The week that followed was a study in surreal contrasts. By day, Kaden was the unremarkable student, struggling through lectures on elemental affinity and the proper pronunciation of Old Imperial conjugation. He moved through the corridors of Saint Michael's like a ghost, the memory of his mother's cottage and the swamp's sucking embrace a private film reel playing behind his eyes. The other students, with their petty rivalries and gossip about the upcoming Autumn Equinox Ball, seemed to exist in a different, simpler universe.
By night, in the sanctuary of Silas's study, he was someone else. Not the lost boy, but an apprentice to something profound and perilous.
Their sessions always began the same way. Silas would gesture to the worn armchair, offer a cup of fragrant herbal tea that tasted of honey and mountain air, and ask, simply, "How does the world feel today, Kaden?"
It was never about spells or theories. It was about sensation. The first lesson was on grounding.
"The power you've inherited—and yes, we will speak of it plainly here—is not of the elements," Silas explained, his voice a calm counterpoint to the frantic humming in Kaden's veins. He never named it the 'Legacy', but his understanding was implicit. "It is of the self, and of the other-self. It exists in the liminal space between souls. To command it, you must first know where you end."
He taught Kaden a meditation not of stillness, but of acute awareness. To feel the grain of the leather chair beneath his fingers, the warmth of the ceramic cup, the faint draft from the ancient window. To map the boundaries of his own body against the world. "This is your anchor," Silas would say, his own presence a steady, calming force in the room. "When the memories of others press in, or the pull of a foreign soul becomes strong, you must be able to return here. To this skin. These bones."
Kaden practiced. In the silence of his dormitory after lights-out, he would lie in bed and trace the edges of himself, fighting back the intrusive flashes of Marco's sun-baked hills or the swamp's milky eyes. It was exhausting, mental labor that left him more drained than any physical chore. But it worked, in small degrees. The humming became less of a chaotic noise and more of a discernible current he could, with immense effort, choose not to swim in.
The second lesson was on resonance.
Silas produced a small, locked chest of polished rosewood. From it, he took an assortment of objects: a smooth river stone, a yellowed letter sealed with unfamiliar wax, a lock of fine, silver-blonde hair (so different from Marco's coarse black one), a child's carved wooden soldier. He arranged them on the low table between their chairs.
"Every soul leaves an echo on what it touches intimately," Silas said, his gaze intent. "Strong emotions—love, grief, rage—are the loudest. Your… ability… is uniquely tuned to these frequencies. You must learn to listen without being deafened. To read the signature without being overwritten by it."
He guided Kaden to hold each object, not with his mind focused on its physicality, but with his awareness turned inward, towards that new, thrumming sense. The river stone was cool and inert, holding only a faint, peaceful resonance of water and time. The letter was a discordant chord of yearning and sorrow that made Kaden's breath catch. The silver hair carried a sharp, bright pang of loss so profound it brought involuntary tears to his eyes. He dropped it as if burned.
"Good," Silas murmured, his own expression unreadable. "You feel it. That is the first step. Control comes from acknowledging the echo, then consciously stepping back from it. It is a whisper from a distant room. You need not open the door."
Night after night, they worked. Silas was endlessly patient, his corrections gentle, his praise a potent fuel for Kaden's determination. When Kaden grew frustrated, Silas would tell a small, self-deprecating story from his own early studies. When Kaden succeeded in identifying the dominant emotion in a rusted button or a fragment of tapestry, Silas's smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. He was building something between them—a trust, a language, a shared secret.
And through it all, the fatherly affection was a constant, warm undercurrent. A hand on the shoulder when Kaden mastered a difficult exercise. The occasional shared supper of bread, cheese, and sharp apples from the college orchards. The way Silas's eyes would soften with something akin to pride. For a boy who had lost everything, it was a drug. Kaden found himself longing for the evening hours, for the safety of the book-lined room. His dependence on Silas grew roots that wound deep around his heart, smothering the seed of suspicion planted by the silver ring.
He did not mention the ring. Some instinct, perhaps the very one Silas was teaching him to hone, warned him to keep it secret. It felt like a violation of the sanctuary, a piece of the ugly outside world that had no place here. He hid it away, a guilty talisman.
One evening, after a particularly successful session where Kaden had managed to trace the joyful resonance in a well-loved wooden spoon without being swept away by its memory of family meals, Silas did not immediately dismiss him. Instead, he leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"You have made remarkable progress, Kaden. Far quicker than I anticipated." His gaze was assessing. "Theoretical control is one thing. Applied control, under pressure, is another. The mind needs a challenge to solidify its gains."
A flicker of anxiety stirred in Kaden's gut. "What kind of challenge?"
"A practical one," Silas said, rising and going to his desk. He returned with a small, folded square of parchment. It was a college task-slip, issued for academic credit. "There is a minor artifact in the care of the College Archivists. A 'Weeping Idol' from the Sunken Coast. It is said to radiate a mild, persistent aura of sorrow, a nuisance to the archivists and a distraction to students. Your task is to go to the archives tomorrow evening, during the quiet hour. Using the techniques we've practiced, you will attune yourself to the idol's resonance, map its emotional 'footprint', and report back to me. It is a benign test, but a real one."
He handed Kaden the slip. It was official, stamped with the seal of the Thaumaturgical Theory department. It felt like a rite of passage.
"The idol is kept in a side chamber, Sub-Vault Seven. It should be empty at that hour." Silas's tone was casual, but his eyes were intent. "Remember your anchor. Listen to the echo, but do not open the door. This is not about power, Kaden. It is about precision."
Kaden took the slip, his heart pounding with a mix of terror and exhilaration. This was real. This was him using the Legacy, under Silas's guidance, for a purpose. It felt like stepping onto a path. "I won't let you down, Silas."
The professor's smile was warm. "I know you won't."
---
The College Archives were a cavernous, multi-level labyrinth beneath the main library, a place of dust, silence, and the profound weight of accumulated knowledge. The air was cool and still, smelling of parchment, old leather, and stone. Following Silas's directions, Kaden descended a narrow spiral staircase, his footsteps echoing in the profound quiet.
He found the arched door labeled 'Sub-Vault VII'. It was unlocked, as Silas had said it would be. He pushed it open.
The room beyond was small and circular, lit by a single, ever-burning magelight sconce that cast long, dancing shadows. In the center of the room, on a plain stone plinth, sat the Weeping Idol.
It was a crude thing, about a foot tall, carved from dark, water-smoothed wood. Its featureless face was tilted downward, and a perpetual, slow trickle of moisture seeped from where its eyes would be, collecting in a shallow lead basin beneath the plinth. The sorrow was palpable even from the doorway, a soft, grey weight that pressed against Kaden's newly awakened senses.
He took a deep breath, recalling his anchor. The feel of the cool door handle. The grit of stone dust under his boots. He approached the plinth.
Closing his eyes, he reached out with that internal sense, just as he'd practiced. The idol's resonance washed over him—a deep, salt-tinged grief, the loneliness of the deep sea, the despair of something lost to the waves for centuries. It was stronger than anything in Silas's rosewood chest, a low, mournful song. He focused on separating himself from it, on being the listener in the distant room.
He was so focused on the idol's song that he almost missed the other one.
A newer resonance. Sharper. Brighter. Not grief, but a fierce, burning focus. And it was close.
His eyes snapped open. He wasn't alone.
A figure stood in the deepest shadow by the far wall, having entered silently behind him. It was a young man, perhaps a few years older than Kaden, with a lean, hungry face and eyes that reflected the magelight like a cat's. He wore the dark, practical clothes of a senior student, but no college insignia. In his hand, he held not a book, but a long, needle-thin stiletto.
He was looking not at Kaden, but at the Weeping Idol, with an expression of avid calculation. Then his gaze shifted to Kaden.
"Well," the stranger said, his voice a soft, unpleasant rasp. "The Professor's new pet. He's starting you on the trinkets early, isn't he?"
Kaden's blood ran cold. The Professor. He knew Silas. "Who are you?"
"A previous student of the curriculum," the young man sneered, taking a step forward. The stiletto moved casually in his hand. "Didn't quite make the grade, you could say. Now I collect the tuition fees." His eyes flicked to the idol. "That's a nice little piece. Not what I'm here for, but it'll do as a consolation prize. And you… you're a living specimen. The Master does love his bloodline studies."
Master. The word was a spike of ice in Kaden's spine. This was no college rival. This was a servant of the man from the alley, the man who had sent Marco.
The young man lunged, not at Kaden, but towards the idol, his movement startlingly fast.
Panic shattered Kaden's hard-won control. The humming in his veins became a shriek. The sorrow of the idol and the sharp malice of the stranger crashed into his senses. He couldn't think, couldn't find his anchor.
He did the only thing his screaming instincts could grasp. As the stranger's fingers brushed the damp wood of the idol, Kaden focused on him. Not on an object, but on the living, breathing source of that aggressive resonance. He didn't have a lock of hair. He had the man himself, right there.
He pushed with the Legacy, not to swap, but to overwhelm.
A guttural cry tore from the stranger's throat. He staggered back from the plinth as if struck, clutching his head. His eyes, wide with shock and sudden, disorienting pain, met Kaden's. "Wha—? How are you… projecting…?"
Kaden didn't wait. He turned and fled, barreling out of Sub-Vault VII and up the spiral stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't stop until he was back in the familiar, moonlit quadrangle, gasping for air.
He had lost the task-slip. He had failed Silas's test.
And in his desperate, uncontrolled outburst, he had done something new. Something aggressive. The Legacy wasn't just for listening or stealing.
It could be a weapon.
And someone else—another student, a failed one—knew about Silas's "curriculum." Kaden stood in the cold night, the memory of the stranger's rasping voice echoing in his ears. The sanctuary of the study felt a thousand miles away, and the shadows between here and there suddenly seemed very deep, and very full of watching eyes.