Elara Thorne's first practical lesson as a Weaver was held deep within the Weavers' Cloister, in the Hall of Stillness. Unlike the grandeur of her history lecture, this space was intimate, restrained, and focused on subtle control and minute energy manipulation.
The Hall of Stillness was a windowless circular chamber, its pale light diffused by Moonstone embedded in the dome, casting a soft, milky glow. The floor, dark springy wood, absorbed footsteps, leaving the hall near-silent. Faint scents of sandalwood and calming herbs lingered, soothing the mind. Around the circle, dozens of Weaver apprentices—mostly first-tier Empaths, with a few second-tier Calmweavers like Elara—sat cross-legged on meditation cushions.
Their instructor, Ilise Whisper, a third-tier Mindweaver, glided between the students. Her slender frame moved like water ripples, her Moonwhite Weaver robes flowing with each step. Her voice, soft but rhythmically commanding, carried clearly to every student.
"Children," she began, eyes sweeping over anxious faces, "let go of worry, and release expectation. The path of the Weaver is not one of conquest, but of perception; not of roar, but of whisper. Today, we begin with the most fundamental, yet core lesson—thread perception."
She lifted her hand, tracing the air lightly. At her fingertips, almost invisible to the naked eye but unmistakable to the mind, a pale thread of light flickered like a breeze-rippled filament of spider silk.
"This is neither magic nor force," she explained. "It is the gentle manifestation of your own mind, a bridge between yourself, others, and the world. Feel the core of energy within your body. Guide its warmth along your arm to your fingertips. Do not force it—it must flow like breath."
Apprentices closed their eyes and focused. Soon, the more gifted among them had faint threads shimmering from their fingers. Low murmurs of surprise drifted through the room.
Elara shut her eyes as well, but her first priority was restraining the restless power within her—the chaotic surge from her potion and alien soul. She had no true Stellar Core to channel; she had to simulate it precisely, creating a convincing projection of pure psionic energy.
Recalling the simulation principles encoded in her Veilstep Elixir, and following Ilise's instructions to maintain gentle, natural flow, she summoned a faint strand of her witch-born energy—a force not from the stars, but from a covenant with a silent, untamed wilderness. It carried the scent of leaves and quietude, shaped into a subtle, controlled psionic thread.
Moments later, a slender, stable pale thread extended from her fingertips. To the room, it appeared indistinguishable from the others. Only Elara knew its true nature—this thread was a delicate dance on a razor's edge, a balance she had to maintain at all times.
Ilise moved among the students, observing. Pausing briefly in front of Elara, her gray-blue eyes flickered with surprise. This thread was far too steady for a novice, its psionic purity hinting at… wilderness-infused calm? The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, leaving Ilise to attribute it to exceptional talent.
"Excellent, Thorne. Maintain this calm," she said softly and moved on.
The lesson progressed to thread resonance. Paired exercises required one apprentice's thread to lightly brush another's, sensing basic emotions—calm, joy, tension.
Elara's partner was Cecilia Frostborne, a platinum-haired noble with piercing ice-blue eyes. Her thread shimmered with sharp precision, cold and meticulous.
At the moment their threads nearly touched, Cecilia's surged aggressively, attempting to pierce Elara's thread, probing deeper into her emotions and surface thoughts—a rude, invasive move.
"From Slagtown? Let's see how 'pure' a mind rises from the mud," Cecilia's cold sarcasm entered Elara's mind directly.
Elara froze for a heartbeat, then calmly countered. Direct confrontation would expose her abnormality. She used a subtle Glamour technique from her witchcraft, blending a trace of her Serenity Dust potion with her wilderness-born psionic essence. She let her thread appear weaker, inviting Cecilia in, then channeled a faint wave of pacifying energy into Cecilia's probing thread.
The effect was immediate. Where Cecilia expected fear, inferiority, or irritation, she instead felt vast serenity, like standing deep in an ancient forest. The sensation was pure, unrelenting, and powerful—calming her agitation and stirring a hidden longing for the untouched and natural, unsettling her aristocratic composure.
Her eyes widened in shock, ice-blue pupils dilating. Her thread recoiled as though scalded, her pride cracking, leaving a brief, disoriented vulnerability.
"Miss Frostborne," Elara opened her eyes, voice soft yet clear, "your thread seems… too impatient. Basic lessons emphasize gentle contact, do they not?"
Nearby, several students turned their gaze. Cecilia's face flushed with embarrassment. Unable to rationalize or admit her intrusion, she drew her thread back and quietly complied.
The confrontation dissolved without overt conflict. Elara had not revealed her secret, yet subtly warned her peer. She lowered her gaze, continuing her practice, though her mind swirled with strategy. The lesson taught her the mechanics of Weaver power and revealed the potential of her witchcraft in camouflage and defense. Cecilia was also a reminder: the Academy was not a neutral ground; pride and competition lurked everywhere.
During the final meditation, Elara extended her perception subtly—not to feel the collective calm, but as a probe, scanning the corners where apprentices' aides and maintenance staff lingered.
She detected a familiar, faint yet resilient psionic presence—it was Leon. As a servant, he tidied a complex resonance device in the distance, his energy carrying subtle dissonance, but also focus and a quiet vigilance toward her. It was instinctive, protective.
A faint warmth stirred in Elara's chest, immediately tempered by caution. She had to grow stronger and more careful—not just for herself, but for the boy whose fate had been entwined with hers. In this silent hall, amidst the dance of threads, currents beneath the surface never ceased. And she, a witch with an alien soul, had to learn to dance her own dance of survival and defiance, guarding the faint light around her.