"Aren't you rushing it, Gin?"

The voice cut cleanly through the tension before we could even raise our hands. Barbra had arrived, slipping into the chamber like a shadow. She leaned against the archway with that measured, feline grace of hers, arms crossed, tail swaying lazily. Her sigh, however, carried none of that languid ease.

Gin's grin only widened. He turned toward her with mock surprise, ears perked, tail flicking in a parody of innocence. "I know not what you mean, Panthress." His voice practically purred, each syllable dripping smugness. The grin he wore was the kind that said he knew exactly what she meant. "It isn't as though the plan Vanitas and Morres concocted was any better."

Barbra's eyes narrowed to slits, golden irises catching the light like a predator about to pounce. "You haven't even proposed mine and Leraje's, have you?" The air seemed to tighten under her stare, sharp enough to make even Gin's whiskers twitch.

"Hehe… I was getting to it," Gin said, shoulders rolling with a too-casual shrug, tail curling upward like smoke.

The rest of us groaned almost in unison, collective exasperation directed squarely at the archon. He lapped it up like cream, of course. But our attention turned quickly to Barbra. She had our focus in full now, because despite her calm exterior, when she came to stop Gin, it meant she carried words worth hearing.

"Unlike the rest," she began, her tone shifting into something heavier, colder, "sending non-bibliokinetics into a tome-world is beyond folly." Her words echoed, commanding, stripping away her usual persona. This wasn't Barbra the panther anymore—this was Barbatos, the scholar, the strategist, the ancient voice who brooked no interruptions. I recognized it instantly, and the weight it carried made me sit straighter.

"The last time it was tried," Barbatos continued, her voice steady as stone, "a six-man party entered. One member went fully insane before the third day. Another was consumed—killed outright by the book itself. Do not delude yourselves into thinking it safe. It isn't. Not by any measure."

Her eyes flicked toward me, burning gold cutting through flesh and bone. "To be blunt, no place in this cluster is safe so long as Alexander walks within it. Where a fallen hunts… a seraph answers. He is the call and the tether. If we do nothing, you may be forced into the choir."

I swallowed hard. My throat had gone dry, and the words hit heavier than steel. Forced into the choir. I didn't want to picture it, didn't want to imagine my soul dragged screaming into some eternal harmony.

Fractal's hand found mine and squeezed tight, her small fingers trembling but determined. On my other side, Fallias clamped down on my remaining hand with just as much force, like he could anchor me in place if the world tried to take me away.

Barbatos let the silence weigh before she finally went on. "Our proposal is simple. Use Leraje's Arte. He can construct a training world—a controlled environment—while we borrow Morres's mana to weave a dilation of time. Days outside become months within."

She let her words settle before listing the tally. "The pros: Leraje's Arte is infinitely safer than these half-mad gambles. It will not warp your souls, nor rip your Artes from you. You will emerge more skilled, better trained, more prepared. The cons: You will not grow stronger. No new skillcubes, no external boons. Only refinement of what you already wield. Your ceiling will not rise, but your hands may reach it more reliably."

Her voice hardened. "There is also… a fourth option."

She drew in a long breath, shoulders tensing, as if reluctant to say it aloud. "We could cast you directly into Morres's Otherrealm. His domain is saturated with miasma, heavy as pitch. You would suffer mana and miasma toxicity quickly—painfully. But progression there would be… fast. Brutally so. What you survive, you will carry. What you cannot endure, will kill you."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Barbatos's gaze swept the group, measuring each of us. "And there is one final boon to that path. In Morres's domain, certain skillcubes exist that are outlawed in Demeterra's. Tools barred by law, yet powerful. There… you might claim them."

I felt my chest tighten again. No air. Just the weight of decision pressing in, crushing.

Gin chuckled softly, the sound curling like smoke, delighted in the way the room sank under the pressure of her words. "Ahhh, now that sounds like a banquet. Pain, risk, forbidden fruit. You've brought claws to the table at last, Panthress." He licked his teeth with slow relish. "Tell me, will your kittens still want the safe bowl of milk after they've smelled blood?"

No one answered. Not yet.

The chamber had grown heavy with silence after Barbatos's last words. Even Gin had stopped purring for a heartbeat. I didn't dare move. My hands were still bound by the grip of Fractal and Fallias, as if letting go would tip me into whatever fate they feared most.

Four proposals. Four paths forward. And no clear way to know which would lead to survival.

Vanitas was the first to break the silence. Of course he was.

"Darlings, darlings," he said, voice lilting like silk over knives. He stepped forward into the circle, coat flashing colors that had no business existing beside one another—violet, crimson, emerald, gold. "Why must we wring our hands in despair? The answer is obvious. My plan, our plan," he gestured toward Morres, though the older devil didn't so much as blink, "is the only path worthy of Alexander."

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He turned, pointing at me with a flourish, as if I were some exhibit in a gallery. "Do you not see? He has already consumed a cursed lexicon and survived. He has tread into Danatallion's halls and clawed his way back out. To thrust him into another tome-world—ah! it is poetry! Poetry of ink and madness. Each page could birth a new fragment of him, each line a sharpened edge. If one is to rise as Walker, one must not hide in training crèches like a swaddled infant."

He let the word linger, looking smug. "No, one must be thrust into the wild page and made to wrestle with its teeth."

Barbatos cut him down with a look sharper than her voice. "You speak as though survival is trivial. Tome-worlds are not theaters for your vanity, Vanitas. They devour. They unmake. Only bibliokinetics should tread there, and even they do so at cost."

Vanitas gave her a smile that was all venom dressed as velvet. "And yet Alexander has already proven he is more than your tidy definitions. Tell me, scholar, did the book not yield to him? Did it not change him? Or do you claim ignorance of the Arte he pulled from its belly?"

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't answer. I felt my face heating under the scrutiny.

Gin, naturally, couldn't resist. He slid closer to Vanitas with that fox's grin plastered across his muzzle. "Oh, I like this one's theater. Dangerous, foolish, reckless—he'd make a fine archon if he weren't so loud." He tilted his head, ears twitching. "But why not my plan? Send him into the page with me guiding the way. I've teeth enough to keep him safe."

"You mean," Ten said, voice sharp as chain-links clinking, "you'd drag him along while you play your little games and leave us to clean up the pieces." Her legs rattled with each movement, the iron balls at her ankles shifting like predators eager for release. "You aren't exactly trustworthy, fox."

Gin clutched his chest, mock-offended. "Oh, cruel maiden, you wound me. I, untrustworthy? Why, I'd sooner bite my own tail than betray sweet Alexander." He shot me a wink.

I couldn't help myself. "That doesn't actually make me feel safer."

Laughter rippled around the chamber, bitter and short.

Barbatos cleared her throat, the sound snapping everyone back into line. "Enough frivolity. Our plan—Leraje and mine—is the only measured approach. Create a training world. Anchor it with Morres's mana for dilation. Months of refinement within, mere days without. No one dies. No one goes insane. He emerges sharper, disciplined, not broken."

Leraje, who had been silent in the corner, finally spoke. His voice was calm, even, the tone of a bowstring pulled taut. "My Arte bends illusion into solidity. I can craft a world of trials—measured, controlled. Enemies to hone his reflexes, puzzles to test his mind. He will not gain new tools, but he will learn to wield what he has as a master. Would you not prefer skill to gamble?"

"That depends," Wallace rumbled. He shifted his shield, the sound of iron on stone filling the silence. "A sharp sword is good. But against an army, a sharp stick still breaks. Skill alone may not save him."

Cordelia flicked her hair back, eyes glinting. "I agree. Refinement is good, yes—but if it leaves us unequipped against threats only new skillcubes can counter, then it's wasted effort. We can't fight psionic entities with sharpened swords."

"Bah." Wallace snorted. "Better a sharp blade than chasing forbidden cubes in hell."

"Spoken like a man who's never needed one," Cordelia shot back, eyes flashing.

Before the argument could catch fire, Morres finally stirred. His voice was a whisper, old stone grinding under water. "My realm is poison, yes. But poison sharpens teeth. Alexander would burn. He would suffer. But he would emerge tempered—or ash."

His gaze fell on me. It was impossible to tell if it was pity or calculation. "There are cubes there. Forbidden, powerful. Tools Demeterra hides from her children, lest they cut themselves. Tools he may need, if he is hunted by both fallen and seraph."

The word seraph made the chamber still again.

Sven broke it this time, his hand twitching near his holsters. "If we're being honest… I don't hate the idea of illegal cubes. I've seen Walkers burn because their arsenals were bound by law, while Others had no such shackles. If Alexander can stomach it, better him than the rest of us."

Fallias's grip on my hand tightened. "That's easy to say when it's not you choking on miasma."

"And what about you?" Sven snapped. "You cling to him like an anchor. You'll be dragged wherever he goes. Will you shield him from poison? From insanity? If not, shut your mouth."

Fractal's voice, quiet but firm, rose between them. "Enough. Alexander is not a toy to be thrown between devils. He is… he is ours. And we will not let him break." She turned to me, eyes bright. "I will follow you into any path, Alex. But I won't vote for something that kills you before you can even stand."

Her words struck me harder than the debate itself.

Ten spat on the floor. "Then you've already decided. The rest of us should just roll dice, huh?"

"Dice are honest," Gin chimed in. "They do not lie. Unlike half this table."

"Shut it, fox," Wallace growled.

Barbatos exhaled, long and slow, before lifting her gaze again. "Each path has cost. The tome-world is madness. The fox's plan is chaos. The training world is safety, but limited growth. Morres's realm is deadly, but rewarding. The vote must weigh which cost we are willing to bear."

Vanitas clapped slowly, mock applause echoing. "How scholarly. And yet… you forget the most important truth, dear Panthress." His eyes glittered as he leaned forward, voice dropping to a purr. "Alexander himself is the only one who will bear it. Should he not be the one to decide which poison to drink?"

All eyes turned to me.

My throat tightened. I hadn't wanted to sway this. I hadn't wanted to speak. But with every gaze on me, silence felt like cowardice.

"I…" My voice cracked, but I forced it steady. "I don't know which path is right. The tome-world sounds like it'll break me. The training world sounds like I'll stagnate. Morres's realm sounds like it'll kill me. And Gin's plan sounds like…"

"Fun?" Gin supplied, grin sharp.

"…a nightmare," I finished flatly.

A ripple of amusement and exasperation passed through the chamber.

Fallias's voice rumbled low, her first real words. "Then we decide for him. He is too close to see."

Cordelia's lips curled. "So we gamble with his life?"

"That," Wallace said, "is what it means to be comrades."

The debate roared back to life, voices overlapping, arguments and counterarguments clashing like steel.

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