The Council chambers felt smaller than usual.

  Arizeal sat in his seat, watching the eleven faces settle around the table. The Council members’ expressions ranged from concern to skepticism; Merra, true to her reputation, remained unreadable. Her face looked carved from stone—calm and unbothered. Even by their standards, she was ancient. Nothing seemed to faze her. Once again, Arizeal wondered what it would take to elicit a reaction from the older woman. Perhaps if each Sectant suddenly collapsed or Sector 1 exploded around them, she might raise an eyebrow. Maybe.

  “Five sectors now,” Pegrit said, spreading reports across the polished wood. His fingers tapped each document in turn. “Sectors Three, Five, Seven, Eight, and now Eleven. The pattern is expanding.”

  “Pattern?” Theran inquired as he leaned forward, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the window behind him. The Sectant from Sector Six had always been quick to dismiss what he couldn’t understand. “What pattern? People having bad dreams isn’t a pattern, Pegrit. It’s life.”

  “People are having the same bad dreams,” Pegrit corrected, his tone sharp. “Individuals across Sectors are describing battles they couldn’t have witnessed, with verifiable details they couldn’t have known. That would be odd enough. But now we have at least two people who woke with skills they never learned. Explain that?” He looked around the table. “That’s not life, Theran. That’s something else entirely.”

  The Council erupted into chatter after that. This went on for about a minute before Merra tapped a nail on the table. The single tap was so loud it had to have been backed by aether. The room fell silent, and everyone’s gaze shifted to her. Sectant Brandtly had drawn a short sword. Merra glared at him until he sheathed it, then spoke. “What does the Medicis say?”

  Healer Venya rose from her seat—one of the Garden’s senior Healers from the Medicis and the District 11 Magistrate for Sector Two. “We’ve examined forty-seven affected individuals across multiple sectors. No physical abnormalities. No signs of disease, poison, or environmental contamination. Mental and core functions are within parameters. We don’t—” She paused. “By every measure we have, they’re healthy.”

  “Then they’re making it up,” Theran said. “Attention-seeking. What we’re seeing is the makings of mass hysteria. That’s all.”

  “With identical details?” Pegrit’s voice rose slightly. “Down to specific names, places, tactical formations, and unit designations? Either we’re dealing with the most elaborate hoax in the Garden’s history, pre- or post-reconstruction, or something is causing this. What would ignoring it gain us?”

  “Where do you propose we start looking for answers?” Councilor Laeth spoke for the first time, her words and demeanor radiating skepticism. She represented Sector Ten, one of the agricultural regions. To her, anything that took hands away from the harvest was the worst crime. “From where, Pegrit? I’m not being rhetorical, either. Please feel free to answer. Who do you want us to drag in here and question? Dead Pawns? The aether itself?”

  “If we have to, then yes. Impossible questions tend to have impossible answers.” Pegrit looked directly at Laeth, impassive. He gathered the reports he’d been reviewing, stacked them neatly, and passed them around. “Two weeks ago, we had sporadic incidents. Now we have clusters. Five sectors. Sixty-eight confirmed cases. And that’s only counting those who’ve reported it.”

  Silence settled over the chamber.

  Arizeal remained mostly silent during the meeting, carefully listening and considering. Since overseeing Sector One and coordinating the Garden’s overall governance required hearing all perspectives first, he held his thoughts. At last, he spoke up: “What about the missing?”

  Venya consulted her notes. “Two confirmed disappearances. Pawn Serath from Sector Five, last seen six days ago. Knight Vorim from Sector Eight vanished four days ago.” She looked up. “Both had reported the same phenomena that Sectant Pegrit described before going missing. Both lived in standard residences in their respective Districts. No indication that either had crossed paths before vanishing.”

  “Coincidence,” Theran said, though his voice lacked conviction.

  “Coincidence,” Pegrit repeated flatly. “Some of us call a string of coincidences a pattern.”

  “What pattern?” Merra’s voice cut through the rising tension. “You keep saying ‘pattern,’ Pegrit. Tell us what you see.”

  Pegrit stood and moved to the center of the room. Taking the podium meant that what he said next was not only addressed to the Sectants but the entirety of the Council, including all Magistrates and the Monitor.

  “The affected individuals share specific traits,” he said, his eyes sweeping across the hundreds of members present. “First among them are age and station. Sixty percent are Pawns born after the reconstruction. Many have attended the Scholarium or are otherwise connected to Sector 3 in some way. Others work in agriculture. There is some overlap among the remaining 40 percent, but nothing definitive. The only data point I can present with confidence is that most of this remainder group are veterans of the Lightbringer’s campaign.”

  He began pacing, his mind organizing information as he moved. Pegrit thought in systems and interconnections, and he found his mind worked better in motion.

  “Second, the memories themselves merit attention. I’m not fully convinced they are random. Most reported visions involve verifiable battles from the war, though reports of battles we haven’t yet confirmed are becoming more frequent. Furthermore, the progression is worth noting. The report I provide to each Sectant will be sent to the Monitor for distribution to the Magistrates. Records from the Medicis show that initial symptoms begin as dreams and gradually develop into waking visions, which may explain the observed personality changes.”

  He stopped and looked to the Keeper. “Both missing exhibited the same progression, though only Knight Vorim claimed to have waking visions.”

  “You think they’re connected,” Arizeal said, giving voice to the implications. “All of it.”

  Pegrit said, maintaining eye contact, “I believe they’re all parts of a bigger picture I haven’t yet understood,” and added, “I also believe whatever it is, it’s getting worse.”

  Gaither, the gruff Sectant from Sector Two overseeing maintenance and the Garden’s infrastructure, cleared his throat. “The Protectorate requests permission to investigate. Full Council authority. If this is spreading, we need to contain it before panic sets in.”

  When he spoke, chatter erupted throughout the Council chambers. His voice carried weight, as he rarely spoke at these gatherings. The Protectorate’s request for direct involvement in the matter was news.

  “Agreed,” Merra said. “But carefully. We don’t alarm the population without cause.”

  “They’re already alarmed,” Venya spoke up, her soft voice infused with aether so it carried to every corner of the chambers. “Do you think people don’t talk to each other? The Healers have been flooded with people seeking aid for nightmares. We’re seeing patients from every sector—workers from the agricultural districts, scholars from the Scholarium, even merchants from Sector Four.” She looked at Arizeal. “Keeper, they’re afraid.”

  As all eyes turned to the Keeper, Arizeal had to stop himself from wiping his brow. He could feel their expectations. If he could fix it all with a sentence, he would. But right now, he had no answers for them. This was why he’d been reluctant to assume authority over even Sector One’s administration. The Monitor handled most of the day-to-day, but Reina couldn’t help him in moments like this.

  “We investigate,” he said finally. “But we do so as quietly as possible. Pegrit, please coordinate with the Medicis to identify any connections—medical, environmental, or otherwise. Use Sector Two’s resources if specialized equipment is warranted. Gaither, the Protectorate will oversee the missing-persons cases with full authority. I cannot stress enough—use discretion.”

  The Council whispered among themselves as the session ended. One by one, they left to go back to their Sectors, trying to keep order in a Garden that now felt a little less secure than it had a few weeks ago.

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  Pegrit lingered, waiting until he and Arizeal were alone before speaking. “You’re worried.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Terrified, actually,” Pegrit said, gathering the stray reports and noting which Sectants he needed to follow up with. “I’m good with patterns, typically. You know that. I like puzzles and learning new things. That’s why I handle the Merchant wrangling without complaint. I can read a ledger like a bedtime story. But this?” He shook his head. “I can see the pattern. I know there is one. I don’t understand it for the life of me. It’s like trying to build a castle from handwritten instructions in a language I don’t know—I can see the structure, but the meaning eludes me.”

  “Then we learn the language,” Arizeal said boldly, as if those five words had solved the whole problem.

  “And if we can’t?” Pegrit asked, watching the Keeper’s confident smile crumble in real time.

  Arizeal didn’t respond as Pegrit nodded and walked away, leaving him alone.

  * * *

  Daxil arrived that evening with food and wine, and Pegrit with a satchel full of documents. They’d done this countless times over the years—gathered in someone’s quarters after strategy meetings, sharing meals and honest conversation away from formal protocols. If he thought he could pull it off, Arizeal would propose a Resolution to make every Council meeting run like this. The thought of an inebriated Sectant Merra singing marching songs and taking bets at Qubit made him chuckle under his breath.

  Arizeal’s rooms overlooked Sector One’s central plaza. Through the window, he could see the main tower’s lights come on as dusk settled, and in the distance, the green terraces of Sector Three catching the last rays of the sun.

  “What’s so funny?” Daxil asked, downing a quarter tankard of ale. “You looked half-dead earlier.” He settled into a chair that creaked under his weight. His flails clinked softly at his belt. “Thought you might have had a long day in the Battle Boxes?”

  “Always long when we’re preparing for the exhibitions. But that’s not why I’m tired.” Daxil poured three cups of wine and passed them around. “Three different Pawns from the training grounds reported seeing me in their dreams. Apparently, I’m quite heroic.” He grinned. “Also, according to one of them, I died saving a Queen. Very dramatic. Completely fabricated, of course.”

  “Is it?” Pegrit asked, pulling out a notebook. “There was a Battle of Thornmarch in which a Knight matching your description held off an entire flank while evacuating the wounded. You don’t remember that?”

  Daxil’s grin faded. “I... no. Should I?”

  “You were there. So was Arizeal. So was I, in a support role.” Pegrit flipped through the pages. “But according to the Scholarium archives, that battle took place in a different sector from where we were deployed.”

  Silence.

  “What are you saying?” Arizeal asked carefully.

  “I’m referring to the witness statements—some align with official records, others don’t. Not entirely, but some are quite close. Most are consistent with the formations, battle conditions, and force deployments during each event.” Pegrit set his notebook aside. “I spent the afternoon at the Scholarium cross-referencing this information. Merra and a few other Scholars were helpful in that process. My conclusion is that fabricating this much detail would require extensive knowledge of each battle. That’s why I believe the Scholarium is involved in some capacity. However, one thing puzzles me: motivation. Even if they are capable of doing this, why would they? What’s in it for them?”

  “Mass hysteria,” Daxil said, but his voice lacked conviction. “People hear rumors and embellish them—”

  “With identical details?” Pegrit shook his head. “I have interview notes from the affected Pawns, each describing the Battle of Chamizal from a different perspective. Tell me why all the details matched? Formations, weather conditions, even the positions of the fallen, and the direction the smoke was blowing. You can’t coordinate that level of consistency across five sectors.”

  Arizeal sipped his wine, thinking. “You’re suggesting the memories are real.”

  “I’m suggesting we shouldn’t dismiss them as merely fabricated. If it’s a hoax, that’s okay—I can accept that.” Pegrit held up a finger, silencing the look of incredulity on Daxil and Arizeal’s faces. “But… is there someone or something out there influencing minds across five sectors? The five sectors we are aware of so far. That question is what keeps me awake at night; it’s the one I need an answer to.”

  “And the missing?” Daxil asked.

  “That’s what worries me most.” Pegrit’s analytical mask slipped briefly, showing real concern. “Both vanished after claiming to remember multiple lives. Serath was last seen entering Sector Five, in a residential area. Vorim was last seen in your old stomping grounds in Sector Eight—Dessa is working with the Magistrate in District 9 to help us handle public reactions.”

  “I know where they’re from,” Daxil said gruffly. He caught himself and gave Pegrit a sheepish look, raising his tankard. The Bishop nodded, and Daxil explained in a calmer tone. “I’ve been to both places and talked to their neighbors, even a couple of business owners in the area. No one saw or heard anything. No struggles, no signs of distress. They just... weren’t there anymore.”

  ‘Without a trace,’ Pegrit confirmed. ‘There’s no clue where they went, but I found one overlap in two of the witness interview statements. In their last days, both kept saying the same phrase: ‘The board remembers.’“

  “The board?” Daxil frowned. “What board?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s the only common thread in their last documented statements.” Pegrit looked at Arizeal. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Arizeal shook his head slowly, feeling that something was off—a sense of familiarity he couldn’t quite identify. “We’re missing a piece,” he said. “A framework to understand this better. As you mentioned, Pegrit—we see the pattern, but we don’t understand its significance.”

  They drank, and for a moment, it was like old times—three soldiers sharing wine, facing an unknown enemy, determined to see it through.

  They discussed their next steps and speculated on what Pegrit or the Protectorate might discover. Ultimately, they didn’t arrive at a conclusion that night. Since this enemy had no physical form to attack—no King to defeat or army to battle—they drank. They shared theories and drained more than a few bottles. Daxil was the first to stagger away, followed soon after by Pegrit. He climbed into bed, pondering what the next day might hold.

  * * *

  Daxil and Arizeal ended up in Pegrit’s chambers the next day. It was mid-afternoon, and the pair had been at the training facilities when Oliviera sent a messenger to Arizeal to request information on the Bishop. He’d missed several meetings that day, and no patrols had reported encountering him. Messengers sent to his quarters reported no answer.

  Twenty minutes after Daxil started repeatedly pounding on the door, a haggard-looking Pegrit jerked it open, his mouth open, shouting obscenities. He froze as he saw the Keeper and the Knight. Pegrit, for his part, looked like he hadn’t recovered from their drinking the night before. His hair was tasseled, his clothes disheveled, and papers were strewn across every surface Arizeal could see. Diagrams and notes lined the walls. He looked over at Daxil. The Knight’s mouth was open in a slight “o”. He looked just as concerned as Arizeal felt.

  “I’ve been compiling information all night,” Pegrit said without preamble, turning and walking back into chaos. “Every reported incident, every affected Pawn, every missing person. There’s a connection. It’s there! I know it!”

  “Ah… Peg?” Daxil said cautiously, his voice tinged with unease. “Maybe you should take a break for a minute?”

  “The affected ones have nothing in common. Different ages, different sectors, different roles in the Garden,” Pegrit went on, ignoring Daxil’s question. “Veterans and newly born, workers and warriors, Council members and citizens.” Pegrit gestured at his charts. “Scholars from the Scholarium. Farmers in the agricultural sector. Merchants from Sector Four. Guards from the Protectorate. Residents from Sectors Five through Eight. Even maintenance workers from Sector Two. The only consistent factor is age—it affects post-reconstruction Pawns at a higher rate. But even that’s misleading, because veterans are experiencing it too, just in lower numbers.”

  “Keeper?” Daxil said it questioningly. He felt out of his depth. This was Arizeal’s department. He was good with people. Better than him, at least. He had no idea what to say. Unbeknownst to him, Arizeal felt the same.

  “No,” Pegrit said sharply, his jaw clenched. “There’s a pattern—I can see it! It’s... it’s... I...” The Bishop hesitated, eyes misty and shifting. Arizeal exchanged a glance with Daxil. The Knight gently placed a hand on Pegrit’s shoulder, guiding him toward the bed in the corner. Arizeal followed, helping to clear space. Pegrit protested as the Keeper held him back. He was asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

  After closing the door, he turned to Daxil, both sharing the same thought.

  What is happening?

  * * *

  That evening, Arizeal sat alone in his quarters, surrounded by Pegrit’s reports. Names, dates, and locations spread across his desk. He’d organized them by age, sector, role, and incident timing.

  Nothing connected them. He couldn’t see what Pegrit did. Just a big, nothing-shaped hole where something should be.

  He rubbed his eyes, exhausted. The Garden was supposed to be safe. Peace was supposed to be permanent. But something was breaking down, and he didn’t understand what or why.

  The board remembers.

  He wrote the phrase on a clean sheet of paper and looked at it, unsure why it resonated with him. What board? Was it a metaphor? Something else?

  Outside his window, the Garden’s lights twinkled peacefully, creating a calm scene. Everything appeared normal and tranquil, which was the most unsettling aspect. The danger was hidden, operating beneath the surface within dreams and memories, seeping into the gaps in their defenses. An enemy—one he couldn’t see, strike, or defend against.

  What am I missing?

  Distant sounds interrupted his thoughts. Shouting. Growing louder. Coming from—

  He stood quickly and moved to the window.

  South. Past the residential sectors. The agricultural zones.

  Sector Nine.

  Orange light flickered against the darkness. Fire.

  More shouting. Screams now.

  Arizeal was moving before his conscious thoughts caught up. He’d grabbed his cloak and emergency kit, then burst from his quarters in a sprint. Others were already emerging from their homes as he sped past, their faces turned toward the distant flames. He heard them as he ran.

  “Keeper!” someone called out.

  “What’s happening?” another asked.

  “Fire?”

  He didn’t pause to reply; he just ran—faster than any Pawn had a right to. A blue-gold streak cutting through the twilight. His hand instinctively moved to his side, searching for the hilt of a sword that wasn’t there.