Arin left the Acolyte district with the last notes of evening still clinging to its metal beams. The final bell had already faded into the distance, swallowed by the layered hum of Caelum's conduits. The sky above District Three had dimmed into its usual cool violet-blue, a color that always seemed to hover between dusk and something deeper. For the first time all day, the air felt thinner—like a held breath finally released.
He crossed the courtyard slowly, not because he was tired, but because each step hummed through him in faint pulses of resonance. The pathways leading up and away from the courtyard shimmered faintly where conduits ran beneath them, and Arin felt every vibration brushing softly against the perimeter of his mind.
He took a breath and steadied himself.
The walk toward Bram's greenhouse required weaving through three elevated platforms, two suspended bridges, and a narrow spiraling ramp bordered by low stone arches. As he stepped onto the first bridge, he paused briefly. The metal beneath his boots felt almost warm from the day's stored light. When the evening winds swept across the structure, they created faint, fluttering tones—soft metallic sighs that seemed almost musical.
Arin adjusted the strap of his satchel and exhaled slowly.
By the time the greenhouse rose into view, perched between two moss-covered pillars of old stone, his chest felt tight.
The structure was alive with light.
Glowvines curled along every beam and window frame, breathing pale blue pulses into the dimming air. Condensation clung to the high curved panes. Near the foundation, a soft mist drifted across the soil, carrying the faint scent of wet leaves and bioluminescent pollen.
Arin paused at the threshold, hand on the smooth wooden handle of the entrance door.
Inside, he heard the faint, rhythmic clinking of metal.
He pushed the door open quietly.
Warm air washed over him—humid, fragrant, carrying the sound of tinkering more clearly now. The greenhouse interior glowed with layered bioluminescence: blue-violet from the vines, soft green from the moss beds, and warm gold where small lanterns hung between the planter rows.
Bram was standing at his workbench.
His posture was relaxed, one knee propped slightly against the wooden table as he bent over a long, slender conduit tool. The tool resembled a hollow glass rod laced with delicate filaments, all of which shimmered faintly when touched. Bram held a thin metal probe between two fingers, adjusting one of the internal threads with a precision Arin knew better than to interrupt abruptly.
But Bram sensed his presence without looking up.
"Arin," he said, voice warm but mildly surprised. "Hope your day was ok?"
Arin swallowed. "Yeah. I… I wanted to talk to you."
Bram straightened slowly, wiping his fingertips on a cloth. Up close, he looked tired—not worn down, but marked by the kind of quiet fatigue that came from long hours and too little sleep.
His gaze moved over Arin carefully, as though checking for signs of strain.
"You look like you've had a day," Bram said. No judgment—just observation. "Is everything well at the apprenticeship?"
"Yes and no. But the apprenticeship isn't what I wanted to talk about." Arin glanced toward the far corner of the greenhouse, where curls of mist drifted upward like pale breath. "It's something else."
Now Bram's expression shifted—attentive. Concern braided itself lightly into his posture, softening his shoulders while sharpening his focus.
"All right," Bram said, motioning toward the central path. "Come. Sit where you're comfortable."
Arin followed him deeper into the greenhouse.
The wide central aisle was lined with raised beds of luminous fernlike plants. Their fronds cast soft waves of color that danced across the stone tiles. In the distance, the hum of a resonance pump provided a steady undercurrent to the stillness.
Arin sat on a low bench near one of the larger glowvines. Bram remained standing for a moment, arms folded slightly in front of his chest.
"What troubles you?" Bram asked quietly.
Arin took a long breath.
"I had a dream," he said. "After the first lesson."
He didn't rush. The words came out slowly—heavy, deliberate.
"But it wasn't a dream," Arin added. "I know it wasn't."
Bram's brow lifted just slightly. His tone stayed neutral, but a thread of seriousness slipped under it. "Tell me."
Arin's throat tightened. Even thinking about the dream stirred a faint pressure at the edge of his mind.
"I saw threads," he said. "Everywhere. Endless. They stretched out so far I couldn't tell where they ended. And there were these… shapes. Like figures under water. Shadowed. Watching."
Bram didn't interrupt, but the intensity behind his gaze grew sharper.
"And then," Arin continued, "the Beckoned was there."
The name alone sent a chill crawling down his arms.
"It walked toward me. Or maybe it didn't walk. It just—appeared closer. Every time I blinked. And it reached for me. The threads around me changed when it moved. They vibrated. Pulled. And then I heard something. Words."
He closed his eyes, hearing the echo again in the hollow of his mind.
Anchor.
Danger.
Break.
Remember.
Bram went utterly still.
Arin explained the rest—the rush of visions, the feeling of the Weave peeling away the world like layers of paper, the Beckoned's hand stretching toward him, the thread snapping, and the terrible moment he realized he was slipping into resonance far too fully, far too deeply.
"I thought I wouldn't wake up," Arin whispered. "I felt my mind… slowly been whittled away."
When he finally fell silent, the greenhouse seemed to exhale with him.
Bram sat beside him slowly, the bench creaking under his weight.
"Arin," he said softly, "that was not a dream."
Arin nodded shakily. "I know."
"That was direct resonance contact." Bram's voice was still gentle, but the concern had settled fully into it now—dense, unmistakable. "A Beckoned engaged you intentionally. That should not be happening at your stage. Not without your Self-Ward stabilizing first."
Arin stared down at his hands.
"I thought something was wrong with me," he murmured.
"Something is wrong," Bram said, but his tone was compassionate. "Not with you though—around you. Your boundaries are too open. Too receptive. You touched the Weave too deeply during the first lesson. Deeper than I anticipated."
Arin swallowed hard.
"Can we still do the second lesson?"
Bram sighed and shook his head.
"No. Not yet. You are not ready for that kind of exposure." He shifted slightly, turning to face Arin more fully. "If the Weave pulls at you again before you learn how to anchor yourself, you could lose your identity in the resonance. We need to reinforce your Self-Ward first."
Arin let out a slow breath—fear mingling with relief.
"What do we do?"
Bram stood and motioned for him to follow. "Come."
They walked deeper into the greenhouse, the glowvines brightening around them. Small threads of mist rose from the ground, curling around their ankles in luminous swirls. Eventually, they reached the quiet clearing at the back of the structure.
The space was serene—almost sacred.
Glowvines formed a half-circle around it, their leaves swaying faintly like breathing. The stone tiles beneath their feet were etched with resonance glyphs that shimmered in pulses. Above them, thin filaments of glass hung like frozen rain.
"This place is designed for stabilization," Bram explained. "The resonance here is controlled. Predictable."
Arin nodded.
"Sit," Bram said.
Arin did.
Bram knelt beside him.
"We begin with grounding," Bram said. "Slowly this time. Deeply."
The next hours unfolded like slow, measured breath.
Bram guided Arin through grounding:
—breathing that anchored him to the shape of his body
—memories he could hold like stones
—and the recognition of the line where his thoughts ended and the world began.
At first, it was hard.
The dream clung to him like residue. Every time Arin tried to center himself, a flash of shimmering threads caught the edge of his awareness, pulling him back into uncertainty. When the whispers curled too close, he flinched. When the boundary blurred, he tightened his fists.
"Steady," Bram murmured. "Do not rush. Build from the core. Always from the core."
Arin tried. And failed. And tried again.
Sometimes he slipped into resonance bleed—a soft drift where external influences tried to blend into his thoughts. Each time, Bram sensed it instantly. He would correct Arin's posture, adjust his breathing pattern, or place a grounding hand against the back of Arin's neck.
The hours stretched, marked not by time but by the slow, steady strengthening of something inside him.
He remembered Lira's voice calling him back that night in the courtyard.
Kael's quiet warning.
The warmth of home.
Rain against the vents.
His name.
Bit by bit, the threads of himself knitted back together firmly enough to hold.
Eventually, something inside him clicked into place.
A structure.
A shape his mind settled into with surprising ease.
When he opened his eyes, the greenhouse looked… different. Calmer. Or maybe he was calmer. The glowvines pulsed slowly. The resonance in the air felt distant, like a pressure he could easily ignore.
Bram exhaled softly. Relief. Genuine relief.
"You did it," Bram said. "Your first true stance. Not perfect, but strong. Strong enough to hold."
Arin wiped sweat from the back of his neck. "I feel like my head finally stopped buzzing."
"It has," Bram said, smiling faintly. "That's the point."
Before Arin could ask what came next, footsteps echoed near the entrance.
Light, quick, precise.
They both turned.
Lira stepped inside, her Warden uniform marked by faint trails of mist that clung to the edges of her cloak. Her hair was loosely tied back, though a few strands fell free across her face. The moment her eyes found Arin, her expression softened—relief mixed with something like pride.
"You started without me," she said, approaching.
"You finished your shift early?" Arin asked.
Lira nodded. "We completed the routine checks for our perimeter faster than expected."
Her gaze swept over Arin, studying him with the stern gentleness she always used when worried.
"You look better," she said quietly.
Arin tried not to let his tiredness show. "Thanks to Bram."
Bram cleared his throat lightly. "Better, yes. But one more step before we end for the night."
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a thin strip of translucent resonant glass.
"This is a stabilizer," Bram said. "Keep it with you. It will reinforce your boundary until your stance becomes instinct."
Arin accepted it, feeling its faint vibration pulse against his palm.
"We'll begin the second lesson tomorrow," Bram continued. "Tonight, rest. Your mind requires it."
"Thanks Bram," said Arin feelingly.
"Not a problem," Bram waved him off.
Lira moved a little closer to Arin.
"Come on," she said gently. "Lets go."
Arin nodded and followed her toward the exit.
The greenhouse dimmed softly behind them as they stepped onto the walkway. Night had deepened into indigo, and lamps lining the path flickered with steady golden light. The conduits beneath the bridge pulsed in slow, measured waves.
Lira matched his stride.
"You scared me last night," she admitted softly.
"You don't need to worry," Arin said, though the warmth in his voice betrayed how much her concern meant to him.
Lira gave him a faint, knowing look. "Yes. I do."
Arin tightened his grip on the stabilizer.
The Weave lingered at the edges of his senses—curious, attentive, but no longer reaching. Not now. Not tonight.
And he felt more like himself.
Rooted.
Aware.
Steady.
He glanced at Lira. Her expression was calm, lit by the glow of passing lamps, and her steps matched his perfectly—silent, sure, certain.
They walked on.
District Three waited ahead, its lights flickering gently across the metal beams and stone arches. The air felt crisp, clean, untouched by the whispering shadows.
And together, they crossed the final bridge toward home.