The Arcoplex's common room stretched wide, a grand space alive with magic. Stone walls pulsed with unseen power, braced by dark oak beams that gleamed under soft golden orbs. Those orbs drifted lazily beneath the high, arched ceilings, their light shifted from bright noon to dusky evening as the day passed. A cool breeze stirred the air, fresh and clean, woven with enchantments that banished any hint of staleness. The room felt open, almost endless, yet warm enough to ease a weary heart.
Vines draped the walls, their green leaves glossy with dew that never faded. Tiny sparks danced in their roots, kept the plants vibrant and untouched by time. At the center, a wide fountain bubbled, its water splashed over smooth stones carved with runes that pulsed softly. The steady trickle blended with the low murmur of newcomers' voices, who sat on plush chairs and benches clustered for talk. Their fabrics shimmered, colors shifted to match each sitter's mood, while enchanted tables offered steaming mugs of tea or coffee.
The marble floor gleamed underfoot, sturdy with magic-woven stone. Every corner spoke of Doras Dagda's craft, a quiet show of strength that calmed the refugees' fears. You could feel safe there, despite the strangeness of that place. The room's warmth lingered, steady and inviting, like a hearth after a long journey. It was built to draw people together, to make them trust their new home.
Isobel Strathmore perched on a bench's edge, her posture slightly slouched but her eyes sharp, scanned the crowd without rest. No magic altered her appearance, yet her presence carried weight. Dark hair framed her face, her gaze pierced and captivated, pulled others in. Years in ENCLAVE had taught her to command a space without raising her voice. Among those refugees, it was almost too easy.
"Have ye seen 'em?" she asked, her voice low but clear, carried to nearby ears. A group turned, some clutched mugs, others rested on benches. "Robert and his lot, handin' out powers like sweeties. Ye're sittin' here, actin' like it's grand." Her tone sliced through their calm, planted doubt. A young man leaned forward, worry creased his face. A guard nearby muttered about a kobold patrolled the halls.
"What do ye mean?" the man asked. "They called the Spark a gift." Isobel's lips curved into a mocking smile. "A gift? That's what they're callin' it?" She paused, let the question linger, then leaned closer. "Have ye thought what it does? It twists yer soul, yer body." Murmurs rippled through the group as unease crept into their eyes. Isobel eased back, her face a mask of false concern.
"It ain't just ye it harms," she said. "Think bigger. These powers ain't tested. They could wreck the world." Magic don't stay quiet, she thought. It breaks what it touches. Fear spread through the crowd like a chill. An older man at the back, a silver-stringed harp rested unnoticed by his seat, cleared his throat. His weathered face held steady, eyes gleamed with quiet strength. He watched her closely.
"What kind of wreckin'?" he asked, his voice calm but firm, honed by years of spotting liars. Isobel's smile tightened, a flicker of irritation in her eyes, but she leaned forward, words crisp. "This magic throws balance off. We don't know how it mixes with other forces, or the land itself." Her voice hardened as she pressed on. "Givin' power to anyone, without knowin' 'em, makes danger, not solutions."
His gaze didn't waver, and Isobel hid her anger behind a smooth facade. A faint spark flickered in her eyes, nudged the crowd's fear. She turned to the group, her voice dropped low. "I work with the Institute for the Ethical Use of Power, studyin' magic folk like Robert's." Her tone grew grave, her lie cloaked in authority. "Over half lose their minds. Madness takes 'em, like broken souls." No Institute exists, she thought, smirked inwardly. Fools. They'll serve the Warlock, their souls fuelin' his dark magic.
A woman gripped her mug, eyes wide. "Is that true?" she asked, her voice trembled. A man nearby scoffed. "Sounds like a tall tale." Isobel's gaze flicked to him, silenced his doubt. She nodded, her face solemn, then said, "Aye, it's true. Risks no one speaks of. Ignore 'em, and we doom ourselves." Unease thickened, some shifted uncomfortably. Isobel's voice softened, urgency crept in. "I ain't religious, but I see families torn. Kids mock their parents' faith with magic that cheapens miracles."
Her words struck deep, anger flared in some eyes. "Faith holds a society together. It brings unity and hope," she said. "Break that bond, and what do ye have left?" The crowd fell silent, stewed. "Givin' power to fools makes threats, not heroes," she added. Their fear feeds me, she thought, her narcissism thrived on their doubt. The older man nodded slowly, stroked his gray beard.
"You are feedin' us fear, not evidence," he said, his eyes narrowed. "Robert is doin' somethin' to help, he saved many of ye sittin' here. And yet… ye sow doubt and confusion… What's yer goal here?" Heads turned, uncertainty flickered. His voice grew stronger, calm but pierced. Isobel's smile stayed, but it felt colder somehow. Through her teeth she said, "My aim?"
"Hope," she continued, her voice smooth. "A future where power answers to us, not some man with a glowy tattoo." She leaned forward, urgent. "I ain't sayin' fight or march. Just watch. Guard what's yers. This Spark could birth monsters." Murmurs of agreement rose, though some frowned, unconvinced, as fear took root in others. She scanned the silent ones, her voice a whisper.
"Look for cracks," she said. "Spot the Spark's flaws. Tell me if ye see 'em, or someone ye trust." Her gaze lingered, turned doubt to fear. "Keep it quiet, though. Who knows what Robert'll do?" Some nodded, spooked. Isobel sat back. My seeds are planted, she thought, savored the chaos she'd sown.
The door creaked open, and heads turned. Chaucer stood in the doorway, his wakizashi sheathed at his sides. The kobold tilted his head, his sleek, mouse-like features gleamed under the orbs. Robert's naming gift had refined him, but refugees saw a strange creature, their wariness plain. "Greetings, friends," he said, bowed deep, his voice boomed with cheer.
"Yer faces look glum," he added. "Let me spark some joy!" Silence fell, heavy and uneasy. Refugees swapped looks, some shocked, others wary. Isobel's eyes narrowed, her glance nudged their fear of the unnatural. Chaucer's grin faded, his tail flicked. "All well?" he asked, his tone cautious, sensed the tension.
A boy's shout broke the quiet. "I'm flyin'!" he cried, teetered on the fountain's edge, arms flailed as he tipped forward. Chaucer moved in a blur, golden light shot from his paw to wrap the lad in a soft glow. The boy floated down, safe, his eyes wide with awe. Gasps spread through the crowd, and nervous chuckles followed.
"Close call, wee man," Chaucer said good-naturedly. He crouched to ruffle the boy's hair. "Keep yer feet on the floor for a bit, yeah?" The chuckles grew warmer, real. The older man smiled, shook his head, as wary faces softened. Chaucer stood tall, clapped his paws. "Now, who's for a song?" he asked, his grin returned.
Isobel sat rigid, her jaw tight. Her plan slipped away. She forced a smile. I'll find another way, she thought, her mind raced. Chaucer pulled a flute and played a lively tune, danced round the boy with sill steps. With the new music echoed in the halls, other kids ran out of their apartments, drawn to the music with added laughter. The room turned festive with subtle enchanting magics of peace and joy, uplifted all those who could hear it. Except Isobel, whose shadow magic dulled the tune's joy, her face locked in cold disdain.
The older man laughed, deep and warm, lifted the silver-stringed harp that rested unnoticed by his seat, its gleam hinted at hidden power. His fingers plucked a sprightly melody, wove with Chaucer's flute. A subtle magic stirred in the sound, eased every heart. Refugees tapped their feet, swayed to the rhythm, their fears melted in the tune's joy.
His smile held wisdom. This city, Doras Dagda… Bears my name, he thought. I'll shield its heart from fear if they'll let me. Turned his merry eyes to Isobel, who regarded him with a blank stare, he sensed she was up to something. The plans of her wicked heart, he thought, are goin' to do somethin' terrible before this is over.