The rest of the morning passed in a haze of forced normalcy.
Arin worked alongside Mael, carefully moderating his responses to the memory-rods, deliberately slowing his stabilization process to appear average. Every time a thread of resonance brushed against his awareness—and they did, constantly, like fingers reaching for him—he pulled back, relying on the stabilizer to dampen his natural sensitivity. He made himself hesitate before touching each rod, counting to three in his head before beginning the work. He pretended to struggle with adjustments that came easily. He mimicked the concentration he'd once felt when these tasks had genuinely been difficult.
It was exhausting.
Like trying to walk naturally while hyperaware of every muscle movement—each step became a conscious effort, each breath measured, each gesture calculated. By midday, a headache had began to pulse behind his eyes, sharp and insistent. His hands trembled faintly when he thought no one was looking, though he caught Mael's concerned glances and knew he wasn't hiding his strain as well as he hoped.
"You okay?" he whispered during a brief moment when they were alone near the archive shelves, organizing retrieved rods by chronological order.
"Just tired," Arin replied, which was true.
"You sure? You seem… tense. Ever since you talked to Instructor Thale. Did he say something?"
Arin forced a smile. "He just wanted to discuss my assignments. Nothing serious. Just… expectations and goals for the rest of the term."
Mael didn't look convinced, his green eyes studying Arin's face with the gentle perception of someone who genuinely cared. But he didn't push, which Arin was grateful for. Instead, he offered quiet companionship—working beside Arin in comfortable silence, occasionally making small observations about the memory-threads they were organizing, providing a sense of normalcy in a day that felt increasingly precarious.
Ronan, meanwhile, watched from across the room.
His attention was less obvious than Thale's but no less intense. Every time Arin completed a task, Ronan's eyes tracked the movement with the precision of someone cataloging evidence. Every time Arin adjusted his posture or took a steadying breath or paused to press his fingers against his temples where the headache pulsed, Ronan's expression sharpened with calculation.
He was building a case. Gathering proof. Waiting for the right moment to present his findings to someone who would care.
During the midday break, Arin retreated to a quiet corner of the courtyard—away from the other apprentices who clustered around the central fountain, away from Ronan's scrutiny.. He sat on a stone bench beneath a cluster of pale blue vines, their bioluminescent leaves casting soft patterns across the ground like scattered coins.
He touched the stabilizer through his shirt, feeling its reassuring pulse. Steady. Constant. But for how long?
How long could he keep this up? How long before someone noticed that his "improvement" wasn't natural talent but something else entirely? How long before Ronan's suspicion turned into action, or Thale's concern transformed into a report filed with the High Circle? And what happened when the specialist Lira had mentioned arrived—someone trained specifically to identify anomalies, to recognize the signs of an Anchor awakening?
Days, she had said. Maybe a week if they were lucky.
And beneath all those questions lay a deeper fear, one that made his hands shake more than any amount of forced restraint: What happened when the next disturbance occurred? Because Lira was right—they were connected to him somehow. The fissures, the tremors, the Beckoned reaching through the Weave. His awakening as an Anchor had set something in motion, and pretending to be normal wouldn't stop it. Hiding wouldn't prevent it.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, grounding himself the way Bram had taught him.
He focused on the feeling of the stone beneath him—solid, real, unchanging. The warmth of sunlight on his face. The distant sound of water from the fountain. The taste of the bread and dried fruit he'd brought for lunch. Physical sensations. Tangible things. The world as it was, not as the Weave wanted to reshape it.
The exercise helped, but only slightly. The headache remained. The trembling in his hands persisted.
When the bell chimed signaling the end of break, Arin returned to the Thread Index chamber with a mask of calm firmly in place, though he could feel it cracking at the edges.
*******
The afternoon's assigned task involved working in the Resonance Calibration Chamber—a specialized room Arin had only entered twice before, both times as part of supervised group exercises.
The chamber itself was circular, with walls lined in polished resonant crystal that amplified and reflected energy patterns, making even minor fluctuations visible as ripples of colored light across the surfaces. The floor was marked with concentric circles of inlaid metal, each one designed to channel different types of resonance. In the center sat a raised platform where various testing apparatuses could be positioned.
Instructor Thale supervised, along with a second instructor Arin didn't know well—a stern woman named Instructor Vael with iron-gray hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch her face, and sharp features that rarely softened. She wore robes of deep indigo marked with silver thread in patterns that indicated mastery of theoretical resonance mechanics. She watched the apprentices with the intensity of someone accustomed to spotting mistakes before they happened, someone who expected failure and was rarely disappointed.
The exercise was straightforward, Thale explained: each apprentice must stabilize a deliberately destabilized resonance node, while they the instructors watched—a small crystalline sphere about the size of a closed fist that pulsed erratically with threads of chaotic energy. The goal was to guide the threads back into harmony without forcing them, allowing the pattern to settle naturally through gentle influence rather than aggressive correction.
"Forcing resonance creates brittle patterns," Thale said, his voice carrying clearly through the chamber. "They may appear stable initially but fracture under stress. True mastery comes from guiding energy to its natural equilibrium, working with its inherent tendencies rather than against them."
Arin watched others attempt the task first, trying to learn from their approaches. Jorah, a stocky apprentice with methodical instincts, managed to calm the node for a few seconds before it destabilized again—his influence too heavy-handed, creating new imbalances as he corrected old ones. Talis, smaller and quicker in her movements, struggled with the opposite problem—her touch too light, unable to provide enough direction for the chaotic threads to orient themselves.
Ronan completed the task competently, with enough skill to earn a nod of approval from Instructor Vael. His movements were precise, and textbook-perfect in their execution. The node settled into stable harmony and held for nearly a minute before he released his influence. Adequate performance from a third-year perspective. Excellent for a first-year.
He stepped back with visible satisfaction, violet eyes immediately seeking Arin in the small crowd of waiting apprentices.
Then it was Arin's turn.
He approached the node carefully, hyper-aware of Thale's attention, Ronan's watchful eyes, and Instructor Vael's sharp scrutiny. The stabilizer pulsed against his chest, dampening his natural resonance, but he could still feel the threads inside the node—chaotic, tangled, vibrating with frustrated energy seeking release or resolution.
He reached out slowly, letting his awareness brush against the pattern without forcing connection, the way Bram had taught him during their training sessions.
The threads responded immediately.
Too quickly.
They didn't just calm—they recognized him. Like the memory-rods yesterday, like the Living Script before that, like everything touched by the Weave lately, they oriented toward his presence with an eagerness that shouldn't exist, shouldn't be possible. The node's chaotic pulsing smoothed into perfect harmony within seconds—not the labored, gradual settling that should have taken minutes, but instant recognition and compliance. The threads wove themselves into an elegant spiral pattern that glowed with steady, beautiful light, so perfect it looked like an illustration from a textbook rather than something created by a first-year apprentice.
The chamber went quiet.
Completely, utterly quiet.
Instructor Vael's expression shifted from neutral observation to sharp interest, her eyes narrowing with the focus of someone who had just seen something theoretically impossible occur in front of her. Thale's expression grew grave, his earlier concern deepening into something that looked almost like alarm masked by professional composure.
And Ronan… Ronan's face hardened with something that looked uncomfortably close to vindication, like someone who had just had their worst suspicions confirmed.
"Fascinating," Instructor Vael said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. She approached the node, examining it closely, her fingers hovering just above its surface without quite touching. "I've never seen a response that immediate. Not even from advanced practitioners with decades of experience. The pattern achieved equilibrium before you'd even fully established resonance contact."
Arin's stomach dropped. His mouth went dry. "I… it just happened. I didn't—"
"Of course you didn't force it," Vael interrupted with clinical detachment, like a scholar observing an interesting specimen. "That's what makes it so interesting. The node responded to your mere presence. To proximity alone, without conscious direction." She glanced at Thale, something unspoken passing between them. "Have you documented this progression?"
"Not yet," Thale replied carefully, his gray eyes never leaving Arin's face. "But I intend to. This level of natural attunement warrants thorough observation and formal assessment."
The words felt like a sentence being passed, like the sound of doors locking that couldn't be opened from the inside.
Arin stepped back from the node, his pulse hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, behind his eyes. Around him, the other apprentices whispered—some impressed, others confused, a few (like Ronan) openly suspicious, their voices overlapping into an incomprehensible murmur that made the chamber feel smaller, more confining.
"That will be enough for today," Thale announced, his tone brooking no argument. "Dismissed. All of you. Arin—remain, please."
The chamber emptied slowly, apprentices filing out with backward glances, their curiosity palpable. Mael shot Arin a worried look before disappearing into the corridor, his soft features twisted with concern. Ronan lingered near the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, his violet eyes locked on Arin with unmistakable calculation, clearly memorizing every detail before finally leaving with visible reluctance.
The door hissed shut with pneumatic finality.
Only Arin, Thale, and Instructor Vael remained in the crystalline chamber.
The resonance node continued to glow with perfect, damning stability—evidence that wouldn't fade, couldn't be denied.
Thale and Vael exchanged another glance—a silent conversation passing between them that Arin couldn't interpret but knew instinctively he wouldn't like. Years of reading adults' faces from positions of powerlessness had taught him to recognize when decisions were being made about him rather than with him.
"Arin," Thale began, his voice gentle but firm, weighted with the kind of concern that preceded bad news delivered kindly, "we need to talk about what just happened."
*******
Arin stood in the center of the Resonance Calibration Chamber, feeling exposed under the crystalline walls that reflected his image a dozen times over—each reflection showing him standing alone, small, vulnerable, caught. The multiple Arins stared back at him from every angle, none of them offering escape routes or clever solutions.
Instructor Vael circled the resonance node slowly, her sharp features illuminated by its steady glow, her expression that of someone solving a puzzle. "In my twenty years teaching resonance calibration," she said, each word precisely articulated, "I have never witnessed an untrained apprentice achieve this level of harmonic response. Not even close. Most take months to develop the sensitivity required just to perceive the threads clearly, let alone influence them. What you just demonstrated… shouldn't be possible at your level of training."
Thale moved to stand beside Arin, his presence somehow both protective and constraining—like a guardian who might also be a jailer depending on what came next. "Arin, you need to be honest with us. Have you been practicing resonance work outside your assigned duties? Perhaps studying forbidden texts, or receiving instruction from someone not affiliated with the Archives?"
"No, Instructor," Arin replied, which was technically true—he hadn't been practicing resonance work. He'd been trying desperately to suppress it, to hide it, to pretend it wasn't happening. The irony would have been funny if his entire future didn't hang in the balance.
"Then how do you explain this?" Vael gestured to the node, her movement sharp and accusatory. "The pattern isn't just stable—it's perfect. Textbook ideal. The kind of harmony that typically requires months of experience to achieve, combined with natural talent and constant practice. Yet you accomplished it in seconds, with minimal effort, as though the resonance itself wanted to obey you."
Arin's mind raced like a trapped animal looking for exits in a sealed room. He couldn't tell them the truth—that would mean revealing himself as an Anchor, which would lead to exactly the kind of scrutiny and "observation" Thale had warned about, the kind that ended with locked rooms and loss of freedom. But he also couldn't keep denying what was increasingly obvious to anyone trained to observe these patterns.
"I don't know," he said finally, and there was enough genuine confusion in his voice—enough real fear—that it sounded convincing. Because it was true, in a way. He didn't know how to control this, didn't understand why the Weave responded to him so readily. "Things have just… been easier lately. I thought it was because I was finally understanding the concepts. Finally making connections that hadn't made sense before."
It was a weak explanation. Insufficient. But what else could he say?
Through Thale's expression, you could tell he was still unconvinced. "Arin, there's a difference between understanding and innate ability. Between learned skill and natural resonance. What you're demonstrating goes beyond education or practice. It suggests a fundamental attunement to the Weave that is… exceptionally rare. Perhaps one in ten thousand, maybe fewer."
"Rare and valuable," Vael added, her tone sharpening with something that sounded almost acquisitive, like someone appraising property. "The kind of attunement that the High Circle actively seeks out. Young man, you could have a remarkable future as a resonance specialist. Opportunities most apprentices only dream of. But that future requires proper training. Proper guidance. And proper documentation so we can understand the full extent of your abilities and how best to develop them."
The last phrase landed like a threat wrapped in opportunity, like a velvet glove concealing an iron fist.
"I'm not trying to hide anything," Arin said, which was an outright lie but delivered with enough earnestness that he hoped they would believe it. "I'm just as surprised as you are. Maybe more so."
Thale studied him for a long moment, those intelligent gray eyes searching Arin's face for cracks in the facade, for tells that would reveal deception. The silence stretched uncomfortably, broken only by the faint hum of the resonant crystals in the walls responding to the ambient energy in the room.
"Very well," Thale said finally, though his tone suggested skepticism barely held in check. "But moving forward, I'll be monitoring your progress more closely. And I'm recommending that you undergo a formal resonance assessment."
Arin's blood ran cold. Every muscle in his body wanted to tense, to run, to fight, but he forced himself to remain still. "An assessment?"
"Standard procedure for apprentices who demonstrate advanced aptitude," Vael explained, her tone suggesting this was routine, and unremarkable. "It involves a series of controlled tests to measure your resonance sensitivity, capacity, and stability. We map your natural affinities, identify potential weaknesses, and determine the optimal path for your continued education. Nothing invasive. Nothing harmful. Just… thorough. Very thorough."
Nothing invasive except that it would reveal exactly what he was, strip away every pretense, expose the Anchor awakening inside him for trained specialists to examine and catalog and control.
"When?" Arin asked, his voice barely steady.
"I'll submit the request this afternoon," Thale said, his tone gentle as though delivering bad news kindly would somehow make it less terrible. "The assessment typically takes place within a week, depending on the High Circle's schedule and the availability of qualified assessors. Given what we've observed, I suspect they'll prioritize your case."
A week.
Seven days to figure out how to either hide what he was or disappear entirely before they could lock him in a room and map every resonance in his body.
"Understood, Instructor," Arin managed to say, the words feeling like glass in his throat.
Thale's expression softened with genuine concern—or a convincing performance of it. "Arin, I know this seems overwhelming. But truly, this is an opportunity. The High Circle's interest isn't something to fear—it's a recognition of your potential, a chance to develop abilities that most people will never possess. You could do remarkable things, contribute to understanding we've sought for centuries."
Except the High Circle didn't just recognize potential. It controlled it. Studied it. Contained anything it couldn't understand or predict. Arin had read enough history—the sanitized version taught in Archives and the whispered truth that circulated in the Worker's Quarter—to know what happened to anomalies. To people who didn't fit the carefully maintained systems that kept Caelum stable.
They disappeared into observation. Into documentation. Into rooms they entered willingly and left only when permission was granted, if ever.
"Thank you, Instructor," Arin said, because there was nothing else he could say that wouldn't make things worse.
Vael nodded curtly, already turning away as though the matter was settled, decided, no longer requiring her attention. "You're dismissed. But Arin—be careful with your abilities. Uncontrolled resonance can be dangerous, both to yourself and others. If you experience any unusual sensations or incidents—visions, unintended manifestations, loss of control—report them immediately. Don't wait. The consequences of unreported incidents can be… severe."
"Yes, Instructor."
He left the chamber on legs that felt hollow, insubstantial, as though he might simply dissipate if he stopped concentrating on remaining solid. His mind spun with implications he could barely process, thoughts fragmenting before he could complete them.
One week. Maybe less if they decided his case was urgent enough to expedite. One week before everything he was trying to hide would be laid bare under clinical examination.
He needed to talk to Bram. To Lira. To someone who understood what he was facing and could help him navigate this impossible situation where every path forward seemed to lead toward exposure.
But first, he needed to survive the rest of the day without drawing any more attention, without giving them any more evidence to catalog.
He just had to be normal for a few more hours.
The thought would have been funny if it wasn't so desperately, pathetically impossible.