Ronan's words echoed in Liam's mind long after he had left the archive. Want the truth more. It was a simple, pragmatic piece of advice, yet it struck at the very heart of his conflict. His training with Silas the next morning felt different, charged with a new significance.
The lesson took place in the Gearhouse's simulation rooms. Today, there was no observation. Today was about application. Silas presented Liam with a new persona, complete with identification papers and a work order. He was to be Aris Thorne, an inspector from the Municipal Guild of Horology, sent to investigate a warehouse for temporal resonance compliance—a completely fabricated but plausibly bureaucratic regulation. His target was the warehouse foreman, a role played by a skeptical and uncooperative Cain.
Liam's first attempt was a disaster. He entered the room and stated his purpose, presenting the papers. Cain, in character, immediately began grilling him on the specifics of the regulation, the history of the Guild, and the technical details of the inspection. Liam, relying on logic and the bare facts of his cover story, quickly became flustered. He was telling the story, but he wasn't living it. Cain dismissed him in under five minutes.
"Failure," Silas said calmly from the observation deck. "You presented him with facts. Facts can be questioned. They can be disproven. You did not give him a narrative."
They tried again. This time, Silas advised him. "Do not think of it as a lie. You are a storyteller. Your character, Aris, is not a simple inspector. Give him a story. Why is he here on a cold morning? Is he ambitious, hoping this inspection will earn him a promotion? Is he weary, just wanting to finish his shift and go home? Use the truth. You know what it's like to be tired. You know what it's like to want to do a job well."
Liam took a deep breath and entered the room again. This time, he was not just an inspector. He was Aris Thorne, a tired man with a head cold, annoyed at his superiors for sending him to this dusty warehouse. He complained about the bureaucracy. He shared a moment of cynical camaraderie with Cain about the uselessness of their bosses. He used small, true details from his own life—the chill in the air, the ache in his back—to make his character feel real. He wasn't just presenting a work order; he was sharing a moment of mutual suffering. Cain, finding no logical inconsistencies and being presented with a relatable, weary worker, begrudgingly let him pass.
"Success," Silas announced. "You did not sell him a lie. You sold him a character he already believed in: the overworked, underappreciated city employee. You forged a narrative, and he willingly stepped into it."
That afternoon, Liam returned to the archive for his final meditation. He felt a profound shift within himself. He now understood what he had to do. It was not about suppressing his desire to save his sister; it was about reframing his own narrative.
He took the cold chronometer in his hands and let the echo pull him in. The workshop materialized around him. The air was thick with the scent of polish and the sound of Elara's happy chatter. The overwhelming wave of grief and desire washed over him, as powerful as ever. Warn her. Stop him. Change it.
But this time, he did not fight the wave. He did not try to stand against the emotional tide. Instead, he gave himself a new role in the scene. He was not the failed older brother, the grieving survivor. He was the Watcher of the Moment. He was the investigator. His purpose was not to change the past, but to understand it perfectly, to bear witness to every single detail so that he could bring justice in the future.
He forced his focus away from Elara's smile and onto the minutiae of the scene. He observed the way the light from the window cast a long shadow from the astronomical clock. He noted the exact pattern of dust motes dancing in the air. He listened to the specific rhythm of the attacker's footsteps as he entered, the faint, almost imperceptible scrape of a boot heel carrying a specific type of industrial grime. He saw the attacker's hand, the way the fingers were calloused, the specific, dark material of the glove. He was no longer experiencing the memory; he was cataloging it, gathering evidence from the scene of a crime that only he could access.
In this supreme act of mental discipline, this forging of a new internal narrative, he felt something click into place. The agonizing conflict between his desire and his duty resolved into a single, clear purpose. The storm in his soul quieted, and in its place was a profound stillness. He had achieved true Ahenk.
The chaotic power within him coalesced, transforming from a blunt instrument of passive reception into a fine, sharp tool of active perception. The world of the memory solidified. He could now move through the frozen scene, an incorporeal observer examining the moment from any angle, replaying a sound, leaning closer to see a detail on a cufflink. He had done it.
He opened his eyes. The archive was silent. Isolde was watching him, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. He had not just survived the storm. He had learned to navigate it. He had reached Seviye 2: Echo (Nickname: Punctual)