Darkness swallowed Aethelgard's southern sector. The "Eclipse" protocol launched by Caine operated with lethal precision. Crystal lamps died, mana-trains screeched to a halt mid-track, and most importantly: the Magic Tower's automated warning systems suffered a momentary blindness.
At the Tower's rear gate, Harold moved like a shadow among the marble pillars. He was not alone. Five figures in unmarked grey cloaks—The Catalyst agents—moved beside him with terrifying efficiency. They didn't use spells; they used portable steam-pressure launchers to shatter magical locks.
"Three minutes until the Tower's backup systems kick in," one agent whispered through the comms in Harold's ear. "General, take the left path. It leads to the underground resonance chamber."
Harold only nodded. He felt a vibration in his sword. It wasn't a magical tremor, but a steady pulse of calm fury. He was no longer fighting for the de Croul clan or for the Emperor. He was fighting for the home he had just begun to build amidst the snows of Isfellan.
At the pavilion, the atmosphere turned deathly still. Silas attempted to cast a tracking spell, but every time he drew mana, the air around him crackled away from his hands, pulled toward Anne.
"What are you doing, brat?!" Silas screamed, his withered face now etched with anxiety.
"I'm not doing anything, Silas," Anne answered, her voice sounding layered, as if another voice echoed beneath her words. "This isn't me. It's your Tower. It recognizes the blood you've kept imprisoned for so long."
Valerion drew his short sword, gold and jewels glinting on the hilt. "Stop this now, Anne Marie, or I will ensure your husband never leaves that basement alive."
"My husband is a Northern General who survived the wrath of Bael," Anne stepped forward, and with every step, the marble tiles beneath her feet cracked, venting an impossible heat. "You should be more worried about yourself, Your Majesty."
Deep within the resonance chamber, Rainnes began to see the stone walls "breathe." The ancient geometric patterns carved into the rock glowed blood-red.
"Stop!" Rainnes screamed at the silver mages. "You aren't tuning a frequency! You're summoning something!"
The mages ignored her, their eyes hollow as if in a trance. Suddenly, one of the walls exploded. Harold emerged through the fog of dust, his blade stained with silver fluid—the blood of the Silver Guard who had tried to block his path.
"Rainnes!"
"Uncle Harold, don't come closer!" Rainnes pointed toward the silver circle in the center of the room. "This circle... it's not a prison. It's an antenna! They're using Anne's frequency to pull Mother's soul out of the Tower's core!"
Harold froze. At that same moment, above them, the entire structure of the Magic Tower began to vibrate violently. The once-soft singing turned into a high-pitched shriek that shattered glass across the capital.
Anne, back at the pavilion, suddenly fell to her knees. She clutched her head. Memories that weren't hers flooded her mind: a dark room beneath the tower, the sound of a baby crying, and the face of a woman who looked remarkably like her, chained by thousands of mana threads.
"Anne... Caine..." the voice was no longer an echo, but a living call.
"Mother?" Anne whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. But beneath the grief, a massive power began to stir—a power she had suppressed for years with logic and banking ledgers.
On a distant balcony, Caine stared at the Tower, which was now glowing brilliantly in the heart of the darkened city. He pressed the final button on his device. "If you want to play with our frequency," Caine murmured, his eyes cold behind his spectacles, "then I'll give you a concert you'll never forget."