The thud of the heavy bar dropping into place on the other side of his cell door was a sound of profound and utter finality. Lucian stood in the centre of the small, stone chamber, the silence pressing in on him, thick and suffocating. He was alone. More alone, perhaps, than he had ever been in his life, even during those first few dreadful days in Oakhaven after the festival. There, at least, the world had been familiar, its rejection a known pain. Here, he was adrift in a sea of cold stone and colder indifference, a nameless, faceless "Shaper" swallowed by the belly of a mountain.
He ran a hand over the rough-hewn stone of the wall. It was icy to the touch, seeming to leech the warmth from his fingertips. The air was frigid, carrying the faint, unsettling odours of damp earth, ancient dust, and that lingering, metallic tang he'd first noticed in the tunnel – the constant, low hum of the Citadel's contained power made manifest as scent. He wondered if he'd ever get used to it, or if it would forever be a reminder of this place, this beginning that felt so much like an ending.
The cell was an exercise in brutal minimalism. The narrow stone cot, with its pitifully thin mattress and single rough blanket, promised little comfort. The small, scarred wooden table and solitary stool looked as though they had been hewn by an axe and left unfinished. The bucket in the corner served its grim, unspoken purpose. High above, the tiny slit of a window offered no view of sky or mountain, only a sliver of impenetrable, featureless gloom, a constant twilight that made it impossible to gauge the passage of time.
He walked over to the cot and sat down heavily, the stone unforgiving beneath him. The wave of desolation he'd felt upon Captain Theron's departure returned, threatening to drown him. He thought of Oakhaven, of the warm, yeasty smell of his parents' bakery, the sound of his sister Alice's laughter, the feel of Finn's small hand in his. These memories, once so vibrant and immediate, now felt like scenes from a half-forgotten dream, impossibly distant, separated from him by more than just miles of rugged terrain. They were separated by a chasm of experience, by the dawning, terrifying understanding of what he was.
His satchel lay on the table, a small, pathetic heap of his former life. Captain Theron's words – "It will be inspected" – echoed in his mind. He imagined stern-faced Vigilants pawing through his meagre belongings: his spare tunic, Finn's crudely carved wooden horse, Alice's smooth river stone, Old Man Hemlock's precious honeycakes. Would they understand the significance of these simple things? Or would they see them merely as the inconsequential clutter of a "raw talent," an "anomaly," a "disruption"? The thought made his stomach churn.
The first period of solitude – he couldn't call it a day, for day and night had lost all meaning in this perpetual gloom – bled into the next. Time became a shapeless, viscous thing, measured only by the infrequent, impersonal arrival of food. A slot would grind open near the bottom of the door, a wooden tray would be shoved through, and the slot would grind shut again. No words, no faces, just the clatter of the tray on the stone floor. The food was as stark and uninviting as the cell itself: a hunk of coarse, dark bread, a wedge of hard, tasteless cheese, and a cup of lukewarm, slightly bitter water. It was sustenance, nothing more, a stark contrast to the rich, flavourful stews and fresh-baked bread of his mother's kitchen. He ate slowly, mechanically, trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness in his belly and the deeper, more profound emptiness in his soul.
He paced the confines of his cell, three steps one way, three steps back, like a caged animal. He examined every stone, every crack in the mortar, every splinter in the rough wooden furniture, searching for some distraction, some tiny detail to anchor his unravelling thoughts. He tried to recall the faces of his family, the layout of Oakhaven's streets, the exact shade of blue in his sister's eyes, fearing that these precious memories too would fade in this place of stone and shadow.
Sometimes, he would sit on the stool, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, and simply try to breathe. He thought of Aegis Lyra's words: "Control your fear… Your power is tied to your emotions, Lucian." He tried to find that inner stillness she had spoken of, to quiet the turmoil within him. But in the oppressive silence of the cell, his emotions seemed amplified, his fears taking on monstrous, shadowy forms. What if he couldn't control it? What if this power consumed him, turned him into something truly monstrous? What if he never saw Oakhaven again?
Once, in a moment of acute despair, he felt that familiar, dangerous pressure building within him, that tell-tale prickling at his fingertips. Panic surged. He was alone, in a stone box, with no way to vent the energy, no way to control its inevitable, chaotic eruption. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists, his breath coming in ragged gasps. No, not here, not now! He focused all his will, all his desperate, terrified energy, on pushing it down, on smothering the nascent spark before it could ignite. It was like trying to hold back a physical force, a wild, bucking stallion. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his muscles trembling with the strain. After what felt like an eternity, the pressure slowly, grudgingly, began to recede, leaving him weak, shaking, and drenched in a cold sweat. He had managed to contain it, just barely. But the effort had terrified him. This power was a wild beast leashed by the thinnest of threads.
He lost track of how many "meals" had been delivered, how many cycles of fitful, dream-haunted sleep he had endured, when the grinding sound of the bar being lifted on the other side of the door finally broke the monotony. Lucian scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering, a mixture of hope and dread coiling in his stomach.
The door creaked open, revealing not Captain Theron, but two different Vigilants, their faces as impassive and unreadable as all the others he had encountered. They were clad in the same dark, functional uniforms, their expressions neutral.
"Shaper Lucian," one of them said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. "You are to come with us. Bring nothing."
Lucian glanced at the table where his satchel still lay, untouched. So, they hadn't inspected it yet. Or perhaps they had, and deemed its contents irrelevant. He felt a pang of loss for his small treasures, but there was no point in arguing. He nodded, trying to project a composure he didn't feel.
He was led out of the cell, back into the labyrinthine corridors of the Citadel. The air outside the cell felt marginally less oppressive, though still cold and heavy with the scent of stone and that ubiquitous metallic tang. He tried again to memorize their route, noting the pattern of torchlight, the occasional sigil carved into the stone, but it was a futile effort. The Citadel seemed designed to disorient, to swallow individuals whole.
They walked for what felt like a long time, their footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent passageways. Finally, they arrived at another heavy door, this one unadorned. The Vigilant who had spoken knocked once, a sharp, precise rap.
A muffled voice from within bade them enter.
The room beyond was larger than Lucian's cell, though no less stark. It was dominated by a single, massive stone desk, behind which sat a thin, ascetic-looking man with hair the colour of old parchment and eyes like chips of obsidian. He wore the simple, unadorned robes of a scholar or a scribe, rather than a Vigil uniform, and was engrossed in a thick, leather-bound tome, his long, bony fingers tracing lines of intricate script. He didn't look up as they entered.
"The Oakhaven anomaly, Proctor Vayne," one of Lucian's escorts announced.
Proctor Vayne, if that was his name, made a small, dismissive gesture with one hand, his eyes still fixed on his book. "Leave him. You may go."
The two Vigilants departed as silently as they had come, the door closing softly behind them. Lucian was left standing awkwardly in the centre of the room, feeling exposed and uncertain under the unseen scrutiny of the scholar.
After a silence that stretched for an uncomfortable length of time, Proctor Vayne finally looked up, his obsidian eyes fixing on Lucian with an unnerving intensity. They were cold, intelligent, and utterly devoid of emotion. "Lucian of Oakhaven," he said, his voice dry and rustling, like old leaves. "Age seventeen standard years. Profession, baker's apprentice. No prior record of Aetheric manifestation. Correct?"
Lucian blinked, surprised by the accuracy of the information. "Yes… yes, Proctor."
"Your outburst at the Veilfall festival was… notable for its uncontrolled vibrancy," Vayne continued, his gaze unwavering. "A chaotic blend of multiple Resonances. Predominantly Ruby, for raw force, and Topaz, for disruptive light, with traces of Emerald and Azure. A… messy display. Highly inefficient. Highly dangerous." He spoke as if discussing a poorly executed experiment.
"I… I didn't know what I was doing," Lucian stammered, feeling a flush creep up his neck.
"Evidently," Vayne replied, a faint, dry irony touching his tone. "That is why you are here. To learn. Or, at least, to be taught. Whether you are capable of learning remains to be seen." He gestured to a plain wooden stool opposite his desk. "Sit, Shaper. Your processing begins now."
Lucian sat, perching on the edge of the uncomfortable stool. Proctor Vayne opened a new, even larger ledger on his desk and dipped a quill into an inkpot. The scratching of the quill on parchment was the only sound in the room for several minutes as he wrote.
This, Lucian realised with a sinking heart, was not going to be a conversation. This was an interrogation, an assessment, a cataloguing. He was no longer Lucian, the charismatic boy from Oakhaven. He was an anomaly, a data point, a subject to be processed by the cold, efficient machinery of the Adamant Vigil. The first stillness of his confinement was over. A new, more daunting kind of stillness – the stillness of absolute, unquestioning obedience – seemed to be settling in its place.