You have the run of the archives tonight: just you and the rows upon rows of stone and metal shelving, each one burdened with the dead weight of other people's secrets. This late, the security sensors emit an ambient whine too high for most people to notice, but you feel it gnawing at your eardrums. It's what you imagine a tuning fork might sound like, if struck against the inside of your skull.
The Historical Society building is built to impress, but only if you're the sort who enjoys being stalked by shadows. Every corridor seems just wide enough to let darkness accumulate behind you, and the walls exude that chilly institutional musk that lingers even after decades of climate control. Down here in the sub-basement, the fluorescent ceiling fixtures are an afterthought���half of them dead, the rest flickering as if repulsed by the very idea of light.
Your evening is supposed to be simple: finish logging the new shipment from the Nexus ruins, key the barcodes into the ledger, and get out in time to catch the last shuttle. But nothing about the boxes the field crew dragged in looks simple. The packing tape is scored with old runes, most likely to warn off scavengers, but they have the opposite effect on you. Even through the gloves, you sense the charge: a subtle, pricking energy that lingers in your fingertips and makes the hair on your arms stand up in protest.
You let yourself savor that little jolt of anticipation. This is the part you like best, the single moment before a thing becomes understood, when it still clings to its own enigma.
The first box yields the usual parade of oxidized metalwork and pitted ceramics. You pass over them with cursory notes—"Possible Ferrum Era. Ornamental, nonfunctional." Your patience for the mundane has always been limited.
It's the last box that resists you, the way an oyster resists the knife. The crate is smaller than the others, and heavier than it should be. You wedge your pen beneath the lid and lever it up, revealing a bed of dense black foam. In the foam: a single object, roughly the size and shape of a newborn heart, faceted on one side, and disturbingly smooth on the other. The crystal is clouded, but not with any impurity you recognize. It feels more like it's hiding something, the way river ice obscures the current beneath.
You reach for it, despite every instinct yelling at you to file a report and let a certified tech handle the thing. Your fingers make contact and—
Warmth, not heat. It radiates into your hand, gentle at first. The sensation ramps up as you turn the crystal in your palm, as if it's acclimating itself to you. The smooth face is slightly concave, nestling against your skin as if it's always belonged there.
"Okay, that's new," you mutter, your voice so small that the room swallows it whole.
The warmth intensifies, morphing from a pleasant hum into something sharper. It's not burning, not exactly. It's more like the anticipation of pain, that split second before a needle punctures the skin. You hold your breath, half-expecting the artifact to pulse or glow or shatter.
Instead, it shudders. The crystal emits a reedy whine, lower than the security sensors, but it vibrates through your bones, setting your teeth on edge. You try to set it down, but your hand refuses the command.
Panic is a funny thing. It makes you both stupid and inventive. In a spasm of logic, you grab a microfiber cloth and rub at the concave surface, hoping to loosen the crystal's grip.
That's when the artifact activates.
A blinding pulse of white-blue radiance detonates inside your skull. You stagger, slamming your elbow into the metal shelving behind you. Pain sears through your palm, a line of pure agony slicing straight through the flesh. You see nothing but afterimage, a negative of the entire archive imprinted behind your eyelids.
You try to scream, but all that emerges is a strangled, animalistic whimper. The only thing you can hear is your own heartbeat, thundering so hard it vibrates your sternum.
You collapse to one knee, clutching your right hand to your chest. There's the raw smell of ozone and something darker—an iron tang that makes you think, incongruously, of the time you split your knuckle open on a childhood dare.
When your vision lurches back into focus, you see it: a ragged scar burned into your palm, glowing a sickly teal beneath the angry flush of newly-injured skin. The artifact has rolled a meter away, but it's still leaking filaments of light into the gloom, each one writhing like a living thing.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The words rattle around in your skull, hot and hollow. You scramble to your feet, cursing as your knees refuse to cooperate. Every nerve ending from elbow to fingertip is electrified, tingling in that post-adrenaline way that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.
You have maybe five seconds before someone comes to investigate.
The panic sharpens you. First priority: hide the evidence. You lunge for the artifact, wrapping it in the microfiber cloth and jamming it into the oversized pocket of your cargo vest. The crystal throbs against your side, but its light is mercifully muted.
Next, your hand. Blood is beading in the scar, not enough to drip but enough to stain. You grab the tape from the table and wrap your palm in quick, clumsy loops, praying that nobody asks too many questions. The pain is dizzying, but you grit your teeth and ride it out.
Footsteps echo from the far end of the corridor, soft but unhurried. You know that walk: Professor Evergreen, the senior archivist. He hates surprises almost as much as he hates being called away from his reading after hours.
You force your expression into neutrality, then reconsider and opt for mild exasperation. If there's one thing you've learned, it's that people rarely question the mundane. You plant yourself behind the terminal, tapping at the keys with your left hand and praying the sweat pooling under your shirt doesn't betray you.
The footsteps draw closer. You focus on your breathing. Inhale, exhale. Your pulse slows, but only just.
The air in the room feels different now. Heavy. As if the archives themselves are holding their breath, waiting to see what you'll do next.
You paste on your best tired-student grimace and glance up as the footsteps stop just outside the door.
"Everything okay in here?" Professor Evergreen's voice is a study in passive-aggressive calm, a tone that expects lies but always demands the truth.
You force a smile and gesture at the heap of unprocessed artifacts. "If by 'okay' you mean drowning in paperwork, then yeah. Perfectly fine."
He narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting to your right hand. "You're bleeding."
Shit.
You tighten your grip on the tape, hiding the worst of the wound. "Occupational hazard," you say, and hope your voice doesn't tremble.
For a moment, you think he'll press further. But he just nods, his attention already drifting back to the corridor beyond.
"Lock up when you're done," he says, and leaves without another word.
You release a shuddering breath, only now realizing you've been clenching your jaw so hard that your teeth ache.
The archives settle back into their usual silence. But you feel it—an alien presence burrowed under your skin, coiling in the bones of your hand.
You stare at the bandage, the faint blue light still bleeding through the gaps.
Whatever you've awakened, you know it won't stay quiet for long.
The brief illusion of safety that comes with Professor Evergreen's departure does not survive the hour. You spend the intervening time in a holding pattern of restless paranoia, restocking the shelves, re-entering the new arrivals in the digital log, anything to keep your attention off the itch spreading outward from your ruined palm. You can't help but check every few minutes, unwinding the tape to glimpse the damage: the scar seems to have grown roots, thin filaments branching under the skin like frost on glass.
You don't dare speak to anyone, and you certainly don't dare leave yet. The artifact, still swaddled in your vest pocket, pulses with a faint blue-green light that makes you flinch every time you move too quickly. You're half convinced it's alive. Or, at least, aware. When you finally manage to complete your shift checklist, the building is technically closed, but the outer doors never fully latch. As you reach for your backpack, the voice returns. Not the artifact's, but the professor's—smooth, level, a tone engineered for minimal confrontation and maximum guilt.
"Alex, a moment?"
You almost jump, but you catch yourself, spinning around with a forced smile that feels like you're peeling the skin off your own face. "Didn't hear you come back, Professor," you say, mentally cursing every colloquial tic you've ever picked up.
Arden Evergreen steps into the threshold with a predator's restraint, all composure and stillness. The overhead lamp finds every silver filament in his hair and sharpens his features into the architectural lines of someone who has spent years erasing all traces of softness. His eyes are their own phenomenon: a cold, crystalline green that seems capable of dissecting you without ever making physical contact.
He does not waste time.
"Something's changed in here." His gaze drifts past you, along the shelves, then returns to your bandaged hand. "Has anything… unexpected happened this evening?"
You weigh your answers in the span of a single heartbeat. A denial feels childish; an admission, fatal. "Just the usual. A few field artifacts came in hotter than expected. There was an… incident with one of the boxes. Small chemical fire." You flex your hand, hoping the movement looks casual.
Evergreen's mouth twitches at the corners, a micro expression of skepticism. "I see." He paces inward, deliberate, closing the distance between you with the inevitability of a sunrise. "May I?"
You have no idea what he means until he gestures at your hand, palm up. You hesitate, every muscle in your forearm rigid, but his stare is unblinking.
You peel the tape away. The blue-green glow is brighter now, and it seems to flicker in time with your pulse. For a moment, you wonder if the artifact has done more than burn the surface—if it's rewired you, made you into some kind of beacon.
Evergreen does not recoil. Instead, he leans in, nostrils flaring as if scenting for the specific flavor of arcane residue. "Fascinating," he murmurs, voice lowered to a decibel meant only for the two of you. "May I?" he repeats, and this time his hand is outstretched, palm hovering over yours with the care of a priest delivering last rites.
You nod, too numb to refuse.
He stops just short of contact. The air between your hands crackles, subtle but unmistakable, a faint staticky prickle that raises the hairs on your knuckles. He closes his eyes for a single breath, then opens them with new clarity. "This is not standard artifact reaction," he says, mostly to himself. "I've never seen a resonance signature quite like it."
You seize the opportunity. "I can return it to isolation, log everything for the tech team. I don't want to make this anyone's problem—"
"On the contrary." He cuts you off with a practiced smoothness. "It's very much my problem. Where is the item that caused this?"
Your body answers before your brain does, hand drifting to your pocket. The artifact's light flares, seeping through the fabric in a pattern that matches the webwork on your skin. You retrieve it with an awkward flourish, holding the bundle in both hands. The microfiber cloth is warm—almost uncomfortably so—and when you unwrap it, the crystal's glow seems to fill the archive with a lambent, aquatic shimmer.
Evergreen's breath catches, just for an instant, and you register the significance. He's not angry. He's excited.
"Would you set it down?" he asks, gesturing at the table beside you.
You comply, laying the crystal on the worn laminate. It sits there, inert but not, as if it's coiled up waiting for something. You're careful not to touch it again, but even at a distance of half a meter you feel the same anticipatory heat in your blood.
Evergreen circles the table, his eyes never leaving the artifact. "You're aware of what this could be?" he asks, but it's rhetorical, and you know better than to answer.
He slides a protective pad beneath the crystal and begins to inspect it, rotating it gently with the tip of a capped pen. You notice his hands are steady, but his pupils are blown wide, hungry for every detail. "You said you found this in the Nexus shipment?"
"Box three," you say, voice hushed. "I thought it was just another fragment. Until it… activated."
He doesn't look up, but the corners of his mouth flex again, this time into something resembling satisfaction. "It's not a fragment. It's a conduit. And it's chosen you as its anchor, at least temporarily."
You resist the urge to recoil. "Is that bad?"
He shrugs, as if dismissing the question. "Depends on your perspective. If you're lucky, it's a one-way channel and the effects will fade. If not…" He lets the thought hang, trailing off into a silence that prickles your scalp.
A ringing silence fills the archive. In the absence of conversation, you're left with the soft hum of electronics and the gentle, unrelenting pulse from the scar in your hand.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, finally meeting your gaze.
"Only when I look at it," you admit, because it's the truth and he'll smell a lie. "But it's getting brighter. Spreading, I think."
He regards you as if cataloguing a particularly rare insect. "You'll need to be monitored for progression. In the meantime, don't touch anything else. Especially not the other artifacts."
You nod, shame and relief warring inside your chest.
"Come to my office tomorrow. First hour. Bring the conduit." He straightens, demeanor shifting from scientist to supervisor in a blink. "And Alex?"
You meet his eyes, surprised to hear your name spoken with genuine weight.
"This is an opportunity. Don't squander it."
He collects the artifact, sealing it in a padded containment pouch, then disappears down the corridor with the same ghostly precision as before.
You're left alone with your ruined hand, the phantom heat of the crystal lingering in your veins. For the first time in hours, you feel something other than terror.
It might even be hope.
You never sleep after artifact exposure, not when the adrenaline is still metabolizing through your blood like old fuel. Still, you drag yourself through the motions—leave the archives, bypass the campus med station, take the late shuttle home with your hand zipped deep in your pocket and your thoughts orbiting the artifact. By the time you step into your prefab apartment, the blue-green glow under your skin has dulled to a phosphorescent shimmer, but the sensation lingers: a thrumming, low-frequency awareness that ebbs and surges with your every heartbeat.
Sleep, when it comes, is fragmentary. You dream of the archives as a labyrinth, each corridor spooled with electric light. The artifact pulses at its center, heart-like and furious, and you are always too slow to reach it. When you wake, it's to the taste of metal on your tongue and the ghost of the professor's words echoing in your ears.
"This is an opportunity. Don't squander it."
You spend the early morning pacing, nursing a mug of coffee with your left hand, your right kept gingerly unwrapped. There's no blood anymore, just a livid scar that's sunk several shades bluer overnight. When you poke at it, the surface prickles but doesn't hurt—almost like it wants to be touched.
The message from Evergreen arrives at 6:09. Concise, impersonal, but underscored by urgency:
Lab 7. Sub-basement. Don't be late.
You catch the first shuttle back, as instructed, and navigate the labyrinthine lower levels with the twitchy paranoia of someone who has spent too many nights alone with dangerous things. When you reach the appointed lab, you find the door already ajar. Beyond it: a world that feels airlocked, sterile, the light so white it scrubs every shadow from existence.
Evergreen is waiting, arms folded, his expression composed but not unkind. You offer a tight smile, pulse accelerating as you step inside.
He gestures to a set of ancient wooden tables clustered in the far corner, as if the old furniture can anchor the room against the cold modernity of glass and steel. "Let's talk," he says, and you obey, dropping your bag onto the scuffed floor and settling across from him.
The crystal is there, in a containment tray. It vibrates gently as you approach, its glow leaching up the sides of the glass.
Evergreen watches you for a moment before speaking. "You said you saw light, yesterday. When the artifact activated."
You nod, glancing at your hand. "It's more than just light. I can… feel it. Like it's still inside me."
He steeples his fingers, elbows resting on the wood. "You're not wrong. The Nexus artifacts are designed to channel ambient energy—what the old texts call 'Arcane Ether'—but most people never interact with it directly. You, however, seem to have a rare sensitivity." He lets the silence settle before continuing. "I'm guessing you've never experienced this before. No migraines, no synesthesia, no history of dissociative episodes?"
You shake your head, then stop. "Wait. Synesthesia?"
He smiles, an academic's delight at a teachable moment. "You're not hallucinating, Alex. You're perceiving the world as it truly is—at least, as it is for about two percent of the population."
You process that, the number oddly comforting. "So I'm not going crazy."
"Far from it." He leans in. "You're attuning."
The word lands in your brain with the weight of prophecy. You look at your hand again. The scar is pulsing, a tiny beat perfectly synced to your own.
"Why now?" you ask. "Why this artifact?"
Evergreen picks up the crystal, holding it between thumb and forefinger. The light seems to intensify, bathing his skin in an eerie green. "Most conduits are inert unless paired with a compatible user. My working theory is that the artifact recognized something latent in your physiology—a dormant receptor, if you will." He rotates the crystal, watching how the glow chases the movement. "Once activated, the effect is often irreversible."
You glance at the containment tray. "Is it dangerous?"
"Not inherently." He places the crystal down with reverence, as if it might shatter the world if mishandled. "But the transition can be… disruptive. Some people can't process the new input, and their brains rebel. Others acclimate, even thrive. I think you'll fall into the latter category." He gestures for you to extend your hand.
You hesitate, but the old confidence—your habitual curiosity—compels you. You splay your fingers across the table, scar exposed.
He doesn't touch you, but the proximity is enough. The moment he leans in, you see it: a haze, subtle at first, then growing more distinct as your focus sharpens. Evergreen's outline is rimmed with an aurora of emerald, a moving corona that flickers and dances in response to his words. When you blink, the aura persists, stamped on the inside of your eyelids.
"Are you seeing it now?" he asks, not unkindly.
You swallow. "Around you, yeah. It's… bright. Like a fire."
He studies you with a new intensity, eyes narrowing in scientific fascination. "You're not just attuned. You're fully resonant." He jots a note on his tablet, then sets it aside, shifting his attention back to you. "How do you feel?"
You search yourself for the answer, expecting pain or fear. Instead, there's an almost electric clarity, a sense of belonging to the room that makes you want to laugh and weep at the same time. The archive, the artifact, the professor—all lit up with meaning, interlaced with invisible cords you now understand.
"Like I finally woke up," you say, voice unsteady.
Evergreen nods, as if he expected nothing less. "You'll need training. There are risks overload, burnout, the usual." He reaches for a folder, sliding it across the table. "But there are also advantages. Heightened intuition. Advanced problem-solving. And, if you're open to it, the ability to connect with other resonant users."
You catch the implication. "There are others like me?"
He offers a tight smile. "Not many. But enough. You'll meet them, eventually."
You look at the crystal. Its light has shifted from blue to a vibrant teal, matching the veins under your skin. You don't know what that means, but you want to find out.
"Can I touch it?" you ask, the urge nearly overwhelming.
"Carefully," Evergreen says. "Let it guide you."
You reach out, fingertips grazing the artifact. This time, the warmth is soothing, not alarming. The light flares, flooding the table and casting the professor's face in sharp relief. You feel a surge of energy—not pain, but recognition, as if the crystal is greeting an old friend.
Your scar glows in perfect sync, the color cycling from blue to green to a dazzling white. You hear a faint harmonic—music, maybe, or the memory of it. When you release the crystal, the world snaps back into focus, more vivid than before.
Evergreen watches with undisguised awe. "Remarkable," he says, and for the first time you believe it.
You leave the archives that day with the artifact cradled in a containment sleeve, your hand still warm, the world around you refracted through a thousand impossible colors.
For the first time in your life, you're not afraid of what comes next.
You're desperate to see where it leads.