Yet beneath the grand horizon of continental succession and high-court gossip, Arthur's true objective for the night lay buried much closer to the stones.
What mattered tonight—what had driven Arthur to endure hours of aristocratic venom in the freezing alpine wind—was the immediate perimeter of the island.
Sector Seven.
The basalt curtain wall. The blackened steel cuirasses of Saint-rank sentries enforcing an unannounced guest ledger. The faint strains of violins and crystal stemware he had heard echoing through the subterranean shafts beneath the inner sanctum.
He had spent the entire evening shifting from one cluster of scions to the next, casually threading the needle of high-society conversation—flattering baronesses, indulging foreign counts, and dropping calculated, imperceptible inquiries into the silence.
Now, as the braziers guttered into gray ash, Arthur turned his attention to the young lord lounging at the far end of the stone bench—a minor noble whose heavy mantle bore the silver hunting hound of an eastern barony.
Arthur was just concluding a polite exchange about regional grain tithes when he leaned in slightly, his amber eyes reflecting the dying embers with innocuous curiosity.
"Have you heard any news about the next Guest Visitation?" Arthur asked gently, his tone pitched as nothing more than a passing student's mild interest in campus scheduling.
The young noble blinked, his eyelids heavy. "Guest Visitation?"
The noble fought back a jaw-cracking yawn, tapping his knuckles against his mouth before shaking his head. "Unfortunately not, but I'll tell you if I hear anything."
Arthur offered a warm nod, dipping his chin with practiced grace. "I would appreciate that greatly. Do not let me keep you from your rest."
He turned and stepped out from beneath the portico into the open avenue of the Central Courtyard.
Arthur paused near the lip of the dried marble fountain, drawing the bitter frost deep into his lungs. The chill bit at his throat, but the fog lingering behind his eyes refused to clear.
He was still slightly dazed.
His processor, though stabilized after the morning's violent quarantine, still dragged through a faint static. The phantom ache of Derrick Dunwell's parting salute—the mocking fraternal nod that had shattered Arthur's deductive engine before the obsidian board—still hung over his thoughts like a thin, suffocating film.
Beneath his quiet composure, Arthur's internal monologue flared with cold finality:
Nothing.
He had spoken to each of the nobles in attendance that night. Every single one. He had approached Vivienne, Matthew, Donald, Anthony of Caligard, and half a dozen lesser scions from the northern marches and border baronies. He had framed his questions in discreet, roundabout ways—inquiring after family delegations, diplomatic caravans, private audience passes, and administrative exemptions.
Not a single soul in the circle seemed to know about the assembly convening in Sector Seven.
These were the premier children of the continent's ruling class, yet they were completely blind to the fact that an exclusive assembly of high dignitaries, foreign envoys, and secular saints was actively convening beneath the inner sanctum of the very rock they slept upon. The information blackout was total.
A dull chime drifted across the plaza from the Great Library's clock tower.
One deep bell, followed by two half-resonances.
24:30.
Thirty minutes until auxiliary curfew.
The young noble he had just spoken to was the last person remaining beneath the portico. The boy had already scooped up his heavy fur cloak, hurried down the eastern arcade, and vanished into the residential tunnels, leaving the courtyard deserted.
Except for one.
A heavy footstep scraped against the frost-dusted flagstones behind him.
Arthur didn't flinch. His peripheral aperture mapped the broad silhouette before the boots even settled.
Kaelen stepped up to his side, his breath misting in thick white plumes against the freezing dark. The young knight had stayed with him through the entire grueling afternoon—shadowing Arthur through the diplomatic triage, lingering near the braziers during the noble debates, standing as an unyielding sentinel at his flank while Arthur worked the room.
Arthur turned his head, letting exhaustion soften the corners of his gentle smile.
"Thank you, Kaelen," Arthur said softly, his voice carrying genuine warmth as they fell into step together, turning their boots toward the residential avenue. "Truly. For standing by me through all of this today. I don't know how I would have managed the panic without you."
Kaelen looked down, his honest, square-jawed face breaking into a bright, self-deprecating grin. He waved a broad, calloused hand with bashful ease.
"Don't mention it, Cedric," Kaelen replied, his baritone steady and reassuring in the quiet night. "You're the one carrying the entire school on your shoulders. If walking the stones and keeping a few hotheads from throwing punches is all I can do to help, I'm happy to do it. Always."
They crossed the stone bridge spanning the ornamental canal, the dark water gliding silently beneath the ice skin forming along its banks.
Within ten minutes, the granite facade of the Eastern Dormitory rose before them, its high mullioned windows dark under the stars. The gas sconces along the residential gallery had already been dimmed to faint pilot flames in preparation for the first watch.
They ascended the portico steps together, crossing the heavy oak threshold in comfortable, quiet camaraderie.
At the second-floor gallery landing, beneath the dim amber glow of the corridor lanterns, the two boys halted.
"Get some sleep, Cedric," Kaelen whispered with an encouraging clap against Arthur's shoulder pauldron. "Tomorrow is not going to be any easier."
"You as well, Kaelen," Arthur murmured, offering a polite nod. "Rest well."
Kaelen turned down the eastern corridor toward his quarters, his heavy boots muffled by the thick woolen runner.
Arthur stood motionless until the sound of Kaelen's door clicking shut settled into the silence.
Then, turning his key in the lock of his own room, Arthur stepped across the threshold, pulled the heavy oak flush against the frame, and let the darkness swallow the Saint whole.