The walls of the prison wing looked harsher and rougher underneath the flickering light of the flames dancing in Sera's hand. As soon as the Palace slept and the servants went home for the night, Sera snuck out of his rooms despite the usual protocol to stay indoors for the rest of the night. He had to see Neylan. He owed his friend at least that.

After he had distracted the prison wing guards into checking out a commotion in the farther corridor of his own doing, he tore through the unlocked door and burst into the dark hallway leading to Neylan. At some point, when the scratches of the guards' soles against the stone floor had faded to nothing but a mere whisper, Sera raised his hand and summoned a sliver of his magic into his palm. The fire that burst from his skin and burned with ethereal light did nothing to calm his rioting heart.

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be anywhere near this place. If he was a good son he was pretending to be, he wouldn't dare.

But he was here. Inside the prison wing. Holding a meager flame against the famished darkness surrounding him. Looking for a friend who fell victim to the Potentate's tyranny.

There was no going back.

"Seravel?" a raspy but familiar voice bled into his ears. He swept his hand in a wide arc, gasping a little when his back hit the opposing metal grates marking the beginning of another cell. The sputtering light fell over Neylan's face. "What are you doing here?"

"Neylan!" Sera yelled a little too loudly. Someone grumbled from two or three cells away for them to shut up so he could sleep. He flinched, then, lowering his voice, he said, "I had to see you."

Neylan chuckled, albeit void of humor. It was bordering on derision. "What, so you can lord over me how superior you and your father are?" he shook his head and slapped the metal grails separating them with his hand. Small, metallic twangs echoed in the darkness. "Forget it. You won, okay? Now, my father would die in his old age alone while I rot in Gaimouth, inhaling volcanic fumes all day until I join him in Pidmena's embrace. What a fun way to live."

Sera didn't speak. He didn't know what to say anyway.

Then, Neylan's eyes flashed towards Sera. Despite the bruises lining his friend's cheeks and peppering his neck and exposed arms, the fire in his eyes never dimmed. It was a fire of hate, of fear, and of anger. "You little spy," he muttered under his breath. "You've been one all along, huh? Joke's on me for falling into it. Willingly, even."

Sera fell to his knees in front of Neylan's cell. "I'm not a spy," he said. "What makes you conclude I am one?"

"You're seriously asking me that, Sera?" Neylan said. "They know what I said, word for word. You were the only one with me in that alley yet they talk as if they heard it and jotted it down. That couldn't happen unless they were right there with us, somehow invisible, or you ratted me out."

Sera scoffed. He couldn't believe this was happening. "I did not rat you out," he insisted. "There was no one with us on that alley either. I checked."

Neylan didn't look convinced. "Then how did they know what I said," he asked. "Word for word?"

Sera opened his mouth to say something—anything—to deflect his friend's blame. His words died in his throat, his mouth spouting nothing but air and a wisp of a solution he would never utter.

Neylan hummed, understanding flashing in his kind, blue eyes. "Thought so," he edged away from the cell's metal grate and rested his head against the rough wall. "Go before anyone catches you. Tell my father I'm sorry I won't be able to take care of him anytime soon."

Sera straightened and planted his feet on the ground. An inexplicable heat danced inside his gut. "Tell him that yourself," he declared. What...in Pidmena's name was he saying? Neylan's gaze went back to Sera. "I'm..." he gritted his teeth. "I'm getting you out."

Before Neylan could shoot Sera down with another clipped retort, Sera turned on his heel and marched the same way he had come. His intestines twisted into fancy knots even the water sprites had no name for, his lower lip quivering at the prospect of what he promised his friend.

He made it out of the prison wing. The fire in his palms died with nothing but a quiet hiss and a column of smoke curling from his fingertips. His footsteps towards his room were diminished, hurried. Silent.

This was it. He was doing something.

For the first time in his short life, Seravel Rovodia did something against the Fire Potentate's will.

2407 Rab 3, Reshpe

"I keep telling you, Your Grace," the soldier guarding the gates said, leveling his gaze towards Sera. "You can't go out today."

Sera knitted his eyebrows, his desperation must have bled into his expression. He got out of bed, dressed himself, and trudged towards the gate early when he heard this new set of prisoners were headed for Gaimouth. He still hadn't thought of a plan to get Neylan out of prison and how his friend was on his way out of Calca. Time. Sera needed time.

That's when the gates shut in his face and the guards claimed he couldn't go out. Out of all the days to be locked in, why now? Was the Fire Potentate punishing Sera for standing up during Neylan's trial? Did he think Sera was going to bust his friend out of prison and make a run for it? What did his father think of him? Some lowly creature, probably.

"Why?" Sera got into the guard's face, making sure his face said it all.

The soldier was unfazed. "Because, Your Grace," he laid a tanned hand against Sera's shoulder, destroying the power Sera had against him. "The Potentate decreed it. You don't want to get caught disobeying, right? I'd hate to arrest you."

Sera blew a frustrated breath but backed down, stepping back. "Okay, fine," he raised his arms in a surrendering gesture. "I'll be in my room in case there is an emergency."

"Where are you planning to go, Your Grace?" the soldier asked before Sera could pivot on his heel.

He paused before whirling back to the soldiers. "Just somewhere," he said. He couldn't tell them he's planning to trace the prisoners on their way to Gaimouth, could he? "It was none of your concern. I'll be attending to my duties now. Guard the gates well."

The soldiers ducked their heads in respect as Sera strode away from the only thing standing in his way to chase Neylan down. The door to his room slammed behind him, the walk from the courtyard, up the stairs, and through the sloping corridors inside the Palace seeming like an eternity ago. He stared around his room, past the desks, the stacks of parchment work he still had to look into, and the window showing him without lies what's happening outside.

How did the Potentate and the cabinet know what Neylan had said that day? They were able to recite it word for word, sentence for sentence. Sera wasn't someone for conspiracies but his senses told him there was something else going on underneath his nose.

WIthout him telling it to, his mind scrolled through the trials he had started attending at the beginning of the year. All of them contained records of their crimes detailed until the last dot, ascribing blame to the convicted in neat, little strikes. It was almost like the Potentate was there, or at least one of the Cabinet advisers. It's like...

It's like they have eyes and ears everywhere.

He braced his hands on his hips, thoughts whirring. His fingers snagged the hem of his vest and something in him snapped. With a rage he hadn't accounted for, he shrugged off his vest—the symbol that was supposed to set him apart from the other fire sprites—and bundled it in his hands. He imagined it was the guards' heads, being smothered by the fire or the heat of the forges for daring to hurt his friend and countless other people who passed under their hand.

Then, his eyes glared balefully at the rumpled bundle of cloth in his hands. This vest was commissioned by the Palace, given only to the highest members of society. It could either be rewarded by the Potentate or bought with enough money as contribution to Lanbridhr's coffers. Advisers, powerful families who were nobles, and wealthy businessmen wore this everyday with pride, knowing they're higher than most people they meet on the road.

The real question was...why? What gave them the right to lord their occupation or their wealth into people's faces? It's not like they got there because of their hard work. They got there because they're rich or they were born to fill in those shoes.

Useless. This vest was nothing but a piece of cloth with an inflated value. Sera's gut curled with his upper lip, his teeth baring without his permission. Then, he drew his hand back and threw the ball of cloth to the ground.

Something metal clinked.

Sera paused, his eyebrows meeting. What was that? He crouched and prodded at the vest lying limply on the ground. He picked it up again and slammed it against the ground once more. The clinking sound rang again. That's...strange. Why would there be metal inside the vest?

With shaking fingers, Sera felt the vest for the said metal. He located it above the hole for the sleeves, sitting somewhere by his shoulder should he wear it. It was small, circular. His eyes roamed his room, looking for something sharp to cut the threads with. They rested on a letter opener lying on his desk, beside a surplus of unopened mail no doubt from the big companies and businesses wishing to branch out to Lanbridhr.

Chest heaving, Sera strode to his desk and grasped the lukewarm handle of the letter opener. He took a deep breath, laying the tapered blade against the red and black threads making up his vest. Then, with a beat, he tore through them. Minutes passed with him just yanking and inserting the sharp blade against the threads, relishing the snapping sounds in secret.

Soon, a small, circular metal thing dropped from the small hatch he tore through the vest, tinkling in shrill sounds as it rolled to a stop by Sera's crossed legs. What..was this? He picked it up and turned it in the meager morning light creeping from the thick layer of clouds. Seemed like it was going to rain.

The metallic device looked like a kalta dryde only it was missing the right engraving, the right weight, and of course, the right function. As obvious as it was, this wasn't a versallis. It was...something else.

But what?

Footsteps brushed against the floor just outside his room. Sera burst upright and scanned his room once more for something to help him repair his vest. It was to avoid suspicion. Whatever the device was, it looked like the Potentate or at least the weavers making the vests knew about it.

He opened the drawer below his desk and came across a spool of yellow thread lying there after his failed project in embroidery. It was nowhere near as thick as the threads used to weave the vests but for now, it'd do.

A knock came to his door, a garbled but corrigible voice came after. "Your Grace, His Highness requested your presence in the court proceedings twenty minutes ago," she said.

"Yes! In a minute," Sera yelled, his fingers clumsily dipping and pulling the needle through his vest in odd stitches. He was sure none of his embroidery tutors taught him any of the stitches he was doing but he couldn't care about that now. He poked his fingers quite a number of times, drawing small blobs of blood. He winced but he couldn't stop now.

He shoved the metallic device into the small hole and, after doing a few more stitches to close the hole, tied it close. He lowered his head to the thread. His teeth clamped down and the thin thread snapped under the pressure.

Sera threw the needle inside his drawer. Who cares where he would look for it the next time? He swung his vest around him, his arms shooting in a calculated swing through the sleeve holes. Within a few seconds, he tugged against his vest to fix its fit and strode towards his door.

Whatever he found in this room, it would stay in there. At least until Sera knew what to do with it. Or how he could use it to his advantage.