, and his shoulders tense. Then ease. The ice settles smoother than before. He notices. I see it in the way his eyes flick to his work, then to his hands, like he’s trying to remember if it’s always been this easy.
Above us, guards move along the upper walkways, their silhouettes dark against the pale stone. They’re alert now. Not panicked, but aware that something is shifting beneath their feet. A few of them exchange looks, murmuring to each other, fingers brushing the hilts of their weapons more often than necessary. Authority can feel when it’s being undermined. I pause near the centre of the courtyard and take a slow breath, keeping my own power steady and contained, not flaring, not hiding. Let them feel what control actually looks like. Let them compare it to what they’ve been told all their lives. Beneath my skin, warmth stirs.
Okay, I think, focusing inward. Tell Damien.
The dragon responds instantly, presence brushing my mind like heat against ice, attentive and calm.
The word is spreading, I tell him. People are talking. It’s working.
Understood, he replies. Then, with a note of satisfaction I can almost feel in my bones: We will begin dismantling the authorities.
Around me, the Sanctum keeps moving, but the rhythm is off now, like a song played just slightly out of key. People stop more often. Conversations linger. A guard barks an order sharper than necessary, and the frost along the railing beside him spikes before settling again. I watch a woman argue quietly with a supervisor near one of the storage vaults, her hands clenched at her sides, jaw tight. Her magic leaks out in thin, jagged lines that creep up the wall behind her, betraying the anger she’s swallowing. When the supervisor storms off, the ice hesitates… then retracts, smoothing itself back into place as she exhales shakily. She stares at it. Then at her hands. Then, slowly, she smiles. Not because everything is fixed, but because something just made sense.
A ripple of raised voices draws my attention to the far end of the courtyard. Two guards stand face to face with a small group of civilians, their postures rigid, their eyes hard.
“Back to your stations,” one of the guards snaps.
“We were just talking,” someone replies.
“That’s not permitted here.”
The mountain hums faintly beneath my feet, a deep vibration that has nothing to do with ice and everything to do with systems being disrupted. Somewhere inside the Sanctum, chains of command will be snapping quietly, one link at a time. I keep wandering. I keep watching. I see a man near the water channels clasp his partner’s hand without thinking, their fingers lacing together for just a second too long. The ice beneath the channel smooths, the flow stabilising, and they both freeze in a moment of wonder. They look at each other like they’ve just discovered a secret. People are starting to question what they've always been told, and that’s when I feel it. A pressure, subtle but unmistakable, like a gaze settling on the back of my neck. She knows I'm here, and she is watching.