Chapter 60 | Third Operative, Cornered!

Chapter 60: Chapter 60 | Third Operative, Cornered!

"For what," Corbyn said.

"For Lyra to go somewhere they can reach the resonance anchor connection through her bond." Dex looked at the south wall. At Lyra standing with her palm against the stone twenty metres away. "They’ll know she’s here. The south anchor is one of hers. If they’re tracking the bond from inside the building they’ll know she’s in contact with it right now."

Corbyn looked at the distance between them and the administrative block.

"How long to reach that alcove from here," he said.

"Four minutes at pace."

"And how long for Lyra to sever the bond."

Dex looked at her. At the quality of what she was doing, the mana flowing outward rather than drawing in, a release rather than a construction.

"She’s already in it," Dex said. "She started before I got here." He paused. "Three minutes. Maybe two."

Corbyn thought about the operative in the alcove. Waiting for Lyra to be in contact with the bond so they could push through it. Tracking the resonance anchor connection and finding it active, finding Lyra’s signature on the south wall, which to the operative read as the bond still intact and in use.

Two minutes until it was severed and the trigger condition vanished.

Four minutes to reach the alcove.

Corbyn looked at the south wall. At Lyra’s back.

"Stay with her," he said to Dex. "Until the bond is severed and she’s back inside. Don’t let her be alone."

"And you," Dex said.

Corbyn was already moving.

The administrative archive corridor was one of the oldest parts of the academy. Stone cut from a different quarry than the dormitory blocks, darker and closer-grained, the kind of stone that held cold the way dense wood holds weight. The torch brackets were spaced further apart here and the shadows between them were actual shadows rather than the attenuated dark of a well-maintained building.

Corbyn moved at the pace Cole had drilled into him for corridor work. Not slow. Not fast enough to announce. The kind of pace that registered as purposeful if seen and not alarming if heard.

The faculty entrance was at the far end.

The east section was to the right.

He counted alcoves.

Third from the faculty entrance.

He stopped two alcoves short and pressed himself flat against the wall.

The operative is still there, Ishtar said. Suppressed signature. But Dex was right about the shape of the suppression. It has a spatial footprint.

How aware are they,

They’re tracking the south anchor bond. Their attention is outward, toward the wall, toward Lyra’s signature. They’re waiting for the moment to push.

Can they feel me.

If you call integration they can. Your signature at even reduced output is distinct enough at this range.

He stood in the dark and didn’t call integration.

He thought about eight years of boxing instead.

The corridor was ten feet wide. The alcoves were three feet deep and two feet across, the kind that had once held statues or supply cabinets and now held nothing. A person standing in one had their back covered and one side covered and their field of view limited to the arc directly in front.

He counted his steps from his current position to the third alcove. Twelve. Maybe fourteen.

He moved.

Not fast. At exactly the pace that corridor stone absorbed rather than echoed, the particular step placement Cole had demonstrated once in a training ground and Corbyn had practiced without knowing why until now.

Eight steps.

They’re still tracking outward, Ishtar said.

Ten.

Corbyn. Lyra severed the bond.

He felt it, a slight shift in the mana architecture of the building, something that had been present pulling back, the absence of it notable the way a sound is notable when it stops.

The operative felt it too.

He heard the intake of breath from the alcove.

He was at twelve steps.

The operative came out of the alcove turning left, which was toward the south wall, toward where Lyra’s signature had just vanished from the bond, the instinctive move of someone whose plan had just failed and who needed to understand why.

Corbyn was already there.

He was not Cole. He did not have Cole’s read of intent before the body moved, the Magic Swordsman’s perception of what was coming a half-second before it arrived. What he had was the operative moving left and his body already in the space the operative was moving into, which gave him the angle.

He drove his shoulder into the operative’s turning motion and used the direction they were already committed to, the way a boxer uses the momentum of a punch already thrown, to take them off the wall and into the floor in a single controlled collision.

The operative was trained. They recovered faster than they should have been able to, got a hand free, mana gathering in the palm.

Corbyn caught the wrist with both hands and put his bodyweight into the arm, forcing it against the stone until the gathering mana dispersed rather than fired.

The operative stopped moving.

Corbyn held the arm. Held the position. Waited.

The corridor was quiet.

"The bond is severed," Corbyn said. "Whatever you were waiting for isn’t coming." He kept his voice level. "Vael is in the building. Cole is in the building. You can fight me and you can probably win, but the corridor has three exits and all of them are covered."

A pause.

"Are they," the operative said.

"No," Corbyn said. "But I’m asking you to think about whether the risk is worth it."

Another pause. Longer.

The operative stopped the resistance in their arm. Not capitulation. The considered decision of someone running a calculation.

"You’re seventeen," the operative said.

"Yes."

"The Calamity Summoner." Not a question this time either.

"Yes."

The operative exhaled slowly. "The Architect is going to proceed regardless," they said. "You know that."

"I know."

"Then containing me doesn’t change what happens at dawn."

"No," Corbyn said. "It doesn’t."

The operative was quiet for a moment. "Then why."