The Director reached out to touch the mark, but pulled her hand back at the piercing look from the Greyman. "Speakers do not use the forbidden arts."

"I can assure you, Madam, history repeated itself and compulsion enforced my compliance."

Truth.

The Greyman covered himself again with his shirt, fastening each button. "But if my words are not enough, I will allow any Speaker of your choosing to verify I am indeed marked by compulsion."

"And you're sure it was Solaris—"

"Are you not the Director of the Speakers?" The alien stopped his actions, shirt halfway undone, still exposing the mark. His brow furrowed. "Do I need to educate you on your own history? Ionius Rei was nineteen—sufficient in strength to do what he did. Only here, inside these walls, do you retard the development of your students, but in the days of Elsi, he groomed any with a spark of ability into the Speaker arts, no matter their age. As for Solaris, you have documented cases of where trauma victims suddenly come upon their talent. The Collinsworth brothers forced these events to occur."

Truth.

"Or perhaps you don't believe a Collinsworth caused the compulsion I am under? Check the autopsy records of Westling Collinsworth, and you will discover the same mark is on his chest from my legal contract with him. This is the mark of their house."

Truth.

"Solaris, if you would kindly release me from this compulsion, I'll cease to take up your time and offer my adieu."

Truth.

"I find it wearisome and wish to be absolved from it."

Lie.

The Greyman shifted his attention back to the Director. "Surely this is not a problem. He is under the care of the Institute and an adult. What he did once he has the potential to do again."

The Director licked her painted lips, causing the red cosmetic to fade from her tongue's passing. A bead of sweat formed on her temple. "What you request is not a possibility."

"If you need me to supply the miristyn, I can. Just saturate him with it, coach him on how compulsions work, and I am sure he'll do the rest." The Greyman shifted his hard gaze to Sol. "You are willing to offer reparations for what occurred eight years ago, are you not?"

"Yes," Sol breathed out, but his mind was caught on something the Greyman had said: under the care of the Institute. He was here to be trained as a Speaker. He knew what he had signed. Why did the Greyman believe he was under their care?

The Greyman turned back to the Director. "I do not see the issue."

From beyond the Greyman's shoulder, Sol spotted Justin lingering in the doorway. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Its tip glowed violet. He blew a stream of smoke, filling the air with its peppery nutmeg scent. "The issue is Solaris Collinsworth isn't a registered Speaker."

The Director shot him a glare. "I told you to stay below."

"And I would have, except Code 999 activated. Figured it was because of our visitor." Justin approached their group, puffing at the miristyn.

Code 999. A fail-safe created by Elsi Collin. Warning of triple nine digits sent to the optical nerve of the strongest Speaker of the Law in residence whenever the building presence of an alien aura is detected, indicating a pending breach of contract by the Institute. Visual obscuration will cease upon Speaker arriving at the source of threat, and they will be granted authority to legally make amends, preserving the contract.

Sol exhaled as Nettle's gift to him spewed out its facts.

The Director's eyes narrowed as Justin drew up alongside her. "I have this under control."

"With all due respect, Madam Director, you obviously do not. Here," Justin squatted behind the Greyman, holding the miristyn out to him. The man took the offering. Justin rose. "Solaris, compulsion is relatively simple. It works on the foundation of a Speaker of Power—permeating your words with your will as you force someone to obey your command. A Speaker of Compulsion takes that foundation and warps in the ability to listen, to hear their target's inner fears, and bends their fears against them, causing damage to their target's inner-self if they resist the command. To do a compulsion, one must have the strength of voice and the callousness to use another's fears and insecurities against them as a weapon. Have I met all your demands, Greyman? Or were there others I missed in my tardiness to intervene on behalf of the Institute?"

"Those were it, but I now have a new one."

Justin sighed. "I don't have the authority to file the contract signed by Solaris Collinsworth and Tower Lord Cornelius that I was a witness to. Only the Director can do that."

"You haven't filed it?" Sol whispered. The spice of the miristyn tickled his senses. "Under what authority have you held me here if not as a Speaker?"

"Hold your tongue, boy," the Director snapped.

This whole day was insane, with one revelation after another. He was sick and tired of it all. The smoke lingering in the air filled his lungs. "What. Authority."

The Director clutched at her throat, eyes wide. "Authority of Directive 1.07—a mentally unstable patient can be detained for three years under observation of the Institute with all rights revoked until deemed no longer a threat to self or society."

"Told you he would get the hang of it." The Greyman held out the cigarette to Sol. "Take a deep breath and hold the smoke in your mouth for two seconds before exhaling. Try not to swallow it. Three breaths should be enough."

"Fools." The Director grabbed the drug and snubbed it out against the floor. "I'll file the Speaker contract on Solaris Collinsworth today. It will be on public record tomorrow for you to verify."

The Greyman gave a slow nod. "Continue."

The Director smoothed back her hair. "I only request time to train Solaris Collinsworth on the control and discipline he'll need to break your compulsion. Return in twelve years."

"Twelve years?" Sol slapped his hand next to the pile of ash and crushed paper.

The Director ignored Sol's outburst. "A Speaker peaks at age thirty. Twelve years is a blink of time for one such as you."

"That is true," the Greyman said. "What is also true is the fragility of human life. What guarantee do I have that Solaris will still be alive? He is here now, and has shown he lives up to his family's heritage. I've already waited eight years. Why prolong this any longer when I can be free today?"

"Solaris is not unique. If he is unable to perform your request in twelve years, I will personally make sure another can take his place. What would appease you to wait?"

"Westling Collinsworth's research notes."

The Director gave a quick smile. "Those are not mine to give."

"But they will be." Justin's eyes unfocused. "They are currently sealed in litigation until Ionius Rei Collinsworth is pronounced dead. Every year an anonymous source provides proof that his heart beats, his lungs breathe."

The Greyman gave Justin a half-bow from his seated position. "You are welcome."

Justin uttered a chuckle, eyes refocusing. "But when proof of death occurs, they will be released back to the Institute."

"Unless it occurred today," the Greyman said.

"Putting the documents into the hands of his next of kin," Justin replied, "and since Flarenden is unavailable, due to a being a ward of the Towers, that would be Solaris Collinsworth."

"Too bad his contract to place him under the custody of the Institute had gotten waylaid. I'm glad this will be rectified."

"So this is what you really wanted." The Director extended a hand to Justin, who assisted her to her feet. "Clever."

"It is as I already said. I am here because I promised Solaris Collinsworth I would return once he reached his age of majority. No one, not even a Greyman, can go against a contract bound by us without suffering the penalty." He pulled out of his pocket a thinly wrapped cigarette. "If I may borrow your lighter?" He held his palm out toward Justin.

Justin flicked the old-fashioned lighter open. A flame sparked to life only to have the Director halt him. Her slender finger flipped the lid closed. She forced Justin's arm down, keeping her grip on his hand.

The air chilled around them as a cloud obscured the sun, blanketing them with its shadow.

Her lips pinched into a thin, red line. "It will take time to draw up the documents—"

"I am a Greyman, Madam. Our word on this should be more than enough." He straightened his posture as he locked eyes with her. "And my price just went up. For twelve years of waiting, you'll not only waive all rights to Westling Collinsworth's files and transfer them to me, but you will also waive all intellectual property rights of any current and future records you collect on Westling's sons."

The tension thickened around them. Sol held his breath, afraid to move and have the Greyman's stone-hard attention shift to him.

"Fine. Return in twelve years—not a day sooner." The Director turned on her heel, walking toward the exit.

"So witnessed," Justin said, watching her leave.

"I apologize for such crass measures." The Greyman handed the unused cigarette to Justin. "A gift to replace what you sacrificed."

Justin pocketed the offered miristyn and his lighter. "No need to apologize. You are a Greyman of Terra. It is your right to sever us from the Unseen Web if you deem us unfit to serve."

"Unseen Web?" Sol asked.

Justin sighed. "You'll learn about it at age twenty-five."

"Promises, promises," the Greyman said.

Justin bent into a bow before the alien. "I apologize on behalf of the Institute for the thoughtless insult toward your people and your station."

"Apologize accepted if you will allow a moment of privacy as the penalty of altering a contract is invoked."

"Of course." Justin took a step back, head bowed and hands clasped in front of him.

Sol didn't recognize his teacher acting so humble.

The Greyman leaned forward and grasped Sol's chin in a punishing grip, forcing him to look only at him. "I willingly have altered a contract without the permission of all parties involved, forcing you, Solaris Collinsworth, to break your promise to me to remove the compulsion when you reached your age of majority. I accept the penalty of such actions upon myself."

He dropped his hand, resting both palms on his knees. His eyes closed.

That was when the gravity of the situation, of what had transpired here, hit Sol. He found it hard to breathe, as if a band was constricting his chest.

The Greyman took in a sharp breath. His head dropped. The knuckles on his hands turned white as the fingers dug into his flesh. The gaping edges of his shirt revealed the mark as it moved, expanded, ripped into the skin. Blood bubbled out around the lines of the tattoo.

No. This wasn't right. Sol had asked this man for help. He had saved his brother, was still saving his brother. Even if he couldn't remember their contract, Sol was certain that the moment he removed the compulsion, the Greyman would exact his vengeance upon Ion for what he had done. All of this gave Ion twelve more years of life.

Sol didn't think. He reacted. His palm covered the pulsating mark on the Greyman's chest. The lingering smoke from the kylostyn and miristyn mingled together, filling Sol's senses as he pulled the last traces into his lungs. His mind didn't know what he was doing, but something instinctual, ancient, activated as he spoke one word.

"Pluto."

The Greyman's eyes shot open. His lips formed words that never had the chance to be spoken as Sol felt an unseen presence reach for him, pulling him under.