Eldric Chronicles: The Bonded

Book One

Chapter Ten: Toward the Future — Calm Before the Storm, Part II

One Hour

The announcement arrived in the war room at the third-quarter bell, spoken by a courier who had the expression of someone delivering information that was not supposed to exist yet.

"The delegation is one hour out," Hiro said, translating the message's substance into a single sentence, which was the most efficient way to communicate something that would require considerably more than one sentence to respond to.

The room absorbed this.

"They were scheduled for midday tomorrow," Kazuma said, in the tone he used when he was not actually asking a question but was creating a conversational space for whoever needed it.

"Yes," Hiro said.

"And they are now one hour out."

"Yes."

Kazuma looked at his wife. Yui had already crossed to the secondary display and was scrolling through the morning's communication logs with the speed of someone who had been expecting that something would be in there and is now finding it.

"The schedule change was communicated through an intermediary channel," she said. "Not the direct diplomatic line we established. The message came through the Kyoto Prefectural Office, which was routed through—" She stopped. Read something. "Through a business registration contact for Sato's secondary trade holdings."

The room received this.

Lailah, who had been at the eastern window reviewing a document, turned around. She did not say anything immediately. She did the thing she did when she was looking at a configuration of information and was identifying a pattern that was not obvious to everyone else in the room but would become obvious once named — a quality of focused stillness that Odyn had learned to recognize because his mother had the same quality in a different register.

"The delegation did not choose to come early," she said finally. "Or rather — someone in the delegation did not. This acceleration came from outside their scheduling authority. Something informed someone in their communication chain that the window they were given was too long."

"Sato's device," Odyn said.

He was standing at the room's edge with Ichihana beside him, which was where they were in situations that required both reading the room and having room to respond. He had felt the shift in the harmonic three minutes before the courier arrived — the specific quality of change that indicated whatever was running alongside the bond had received a signal or changed state. He had not said anything then because he had not yet understood what the change meant. He was understanding it now.

"The device is not scheduled to activate until the convergence peak in two days," Zerik said, from the secondary table where his analytical equipment had been running since the previous evening. "The calibration we reconstructed from the compound's warding logs indicated a passive collection phase until the peak."

"The passive phase," Odyn said, "and the early arrival of the delegation are not separate events."

Zerik looked at him. Looked at his equipment. Looked back at Odyn with the expression of someone who has been working a calculation from one end and has just been handed the variable that completes it. "The delegation's arrival creates a convergence of active magical attention at this location. Not just the Vhaeryn'thal and the ambient ley signatures — the detection equipment they're bringing, the energy of the examination process itself, the concentration of politically significant persons in one space." He was already moving to the primary analysis array. "It's generating the same kind of concentrated resonance that the device needs for redirection. Earlier than the natural ley peak, but possibly sufficient in concentration."

"It is creating its own peak," Ichihana said.

"Yes," Zerik said, and his voice had the quality of someone confirming something they would have preferred to be wrong about.

Hiro had been standing at the door with the composed readiness of a security chief whose job has just become considerably more specific. "What does that mean for our response protocols?"

"It means the device is not on a two-day delay," Odyn said. "It is on a 'when conditions are sufficient' delay. And we are about to provide sufficient conditions."

"Can we cancel?" Sakurai asked, with the precision of someone who already knew the answer and was creating space for it.

"We received the schedule change through Sato's business contacts," Yui said. "Declining to receive the imperial delegation on one hour's notice, using that as the stated reason, would surface connections to Sato's holdings that we are not ready to surface." She looked at Kazuma. "We lose more by refusing than by receiving."

"Then we receive them and neutralize the device," Ragnarok said, with the directness of someone who has been waiting for a problem he could address physically. "Where is it?"

"Still in the basement compound," Hiro said. "The warding seal has held, but the warding seal cannot prevent a passive resonance current — it can only prevent active magical projection. If Zerik is right that the device redirects an existing bridge rather than creating a new one—"

"Then the ward is not the relevant defense," Zerik confirmed. "The ward stops something coming from outside in. This is something moving along a channel that already exists inside."

Odyn and Ichihana looked at each other.

The channel in question was the bond. The bond was theirs. Which made the most obvious solution also the most complicated one.

"We can collapse the redirection," Ichihana said, working through it. "Not the bond itself — but the specific alignment that the device is using. If we alter the bond's frequency before the delegation's arrival concentrates enough resonance energy to trigger the redirect—"

"You would need to do it now," Zerik said.

"Yes," she said. "I know."

"We don't fully understand the alteration process," Odyn said. "Lailah — the historical accounts of Vhaeryn'thal voluntary frequency adjustment. What is the risk profile?"

Lailah's expression was the expression of someone balancing several serious things. "In the accounts I have reviewed, voluntary frequency adjustment has been performed safely by bonded pairs who had established the telepathic connection at distance — which you have achieved. The risk is not to the bond itself. The risk is the energy release during the adjustment." She paused. "The accounts describe it as significant."

"How significant," Ichihana said.

"In every account," Lailah said carefully, "the adjustment produced a physical manifestation. The marks extended. The energy release was visible, audible in some cases. In two accounts, there was a secondary effect on individuals in proximity — those in close relationship with the bonded pair."

"Close relationship meaning—" Allen began.

"Family," Lailah said. "Or something that functions as family in the bond's perception."

A pause.

"How many people are currently in close proximity to us," Ichihana said, slowly, "who the bond would classify in that category."

The room was quiet.

Lailah looked at Odyn. At Ichihana. At Lilian, who was in the doorway to the adjacent study where she had been sitting with her sketchbook. At Allen, at the secondary table. At Sakurai, near the window.

"The bond does not make fine distinctions," Lailah said, "between the people it considers its territory."

"What does that mean," Allen said, in the careful tone of someone who has spent several weeks documenting extraordinary things and suspects he is about to document another one.

"It means," Zerik said, putting it together from the archival end as Lailah was putting it together from the historical end, "that if the frequency adjustment produces a secondary effect on the people the bond has incorporated into its field — and you and Ichihana have been in sustained proximity with Lilian, Allen, and Sakurai for eleven months, which by the bond's mathematics is—"

"Significant," Lailah said. "The bond would not distinguish between that and family."

"Secondary effect," Sakurai said, with the specific tone of someone who has identified the phrase that needs unpacking. "You used the word accounts. What did the accounts describe as the secondary effect on the people in proximity?"

Lailah was quiet for a moment. The quality of the quiet was the quality of someone choosing how to frame something that was true and was also large.

"The Vhaeryn'thal is, among other things, a temporal resonance structure," she said. "It is sensitive to the flow of time between realms. When it adjusts frequency under stress — under the kind of concentrated pressure that this situation represents — it does not always adjust smoothly."

"The time differential," Odyn said.

"Yes," Lailah said. "In the two historical accounts I can recall clearly — and I want to be precise that these are two accounts from a small historical record, not a consistent documented pattern — the secondary effect was a temporal alignment. The people in the bond's proximity were brought into alignment with the dominant timeline."

Silence.

"The Arkynor timeline," Ichihana said.

"Yes," Lailah said.

"Which would mean," Odyn said, working through this steadily, with the quality of someone who has been trained to work through things steadily regardless of what the things are, "that the adjustment would bring people into alignment with however old they would be if they had been aging on Arkynor's scale."

"In the accounts, yes," Lailah said.

"Which would be approximately five years of Earth-equivalent aging," Allen said, with the expression of someone making a calculation he would strongly prefer to be wrong about.

"Yes," Lailah said.

Another silence, longer than the first.

"Overnight?" Sakurai asked. The word came out very level.

"I don't know the duration," Lailah said. "The accounts were not specific on process. They were specific on outcome."

Hiro appeared in the door. "The delegation's advance security team is at the outer gate."

The room looked at Odyn.

He looked at Ichihana. The bond was present and consistent — the warm familiar frequency, and alongside it the wrong harmonic, patient and waiting, running in the channel the device had identified and was prepared to use. The delegation was twenty minutes from the main reception area. The concentrated resonance would begin building the moment their detection equipment activated within the compound's ley field.

"If we don't adjust the frequency," he said, for the room's benefit, laying out what they were balancing, "the device redirects the bond's current at the peak. We go where it sends us, and the convergence uses us rather than the other way around."

"Yes," Zerik confirmed.

"If we do adjust the frequency," he said, "the adjustment may produce a secondary effect on the people the bond has incorporated — which is Lilian, Allen, and Sakurai, and possibly others depending on the bond's field radius. The secondary effect may be a temporal alignment to the Arkynor timeline. Which would mean—"

"We would wake up older," Sakurai said, completing this with the directness of someone who has decided that naming it plainly is better than orbiting it.

"Potentially," Lailah said.

Odyn looked at Ichihana again. This was, between them, the kind of look that was doing real work — not performance for the room, not consultation for appearance's sake, but actual communication through the bond in the way that had become available to them, confirming that they were reaching the same position through the same path.

He turned to Lilian.

She was standing in the doorway. She had her sketchbook against her chest and her expression was the expression of someone who has known something was coming and has been waiting for the moment when knowing it was allowed.

"You already knew," he said.

"Yes," she said. "I've been drawing it for two weeks."

"You didn't say anything."

"You would have worried," she said, with the complete honesty of an eight-year-old who has thought about this carefully. "And worrying about it wouldn't have changed it. It was going to happen either as a consequence of the device or as a consequence of stopping the device. There was no path where it didn't happen."

"You could have told us," Ichihana said, to her sister — not reproachfully, exactly, but with the weight of an older sibling who is identifying information management.

"Saibyrh knew," Lilian said. "We agreed to wait until the moment required it."

Ichihana looked at Saibyrh, who was at the archive table and had the expression of someone who has been making a judgment call for two weeks and has now arrived at the moment where the judgment resolves one way or another.

"The information before this moment," Saibyrh said, "would have affected your behavior during the meditation sessions and the crystal window. It would have introduced a layer of anticipation that the bond's development in those sessions could not afford." She held Ichihana's look steadily. "I made a calculation. You may disagree with it."

A pause.

"We'll discuss it later," Ichihana said, which meant she had not disagreed with it but intended to say so after she had been through the rest of this. She looked at Allen.

Allen had been very quiet. He was still writing in his notebook. When he looked up, his expression was the expression of someone who is performing composure over something he is still integrating.

"I have questions about the specific mechanism," he said. "Which I will ask later. For the moment—" he straightened slightly "—what do we need to do?"

"You don't have to be in proximity," Odyn said. "You could leave the building."

"If the bond's field radius includes me regardless of whether I'm in the building," Allen said, "then leaving the building accomplishes nothing except that I experience it in a different location." He looked at his notebook. "I would prefer to be here."

"Sakurai," Ichihana said.

Sakurai was at the window, looking out at the advance security team's vehicles at the outer gate. She had been quiet since naming the outcome plainly, which was not typical of Sakurai, and the quiet had a specific quality — the quality of processing something rather than avoiding it.

"My family," she said, without turning. "If I age five years in one night — my parents—"

"We will contact them before it happens," Yui said. She had been listening and had the quality of a mother who has arrived at action ahead of everything else. "They will be here, or they will be informed. They will not find their daughter changed without explanation."

Sakurai turned from the window. Her expression had the steadiness of someone who has taken a thing apart and put it back together and has arrived at a position with it. "Is this going to hurt?"

"I don't know," Lailah said. "The accounts don't address that. I'm sorry."

"All right," Sakurai said.

Three minutes had passed since Hiro's announcement.

"We have time to move the people who need to be elsewhere," Odyn said. "Banryu and Ragnarok, the adult members of the security detail — anyone the bond hasn't incorporated into its field."

"How do we know who that includes?" Ragnarok asked.

Lailah looked at the room. Then at Odyn. "Can you feel it?" she asked. "The bond's field perimeter. Can you identify the people within it?"

Odyn was quiet for a moment, the way he was quiet when he was using the bond rather than thinking about using the bond. Then he named them, without hesitation: "Ichihana. Lilian. Allen. Sakurai. Zerik is at the edge — far enough that the adjustment may not reach him, but the edge is not precise."

Zerik looked up from his equipment with the expression of someone receiving a piece of information about themselves that requires a moment to categorize.

"Alek?" Lailah asked.

"No," Odyn said. "He arrived too recently. The bond requires time in proximity to incorporate someone."

"Then Alek, Ragnarok, Banryu, myself, the Anuyachi guard team — we move to the perimeter," Lailah said. She looked at Kazuma and Yui. "You are Ichihana's parents and Lilian's parents. You are—" she paused "—likely at the bond's edge as well."

Yui and Kazuma looked at each other. Then at their daughters.

"We stay," Yui said, without discussion.

"Mother," Ichihana said.

"We stay," Kazuma confirmed. Equally simply.

The delegation's advance team was moving through the outer gate on the display in the corner. Fifteen minutes, at most.

"Then we begin," Odyn said.

The Adjustment

They cleared the main study of everyone in the field perimeter's uncertainty zone — Ragnarok with visible reluctance, Alek with the expression of a scholar being told he could not observe the most significant event he had yet encountered, Banryu with the compressed efficiency of a warrior who understands tactical positioning — and the room settled into its working configuration.

Odyn and Ichihana in the center, with the low table between them. Zerik at the secondary array, because his equipment would capture data that the historical accounts did not contain and he was staying regardless of what Odyn had said about the field edge. Lilian, Allen, and Sakurai at the room's perimeter — Allen with his notebook open, Sakurai with her hands in her lap and her back straight, Lilian with her sketchbook against her chest and her eyes already closed.

Yui and Kazuma at the doorway. Present. Staying.

"The process," Ichihana said to Zerik. "What do we need to do."

"The historical accounts describe it as an act of intention rather than technique," Zerik said, which was the kind of answer that the scholar part of him was dissatisfied with and could not improve on. "The bonded pair directs the bond's frequency to a new alignment by agreeing, jointly, on what the correct alignment is. Not forcing — deciding."

"We are deciding away from the harmonic," Odyn said.

"Away from the harmonic," Zerik confirmed. "You are choosing the bond's own frequency rather than the one the device has introduced. You are—" He paused, looking for the right framing. "You are being more specifically yourselves than the device's interference can accommodate."

Ichihana absorbed this. Looked at Odyn.

"Ready," she said.

"Yes," he said.

They placed their wrists together — the marks aligned, concave and convex, the pair that had appeared eleven days into the training sessions and had been growing ever since. The contact point of the marks always carried its specific warmth. Right now the warmth had the additional quality of something prepared, like a muscle tensed before use.

He found her in the bond, the way he always found her — immediately and without search, because she was not somewhere else that had to be located but rather a direction, a constant, the thing the bond's internal compass had been oriented toward since the first morning. And she found him, in the same way, the simultaneous quality of two people reaching for the same thing at the same time.

Between them: the bond's true frequency. The one they knew.

Alongside it: the harmonic. Wrong in the specific way of something that was exactly calibrated to be almost right — almost theirs, almost native, almost the frequency they recognized, with just enough of their own resonance in it that it had been running for three days without either of them catching it clearly.

They held both frequencies in their attention at the same time and felt the difference.

The difference was, at its core, simple: one of them was theirs and one of them was not.

That one, Ichihana said, in the direct communication that needed no words, indicating the true frequency.

Yes, he said.

And they chose it. Not a push — a choice. A precise, deliberate act of recognition, the way you recognized a word in your own language when you heard it spoken in the correct accent after a long time of approximations. Yes. That. This is what we are.

The marks flared.

Not like a candle. Like the specific moment when a fire that has been burning carefully in a contained space is given the space it needs — an expansion outward, immediate and complete, tracing from the wrist to the shoulder to the neck along the paths that Lilian had been drawing for two weeks, paths that were already mapped by the bond's own logic and needed only the frequency adjustment to make them visible.

The warmth was — it was not pain. It was the specific quality of a change that was happening in the body, to the body, and the body knew it. The distinction between warmth and pain was present but occupied approximately the same space.

Ichihana did not make a sound.

Odyn did not make a sound.

The energy release was visible and audible exactly as the accounts had said — a pulse outward from the joined wrists, blue-white, with the specific quality of light that was not quite the same as regular light: the light that carried the bond's frequency rather than the light that illuminated the room. It moved outward from the contact point in a sphere.

The sphere reached the room's perimeter.

Lilian, at the wall, had her eyes closed and her hands open at her sides and was entirely still.

Allen, at the secondary table, had looked up from his notebook with the expression of someone receiving a physical sensation he had not had a category for and was now creating one.

Sakurai, at the window seat, had her eyes open and was watching the sphere reach her with the steadiness of someone who has decided to see whatever they are about to see without looking away.

When it reached each of them, it was not dramatic. It was not a struck match or a crashing wave. It was the specific quality of the bond's frequency finding something already latent in proximity and recognizing it — settling into it, like a key into the right lock, a sensation of of course, this, and then stillness.

The sphere continued to its outer edge and resolved.

The marks on Odyn's skin, from fingertip to shoulder, had completed their first major extension. The patterns were fully present — intricate, running up the neck to the jaw, following the lines that Lilian's drawings had predicted. On Ichihana: the same, mirrored and complementary.

The harmonic was gone.

The bond ran at its own frequency, clean and clear and entirely theirs, and the device in the basement compound had lost the channel it had been using for three days.

Zerik was already writing.

Yui had made one movement toward her daughters — one step forward, contained. She was looking at both of them with the expression of a mother performing the assessment of a warrior alongside the assessment of a parent, because she was both of those things and this moment required both.

"All right," Ichihana said, to her mother. "We're all right."

Yui came forward the rest of the way and put her hands on both their faces — Odyn's and Ichihana's — briefly, firmly, the specific contact of someone confirming that what they are touching is real and here and present. Then she stepped back.

"The delegation," she said.

"Yes," Ichihana said.

"Twelve minutes," Hiro confirmed from the doorway, which meant he had not moved from his position for the entire process, which meant he was either one of the most composed security chiefs in the known worlds or he had decided that the doorway was a better observation point than anywhere else.

"Then we meet them," Odyn said, and straightened.

What the Delegation Saw

Minister Tanaka was a professional, which meant he received surprises with a specific quality of composed attention that gave no indication of how surprising the surprise had been. In his career he had sat across from people who were technically his nation's most dangerous criminals while conveying only courteous interest, and he had delivered news to superiors whose responses could have gone in any direction while maintaining the placid demeanor of someone reading a menu.

What he was not prepared for, walking through the Anuyachi estate's reception hall, was the young man standing at the entrance to the formal meeting room.

He had been briefed. He had reviewed the reports — the careful, classified reports prepared by people who had managed to convey "this is very unusual" in language that the document's security clearance requirements permitted. He had reviewed the photographs from the relay observation, which were grainy but gave a general impression of a dark-elven child approximately eight or nine years old, slight, dark-featured, with the distinctive coloring of the Albanar royal line.

The person standing at the entrance to the formal meeting room was not eight or nine years old.

He was — approximately, Tanaka estimated with the eye of someone who had been making age assessments in diplomatic contexts for thirty years — thirteen, fourteen, perhaps the age that carried the first clear marks of the person one would become. The dark hair, the flame-orange eyes, the specific coloring of the Albanar line were exactly as described. Everything else — the height, the set of the shoulders, the quality of presence in a room — was the presence of someone who had aged considerably since the photographs.

Beside him, the Anuyachi girl — also older than reported, with the same discrepancy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, with the marks of the Vhaeryn'thal now visibly tracing the full length of both arms to the jaw — stood with the composed attention of someone who was watching the delegation's reaction and would remember every detail of it.

Behind them, slightly offset: four others of the same apparent age discrepancy. A girl with a sketchbook. A boy with glasses and a notebook. A pink-haired girl with her arms at her sides and an expression that was very carefully neutral.

Tanaka completed his entry bow.

He noticed that the elven prince did not visibly react to being assessed. He noticed that the Anuyachi girl did not visibly react either, but that the slight tension around her eyes suggested that she had anticipated the assessment and had opinions about it.

"Minister Tanaka," said Lailah Albanar, from the formal host position. "Thank you for making the journey. I believe introductions are in order."

"Indeed," Tanaka said, which was the word diplomats used when the thing they meant was considerably larger.

Morning

The temporal alignment did not happen during the adjustment.

This was the thing none of the historical accounts had been specific about, and that Lailah — in the subsequent review, in the quiet hour after the delegation departed for the evening — confirmed was consistent with the accounts she had been trying to recall details from. The accounts described the outcome and the cause without describing the process, which was the consistent problem with historical documentation of unprecedented events: the people who wrote them were often observers rather than participants, and observers documented what they saw rather than what happened in the intervals between what they saw.

What happened in the interval was: ordinary evening. Dinner. The delegation's first session, which had proceeded along the lines of the prepared strategy with the controlled revelation, the careful demonstration, the establishment of the diplomatic parameters. The session had gone well by the measure of these things — no open hostility, a credible impression of unified purpose, the intelligence-operative additions to the delegation roster identified and managed through Zerik's careful misdirection.

What happened in the interval was: bedtime. The familiar routine of the compound settling into its evening configuration, the specific sounds of that process that Odyn had learned in eleven months and could now identify by sequence from his room.

He had the impression, falling asleep, that something was happening at the bond's edge — not the wrong harmonic, which was gone; not anything threatening. Something that had the quality of a process already in motion, the way you could sometimes feel, in the last moment before sleep, that you were falling without the sensation of falling having arrived yet.

Then sleep.

Then: morning.

He knew before he opened his eyes.

Not because of pain — there was none. Not because of a specific sensation that said something has changed. Because of the quality of the ordinary: the weight of the covers, the distance to the floor when he shifted, the proportions of the room as he registered them without yet looking. Everything was the same size it had always been, and everything felt different in the specific way of something that is the same size and has become slightly smaller relative to the thing experiencing it.

He opened his eyes.

His hands were on the covers. He looked at them. The marks ran from fingertip to shoulder, as they had after last night's adjustment — present, intricate, complete. The marks had not changed.

His hands had.

Not dramatically. Not — it was not the theatrical transformation of a story. It was the difference between a child's hand and the hand of someone who was no longer a child, which was a difference of proportion and structure and the specific quality of the joints, subtle in any individual case and unmistakable in aggregate. He knew his own hands. These were his hands, and they were not the hands he had last looked at.

He sat up.

He was the same height he had been yesterday evening. He was not, he thought — counting, because counting was what you did when you needed to establish facts — he was not dramatically taller. He was perhaps a handspan taller. What was different was not primarily the height. What was different was the shape of things — the length of his limbs relative to his torso, the broader set of the shoulders, the way the room's proportions registered against his own.

He was approximately thirteen.

He was approximately the age he would have been if he had been aging on Arkynor's calendar this past year.

He sat with this for a moment.

Through the bond — present and clean, running at its own frequency, entirely correct — he felt Ichihana wake up.

Her first response, through the connection, was not words. It was the specific quality of waking up and reaching immediately for a factual assessment, which was exactly what he would have predicted of her. Then, after a moment of inventory: the equivalent of a long, controlled exhale.

Same, he sent.

Same, she confirmed.

He heard, from somewhere in the compound's east wing, a sound that was Allen's voice in the octave of someone who has made a discovery they are not sure how to categorize. Then Sakurai's voice, which had dropped from the register it had occupied yesterday and had the specific quality of someone testing their own voice and finding it different.

Then Lilian's voice, which was the lightest of them and which now carried a different quality — not dramatically, not unrecognizably, but the voice of an eight-year-old was no longer the voice in the east wing, and what had replaced it was the voice of a girl who was approximately twelve or thirteen and still had Lilian's specific quality of noticing things, but housed now in the acoustic space of someone older.

She knew, Ichihana sent.

Yes, he sent.

She drew it for two weeks and didn't tell us.

She explained her reasoning.

Her reasoning was correct. I still want to discuss her information management.

Yes, he sent. Later.

He got up. The room was slightly wrong in the proportional way of something that had been the right size yesterday and is now slightly small. He went to the mirror — the small one above the washstand — and looked.

He knew the face looking back at him. It was his face. The flame-orange eyes, the blue-black hair, the dark skin of the Albanar bloodline. The structure of it was recognizably the same as it had been yesterday and was now also recognizably something else: the face of someone older, with the first clarity of the adult configuration in the jaw and the cheekbones, the way a much-younger version of his father's face lived in the structure of his own.

He thought: Roy is fourteen. I am approximately thirteen. We are, for the first time in my life, close to the same age.

He thought: Lyra is three. I have never met her. When I do, I will not tower over her the way an adult towers over a small child. I will be — I will be an older sibling. The way I was before.

He thought: The delegation reconvenes at the first bell. I have approximately one hour.

He went to find the others.

Inventory

The secondary sitting room at the corridor's junction, where the east wing met the main passage, had become — by the collective and unspoken agreement of five people who were processing the same situation and had independently decided that the corridor was where they were going — the location.

Allen arrived first, which was consistent with Allen: he had been awake and had conducted a personal inventory and had gone immediately to where he could observe the others for comparative data. He had his notebook. He had pushed his glasses up and was looking at his own hands with the specific expression of someone cross-referencing a physical experience with a theoretical framework.

Sakurai arrived second, which was consistent with Sakurai: she had woken up, taken in the situation with the speed of someone whose first response to anything was a rapid orientation, and had identified that the corridor junction was where the others would go. She was wearing her informal training clothes — she had changed, which meant she had also, in those first minutes, located clothes that fit, which meant she had a practical orientation to the situation that Odyn recognized and respected.

"I am significantly taller than I was yesterday," Sakurai said, to the corridor generally. Not distressed. Informational.

"Yes," Allen said. "By my estimate, approximately one and a half handspans."

"My voice is different."

"Yes." He showed her his notebook, where he had already written three observations. "Also different: the proportions of my hands relative to the distance between my elbow and wrist, which I measured against yesterday's notation." He held up his wrist. "The measurements don't match."

"You measured your arm yesterday."

"I measure most things," Allen said. "It has been useful before."

Lilian appeared from the east wing's far doorway, moving with the slightly careful quality of someone in a new body who is learning its parameters. She was noticeably older — the specific change from eight to something approaching thirteen visible most clearly in her face, which had the structure now of someone who was no longer the youngest person in any room but rather the youngest person in the specific rooms she chose to enter. She was carrying her sketchbook.

"I drew this two weeks ago," she said, holding it open to the relevant page.

The drawing showed five figures — recognizably themselves, though rendered in Lilian's ambitious-beyond-technical-capacity style — standing in a row, with the marks of the Vhaeryn'thal running on Odyn and Ichihana and a lighter version of the bond's energy visible in the other three. They were all approximately the height they were now.

"Why didn't you tell us," Sakurai said, without hostility, with the honest curiosity of someone who has been processing this question for approximately ten minutes.

"I already explained," Lilian said.

"Explain again, for the people who didn't hear the first time."

"If I had told you it was going to happen," Lilian said, with the patient clarity of someone who has thought through their reasoning and is willing to present it again, "you would have worried about whether it was going to happen and how it was going to happen and whether to try to prevent it. And the worrying would have made all of those sessions — the crystal window, the meditation work, the preparation for the delegation — you would have been doing all of those things while also managing the anticipation of this. And that would have made the sessions worse. So I waited until the moment required the information."

A pause.

"Your sister said the same thing," Allen observed.

"We discussed it," Lilian said.

"You and Saibyrh managed our information together," Sakurai said.

"Yes."

Another pause.

"Your reasoning is correct," Sakurai said, "and I remain unsatisfied with it, and both of those things are true simultaneously."

"Yes," Lilian said. "I know. I'm sorry. But I would make the same decision."

Ichihana arrived from the main passage's south end, which meant she had come from Odyn's corridor rather than her own, which meant she had — Sakurai registered this with the expression of someone storing information for later and not commenting on it in the current moment — gone to him first.

Odyn was with her, which was not surprising.

They stood at the junction and looked at the assembled group, and the assembled group looked back.

"Everyone all right," Odyn said.

"Physically," Allen said. "Psychologically, I have questions I am not yet ready to ask."

"I lost five years," Sakurai said, with the directness she brought to things she needed to name before she could put them in the right place. "My parents will come downstairs this morning and find their daughter five years older than she was when they put her to bed." She paused. "Are my parents—"

"Yui contacted them last night," Ichihana said. "Before we began the adjustment. They were told what might happen. They are here — they arrived an hour ago." She looked at Sakurai. "Your mother is in the main reception room."

Sakurai was quiet for a moment.

"All right," she said.

"It was the same for all of us," Odyn said. "The bond incorporated everyone in close proximity. The proximity was genuine — it was not accidental or incidental. The bond does not include people it has not had reason to include." He looked at each of them. "What you are is what you were. This is the same as what happened with Ichihana and me — the marks are not something added from outside. They are something that was already there, that became visible."

"We are older than we were," Allen said, which was the fact that still required sitting with.

"Yes," Odyn said. "You are approximately the age you would be on Arkynor's calendar. The bond aligned you to the dominant timeline." He paused. "I know that this was done to you without your consent. I am sorry for that. If the adjustment had permitted time to ask — I would have asked."

"Would we have said no?" Lilian said, with the directness of someone who already knew the answer.

Allen adjusted his glasses. "No," he said, with the specificity of someone who has worked through the calculation. "I would not have said no. I want to note that I would have preferred more information, and I accept that the timing did not permit it, and I am choosing to be all right with this." He looked at his notebook. "I have many questions. I am going to write them down."

"Of course you are," Sakurai said, with the warmth that was present under everything she said.

She looked down the corridor in the direction of the main reception room. Then she looked back at Ichihana, and Ichihana met her eyes with the specific look of someone who has known their friend for a very long time and does not need to say anything because the look says it.

"I'll go see my mother," Sakurai said.

"Yes," Ichihana said.

She went.

The corridor was quiet for a moment.

"The delegation reconvenes at the first bell," Ichihana said to the remaining three.

"I know," Allen said, already flipping to a new notebook page.

Lilian had opened her sketchbook to the drawing and was looking at it — at the five figures, approximately their new ages, standing in a row with the bond's light around them. She looked at it the way she looked at things she had already seen in another register and was now seeing with her regular eyes for the first time.

"It looks like the drawing," she said.

"Yes," Odyn said.

She closed the sketchbook and held it against her chest and looked up at him — up now, where before the angle had been more level — and nodded once, with the gravity of someone who has seen something coming and has now arrived at the arrival.

"The delegation," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"Then we should be ready."

They went to be ready.

The First Bell

The formal meeting room had been arranged according to the joint protocol the Anuyachi and Kishimoto families had developed — a configuration that honored both the Japanese diplomatic tradition and the Albanar formal practice, which shared certain structural values around the presentation of hierarchy while differing on the significance of horizontal versus vertical arrangement. The compromise had taken three days to work out and was genuinely elegant.

Minister Tanaka arrived precisely at the first bell.

He sat down.

He looked at the young people across the table — the guardians of the seal, the representatives of the Albanar line, the children who had been described in the classified briefings as approximately eight and nine years old and who were now, visibly, considerably older — and he maintained the composed attention of a professional doing his job.

"I notice," he said, after the preliminary courtesies, "that the individuals present appear somewhat older than the descriptions our Ministry received."

"Time passes differently between realms," Odyn said, with the calm specificity of someone who has rehearsed the explanation in the corridor while Lilian was showing them the drawing. "The differential between Arkynor's calendar and Earth's is well-documented in the historical records the Anuyachi clan has maintained. The convergence event last night brought the individuals present into alignment with the Arkynor timeline." He held the Minister's gaze. "This is not a recent or unusual phenomenon. It is a known consequence of sustained proximity to the Vhaeryn'thal under convergence conditions."

Tanaka absorbed this.

He looked at Ichihana — at the marks on her arms, now fully extended, running to the jaw. At Odyn, whose marks matched them. At the three others seated along the room's secondary tier, all approximately thirteen, all with the composed readiness of people who have processed something large and have arrived at the meeting on schedule anyway.

"And the timing of this alignment," Tanaka said, with the particular care of a diplomat identifying a detail, "coincided with the early arrival of our delegation."

"There was a device," Odyn said, "that was using the concentration of attention your arrival created to redirect an existing resonance structure for a purpose contrary to ours. We neutralized the device. The neutralization had a secondary effect." He paused. "The secondary effect is what you see."

Tanaka looked at him for a moment.

"I see," he said.

"We are happy to answer questions about the mechanism," Ichihana said, "to the extent that the information is relevant to the treaty parameters we're here to discuss."

"And the device?"

"Is no longer operational," Odyn said. "Hiro Anuyachi has the full documentation."

Tanaka looked at the documentation folder that Hiro produced and set at the table's center. He did not open it immediately. He looked at the young people across from him — the guardians who were not children anymore, the seal's caretakers, the unprecedented Vhaeryn'thal pair — and then he looked at their assembled families: Anuyachi, Kishimoto, the elven delegation, the Neo Roshigumi.

He opened the folder.

"Then let us begin," he said.

Outside, the spring morning continued its ordinary work, indifferent to the things that had changed overnight in the rooms it illuminated. The cherry trees were in their full-leaf green. The koi pond caught the early light and gave it back. The compound's routine moved at its own pace — the kitchen, the circuit, the younger students at the training yard's edge.

And in the formal meeting room, the work of two worlds began in earnest.

End of Chapter Ten

Next: Chapter Eleven — The Weight of What Was Built