Anakin's whisper of "Okay" was a small, fragile sound, but in the profound quiet of The Broken Compass, it felt monumental. The old man, Elias, offered a faint, knowing smile and gestured toward a small room behind the counter. "The back is where I keep my workshop. There's a cot there that's not being used. You can have that."
Anakin followed him, stepping from the cluttered main room into an even more chaotic space. The workshop was a collector's dream and a hoarder's nightmare. Shelves sagged under the weight of books bound in what looked like leather from extinct creatures. Tools of every shape and size hung from pegboards on the walls, and the air was thick with the smells of old paper, dust, and something else—a faint, metallic scent that reminded Anakin of the spark from a flint. In the center of the room, a large, heavy-duty workbench was a hive of activity, littered with half-finished creations and raw materials: unpolished geodes, uncut crystals, and a variety of strangely shaped stones.
Elias walked to the workbench, picking up a dull gray stone. His Catalyst, the low, persistent hum, was so different from the flashy energies of the Catalysts in the city. It felt ancient, like the slow, steady erosion of a riverbed. He placed the stone in Anakin's hand.
"Hold this," he said simply.
Anakin hesitated, his heart thumping. He remembered the soda can, the horrifying, uncontrollable surge of his power. He pulled his hands from his pockets, the gesture a small act of defiance. He took the stone, and braced himself, waiting for the familiar, heavy pull, the cold, profound density that would transform the object in his palm.
Nothing happened.
The stone remained just a stone, cool and smooth against his skin. Anakin looked at Elias, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
"Don't worry," Elias said, as if reading his mind. "I can feel your power. It's not a light you can simply turn on and off. It's a core, an innate part of you that's connected to the earth itself. It has its own will. But it's also connected to your emotions. It lashed out at Jax because you felt cornered, angry, and terrified. You've been living as a ghost, silent and invisible. Your Catalyst reflected that. But when you faced a threat you couldn't run from, it responded with a terrifying and absolute silence of its own."
Elias turned, his back to Anakin, and began to rummage through a series of wooden drawers. "Your first lesson is to understand that. Your power, your Chrono-Fossilization, is not a curse. It's a compass. You just need to figure out how to read it. Now, I have a few deliveries that need to be made tomorrow. The Catalyst Wardens have a search grid out for you, and a new face in a new part of the city is the last thing they'd expect." He held out a worn leather pouch, heavy with what felt like small, rough stones. "Take these. They'll show you where to go. And they'll keep you grounded."
Anakin looked at the pouch, then at the old man, his mind reeling. He was still a fugitive. But for the first time since he had turned Jax into stone, he wasn't just running. He was being guided. The Broken Compass had a name, and a purpose.
Elias gestured toward the back of the shop. "Get some sleep, son. We've got a long day ahead of us."
Anakin went to the cot, collapsing on it as his mind raced. He had been a nobody, a ghost, but now he was something else entirely. A student. A messenger. And a ticking time bomb.
He lay there, looking up at the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of the pouch in his pocket a tangible reminder of his new reality. He was a refugee from his own life, a wanderer with a shattered moral compass. But now, perhaps, he had a new guide to show him the way. And for the first time in a very long time, he felt a flicker of hope.
The hum of Elias's Catalyst was a gentle, constant presence, a soothing rhythm against the frantic beat of Anakin's own heart. He closed his eyes, and instead of the horrifying image of Jax's stone face, he saw a flickering series of images from a life that was not his own, a life of endless silence and unmoving stone. He saw himself, a statue in a courtyard, a child's hand tracing the cold lines of his face. He saw the world around him, a blur of seasons changing, of cities rising and falling. The memories were not his, but they were a part of him.
He woke with a gasp, the first light of dawn filtering through the dusty windows. He was still in the workshop, and Elias was already at his workbench, polishing another strange stone. The weight in his pocket felt heavier now, more significant. It wasn't just a pouch of stones; it was a promise. A promise that he could learn to control the power within him, a promise that he could stop running and finally find a purpose. He stood up, the old terror still a cold knot in his stomach, but now, a flicker of hope, a tiny ember in the darkness, had started to glow.