The days began to blur—not into nothingness, but into pattern.
Lux woke before Geltry came for him now. Not because he had learned the time, but because his body had learned the rhythm. The warmth in his room no longer startled him awake; it lingered like a constant presence, something he had stopped questioning. That alone unsettled him when he thought about it too long.
Lessons filled most of the day, broken only by meals and short periods of rest that Lux rarely used for sleeping. His mind stayed active even when his body demanded otherwise, replaying words, diagrams, explanations. He found himself tracing numbers in the air when he walked, mouthing letters under his breath when no one was looking.
Instructor Halven remained unchanged.
He arrived with ink-stained fingers and left the same way, never rushed, never indulgent. Lux learned that Halven disliked shortcuts more than ignorance. If Lux guessed an answer correctly, Halven made him explain why until the reasoning collapsed or held. When Lux struggled, Halven waited—not patiently, but expectantly.
"You're not slow," Halven said one morning, after Lux failed a division problem three times in a row. "You're cautious. That's worse in some fields. Better in others."
He never clarified which.
Surprisingly his reading improved first. Lux learned to recognize sentence structure before meaning, to understand when a paragraph was arguing rather than describing. Writing lagged behind—his hand cramped, his letters uneven—but Halven insisted on repetition.
"You don't write to communicate yet," Halven said. "You write to discipline thought. Communication comes later."
Arithmetic followed the same philosophy. Numbers weren't abstractions; they were representations of allocation, of survival. Lux understood that instinctively. It made the lessons easier—and harder.
History remained the heaviest weight.
Instructor Maelin did not repeat herself. She arrived precisely on time, spoke at length, and expected attention without asking for it. Lux noticed that she never sat unless the lesson demanded discussion. When she spoke of Acrem Futri, it was never with reverence. When she spoke of the world before, it was never with nostalgia.
"The past is not a warning," she said during one lesson. "It is a diagnosis."
She encouraged questions, but only thoughtful ones. When Lux asked why certain districts were abandoned during the early expansion of the city, she answered him fully—and then explained the political consequences of asking such a question aloud.
"Understanding history does not make you virtuous," she told him. "It makes you dangerous. Decide what you wish to be."
Lux wasn't sure yet.
Meals came between lessons.
At first, Lux barely noticed what he ate. Food was food. It was warm, filling, consistent. That alone made it unreal. By the second week, he began noticing textures—bread that was softer than it needed to be, meat seasoned subtly enough that it didn't overwhelm. Some dishes he liked immediately. Others he ate out of habit, unsure whether disliking them was allowed.
Geltry always watched, never intrusively. She asked polite questions, remembered his preferences without commenting on them. When Lux left food untouched, it disappeared the next day without explanation.
He appreciated that more than he thought he should.
Physical training came last each day.
Instructor Caelis did not speak much during these sessions. He corrected posture with a tap of his knuckles, breathing with a quiet word. Lux learned quickly that Hlyr training—if it could even be called that yet—had little to do with power.
They ran. They held positions until Lux's legs shook. They practiced breathing patterns that made his chest ache. When Lux asked when he would learn to use Hlyr, Caelis answered without stopping the exercise.
"Think of your body as a machine and Hlyr as an engine far stronger than the frame it was built for. You may be able to get some use out of that machine initially, but eventually it will overheat and fall apart."
Lux stopped asking.
And 2 weeks passed, just like that like that.
Then Geltry came for him earlier than usual.
"The Patriarch has requested your presence," she said lightly, as if announcing a schedule change.
Lux felt the shift immediately.
Vincent's chamber felt unchanged, yet heavier. The same desk. The same windows. Vincent waited this time, standing near the glass with his hands folded behind his back.
"Sit," he said, gesturing without turning.
Lux did.
"How are your lessons?" Vincent asked.
Lux chose honesty. "Hard but manageable."
Vincent smiled faintly. "Good."
They spoke briefly—about routine, discipline, improvement. Vincent listened without interrupting, his attention precise. When Lux finished, Vincent turned fully to face him.
"I am glad to see you are enjoying the amenities we can provide." He made a pause then continued. "But I am afraid you won't be enjoying them for too much longer."
Lux raised an eyebrow in with confusion on his face.
Vincent then continued.
"In one year and 6 months , you will be enrolled to Verum Academy."
Lux stiffened.
Vincent continued calmly. "Obvious it depends on your success here. On your discipline. On your ability to produce results."
He explained the academy then—not as a school, but as a crucible. A place where latent Hlyr users were refined into Pathfinders. Protectors of the city. Symbols of stability.
"There are freelancers," Vincent said. "There are government Pathfinders. And then there are us."
He let that settle.
"The academy is not merely education," Vincent continued. "It is position. It is legitimacy. You will be judged there—not only for what you can do, but for who claims you."
Lux understood.
"And when you enter," Vincent said, "you will do so as Lux Achrion."
The name felt heavy.
"You will earn it," Vincent added. "Or you will lose it."
Lux met his gaze and for the first time since entering the estate, he didn't look away.