The news came two days later, just as the morning haze began to lift from the lower tiers. Kaelen was in the workshop, sleeves rolled up, helping his mother recalibrate a set of old stabilizer coils when the message arrived. The small holo‑projector on the workbench flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow across the cluttered tools.
"Candidate Kaelen Burn; Evaluation Complete. Status: Accepted. Scholarship Confirmed. The Veyra Academy is pleased to welcome you within sixty days for orientation."
The words hung in the air like a quiet thunderclap.
His mother looked up from her workbench, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Well," she said, wiping her hands on her apron, "there it is."
Kaelen exhaled slowly. The confirmation should have felt triumphant, but instead it settled over him like a weight; not heavy with dread, but with responsibility. The kind that pressed on the ribs and made every breath deliberate.
"I guess it's official," he said.
"It was always official," she replied, her tone soft but steady. "Now it's just written down."
He smiled faintly, but his thoughts were already elsewhere... on the academy's towers, the evaluators' eyes, the way the air there had felt charged with something vast and unseen.
Outside, the city stirred. The lower tiers were waking– vendors setting up stalls, tram lines humming to life, the smell of fried dough and machine oil mixing in the air. The world moved on, indifferent to his acceptance.
But not everyone would be indifferent.
...
By midday, word had spread.
The lower tiers had their own kind of network for rumors not digital, but human. News traveled through whispers, through the rhythm of footsteps and the clatter of tools. By the time Kaelen stepped out to fetch supplies, half the neighborhood already knew.
"Burn boy got into Veyra," someone murmured near the tram stop.
"Scholarship, too," another voice added. "S‑Grade. He recently awakened they say."
He felt the glances before he saw them... curious, admiring, and in some cases, wary. The kind of looks that measured distance.
At the corner market, old Maren, who sold spare parts and gossip in equal measure, grinned when he saw him. "So it's true, then? Our little tinkerer's going to the sky‑school?"
Kaelen chuckled. "Guess so."
"Don't forget us ground rats when you're up there," Maren said, sliding a packet of copper wire across the counter. "They say the Academy folk don't come back the same."
Kaelen hesitated. "Maybe that's the point."
Maren's grin faded slightly. "Maybe. But don't let them strip the grease from your hands, boy. The world up there runs on polish, not grit."
Kaelen nodded, pocketing the wire. "I'll keep that in mind."
As he left, he caught sight of someone leaning against the tram post; a young man about his age, tall and wiry, with close‑cropped hair the color of ash and eyes like molten bronze. His clothes were clean but worn, the kind of uniform issued to apprentices in the city's energy sector.
"Kaelen Burn," the stranger said, his tone casual but edged. "Didn't think I'd see you back here after the evaluation."
Kaelen blinked. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet," the man said, pushing off the post. "Name's Daren Sol. I work maintenance on the upper conduits. Heard about your acceptance."
"Word travels fast."
"In this city? It flies." Daren's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You're the first from this block to make it into Veyra in, what... ten years? That's something."
Kaelen studied him. There was no hostility in Daren's voice, but there was something else... a quiet challenge, the kind that lived in people who'd had to fight for every inch.
"Thanks," Kaelen said carefully.
Daren tilted his head. "You know, I applied once. Didn't even get past the aptitude screening. Guess they weren't looking for conduit rats."
Kaelen opened his mouth, then closed it. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Daren said, shrugging. "I've got a job. Keeps the lights on. But it's funny, isn't it? You spend your life keeping the city running, and the ones who get to study how it works are the ones who never had to fix it."
Kaelen met his gaze evenly. "I– I fixed plenty."
Daren's smile sharpened. "Yeah. Maybe you did."
He turned to leave, then paused. "They say Veyra's got its own politics. Watch your back up there, Burn. Power attracts all kinds of mysterious phenomenal... especially the kind that wants to own it."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Kaelen stood there for a long moment, the hum of the trams filling the silence he left behind.
That evening, the workshop glowed with the soft amber of the overhead lamps. Kaelen sat at the table, tools spread before him, a half‑disassembled stabilizer core in his hands. The rhythmic click of metal on metal steadied him.
His mother worked nearby, sorting through a box of old schematics. "You met someone today," she said without looking up.
He glanced at her. "You heard?"
"I didn't need to. You've got that look... the one you get when someone says something that sticks."
He smiled faintly. "His name's Daren Sol. Works maintenance. He… wasn't exactly friendly."
"Jealousy's a quiet poison," she said. "It doesn't always sound like anger. Sometimes it sounds like advice."
Kaelen turned the stabilizer core in his hands. "He's not wrong, though. The academy is… different. It feels like a world built on rules no one down here gets to write."
"Then learn the rules," she said simply. "And when you can, change them."
He looked at her, the faintest spark of determination lighting behind his eyes.
...
The following week brought a new rhythm. Kaelen spent his mornings helping his mother with repairs– drones, conduits, old hover‑bikes that coughed smoke and memory in equal measure. In the afternoons, he trained his skills and met his daily quest quota.
The academy had sent a set of preparatory modules, exercises designed to measure and refine a student's control over their aetheric abilities, this helps them gain little control over their abilities, before coming in. For Kaelen, that meant time manipulation and spatial awareness... the twin threads of his Chronomancer class.
He practiced in the narrow alley behind the workshop, where the air shimmered faintly with residual energy from the aether lines overhead.
He started small; slowing the fall of a bolt mid‑air with temporal drag, bending the trajectory of a tossed wrench just enough to make it land upright with spatial warp. Each act left a faint ripple in the air, like heat distortion.
But the real test came when he tried to merge the two... to slow time and shift space simultaneously. The first attempt nearly knocked him off his feet. The second left his vision swimming.
By the third, he managed to hold the distortion steady for a full three seconds. The world around him blurred, sound stretching into a low hum. The bolt hung suspended mid‑air, its descent frozen in a perfect arc.
Then the moment snapped, and the bolt clattered to the ground.
He exhaled, sweat beading on his forehead.
From the doorway, his mother watched silently. "You're pushing too hard," she said.
"I have to," he replied. "If I don't learn control now, I'll be a liability up there."
She crossed her arms. "Control isn't about force, Kaelen. It's about rhythm. You can't bend time if you don't understand its pace."
He nodded, though his mind was already racing ahead... to the academy, to the evaluators, to the quiet hum of power that had filled those halls.
...
A week later, the neighborhood gathered for the Festival of Lights... a celebration older than the city itself. Lanterns hung from every balcony, glowing in shades of gold and violet. Children ran through the streets with sparklers, their laughter echoing off the metal walls.
Kaelen walked among them, the warmth of the crowd easing the tension that had built in his chest. For a night, the city didn't feel divided by tiers or status. It felt whole.
He stopped by a stall selling fried squid, the air thick with spice and smoke. As he waited for his order, a familiar voice spoke behind him.
"Didn't think you'd show up."
He turned. Daren stood there, hands in his pockets, a faint smirk on his face.
"It's a festival," Kaelen said. "Everyone shows up."
"Not everyone who's leaving soon."
Kaelen handed the vendor a few credits and took his food. "You always this cheerful?"
"Only when I'm right," Daren said. "You think the Academy's going to welcome you with open arms? They'll use you. You're a novelty... a lower‑tier kid with rare abilities. Makes for good headlines."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "You don't know that."
"I know people," Daren said. "And I know systems. The academy's built on both."
Kaelen met his gaze. "Even if you did, i won't be swayed easily. And it's high time someone changed that."
For a moment, neither spoke. The noise of the festival swelled around them... laughter, music, the crackle of fireworks overhead.
Then Daren's expression softened, just slightly. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"I have to."
Daren nodded once. "Then prove it."
He turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Kaelen standing beneath the lanterns, the light flickering across his face.
...
Later that night, as the festival wound down, a sudden tremor rippled through the street. The ground shuddered, lanterns swaying violently. People shouted, scattering as a section of the conduit line overhead sparked and burst into flame.
Kaelen's instincts kicked in before thought could catch up. He sprinted toward the source, the air thick with smoke and ozone. A small hover‑cart had overturned, its energy cell leaking volatile plasma.
"Everyone back!" he shouted.
The crowd hesitated, then obeyed. Kaelen dropped to one knee beside the cart, assessing the damage. The stabilizer core was cracked– seconds from detonation.
He reached for his tools, then stopped. There wasn't time.
Closing his eyes, he reached inward... to the pulse of his aether, the rhythm of time itself. The world slowed. The roar of the fire dulled to a low rumble. Sparks hung suspended in the air like frozen stars.
He moved carefully, every motion deliberate. He twisted the valve, redirected the flow, sealed the crack with a burst of focused energy. The plasma's glow dimmed, stabilizing.
Then time snapped back. The fire hissed out, leaving only smoke and silence.
The crowd stared. Someone began to clap. Then another. Soon the entire street was cheering.
Kaelen stood, breathing hard, his hands trembling slightly.
From the edge of the crowd, Daren watched– his expression unreadable.
...
The next morning, the city's local net was buzzing. "Lower‑Tier Youth Prevents Conduit Explosion — Identified as Veyra Academy Candidate."
Kaelen Cringed at the headline. His mother handed him a cup of tea. "You did good," she said.
"I didn't do it for attention."
"Doesn't matter. People will see what they want to see."
He sighed. "That's what worries me."
Before his mother could reply Kaelen frowned. "People will be watching me."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. And that's just the beginning."
...
That evening, as the city lights flickered to life, Kaelen stood at the top of a brigde, leaning on the railing overlooking the lower tiers. The air was cool, carrying the faint hum of the conduits below.
Daren appeared beside him, leaning against the railing. "Good job."
"You always show up and dissappear whenever you wish." Kaelen said not sparring him glances.
Daren chuckled lightly before replying "I'm a ghost of the wind."
Daren nodded. "You saved a lot of people last night."
Kaelen glanced at him. "You were there."
"Yeah. Saw the whole thing."
"Did you do it?"
"Why would i?"
They stood in silence for a moment, the city stretching out beneath them like a living machine.
"You know," Daren said finally, "I still think the academy's going to chew you up. But maybe you'll make it choke first."
Kaelen smiled faintly. "That's the plan."
Daren extended a hand. "Then don't forget where you came from."
Kaelen clasped it firmly. "I won't."
As Daren walked away, Kaelen looked out over the city... the endless tiers, the glow of the conduits, the pulse of life that never stopped.
The academy waited above, gleaming and distant. But down here, in the gentle sound and grit of the lower tiers, something had shifted.
He wasn't just a candidate anymore. He was a symbol; for better or worse.
And symbols, he knew, had power.
He took a deep breath, the air sharp with ozone and promise.
The future was already moving– and this time, he intended to move with it.