The walls of the Resonance Chamber breathed with light—lines of sigils shifting faintly like veins beneath stone. Students stood in formation before the Anchor Core, a suspended shard of crystal that hummed with a low, constant note. Eleanor swallowed hard, the sound threading through her bones.
"In minutes," one student whispered behind her, voice tight with nerves, "We'll know who's ready to lace."
"Or who fails first," another muttered. The ward-veiled instructors above did not turn, but Eleanor caught the glint of their counter-sigils, ready in case the whisper proved prophetic.
In minutes, the First Stitching would no longer be a chant recited in practice halls, but a testament to her years of work. Eleanor swallowed again, telling herself she would not be the one to fail. Perhaps, at last, the First Stitching would shift her mother's opinion of her—from a static Laceliner barely capable of lifting a multisigil from her skin, to something more.
Three years ago, she had been foolish enough to believe her talent matched her mother's, foolish enough to embarrass herself before she had even been ready. The memory still burned, though less sharply than her mother's disapproval might have if she had enrolled sooner. Elizabeth Kostova was a veteran Laceliner, her decades of crossings carved into the University's history, her name carried like a ward of its own. Eleanor sometimes cherished her mother's brilliance; at other times, she wished she could simply laceline her way out of the weight of expectation.
Maybe, she thought, she could start right now.
The instructors stood above on a tiered gallery with their hands already resting on counter-sigils should anything fracture. Such failures were rare within the chamber—Lumenrift's wards had been honed over centuries—but everyone knew they were never impossible. It was the Interlace that Eleanor was anxious about. It had a way of reminding even the most cautious Laceliners that possibility could bend in every direction. The collapse they feared most was the shattered sigil—when a multisigil splintered and scattered the self across countless universes. Those who suffered it never returned. No one truly knew what became of those who lingered in the Interlace longer than intended. There are theories but none of them seemed comforting for Eleanor. Still, she was confident she could avoid such fates—unless, of course, a Nullith appeared. Mr. Croft, Eleanor's professor of Interlace Biology, never tired of saying it: the Interlace harbored undetermined ecosystems, its unpredictability making it a perilous territory to tread. Scholars might boast of stitching back and forth at their whim, but Eleanor knew better. The Interlace was not a place for ignorance, and certainly not for arrogance.
Eleanor's palms dampened as she watched the first student step into the inner circle, Multisigil igniting in thin rivulets of pale fire across their arm. The chamber quieted until only the hum of the Anchor remained. Her fingers pressed unconsciously to her collarbone. Her own multisigil had never behaved like the others. Where her classmates carried colors fixed and steady—glowing green, red, or blue—hers shimmered in restless iridescence. Dormant, it looked like a web of scars scattered across her skin. She had despised it for years, but tonight she could almost feel it stir, impatient, as though it longed for its chance. She remembered how much she used to despise it—how she could never answer simply when asked what color it was, how it refused to belong to the neat categories her peers carried like badges. But now, she no longer cared. It was hers, and it was singular. No multisigil was ever the same, anyway. It acts like a "frequency signature," allowing laceliners to tune themselves into the resonance of another universe. Each etched upon the body like a thumbprint.
Across the circle, her classmate adjusted their anchor ring with a calmness Eleanor could never imitate. The silver band caught the chamber's light, and for a moment it seemed to pull the air itself taut, like a string stretched to snapping. The instructor gave a nod. Her classmate inhaled once, steady, then pressed two fingers to the faint scar of their multisigil. At first, it looked like nothing—an etching half-faded into skin—but then it stirred. Lines of light seeped out of the flesh, silver threads unfurling into patterns that shifted, shimmered, and finally locked into place, glowing like an intricate constellation carved onto the body.
The mantra came next. Eleanor's chest tightened. She had heard hundreds of mantras over the years, but she never stopped being unnerved by them. Resonance mantra is the core element of lacelining. It aligns a laceliner's body and multisigil with the frequencies of the Interlace. Eleanor, sometimes, would call it her "tuning fork". Without it, the Interlace would tear her apart. Mantras vary per individual—some are made of syllables that sound nonsensical, others resemble half-words, fragmented poetry, or tones hummed low in the throat. Students at the University learn to craft theirs through a mix of trial, resonance mapping, and emotional imprinting. A mantra must "click" with both their multisigil and anchor ring. Eleanor remembered her own trial, the endless hours of humming syllables against the compass until the air quivered, the professor's nod marking the moment of resonance. She hadn't expected the sound that came from her—it was nothing like the elegant tones of her classmates. She hated it from the first breath.
Minutes passed, the resonance compass, lying flat before them, began to quiver. Its central needle trembled, then swiveled with a soundless urgency, aligning to a thread only her classmate could see. A faint hum spread through the room. Eleanor's breath caught as the air warped. Her classmate's body began to blur. The University called it thinning, a peeling-back, the way paint lifts from an old wall to reveal another layer beneath. It was like watching light refract through broken glass. The anchor ring pulsed once, a sharp burst of brilliance, as if giving permission. The multisigil answered, burning bright enough to sear the eye.
And then—silence.
"He's gone," someone muttered in awe.
Her classmate was gone.
The air where he stood still shimmered faintly, like heat rising from stone, but already it was closing, sealing over as though nothing had ever been disturbed.
The silence hadn't yet settled when the air shivered again. Eleanor's heart jolted—the place where her classmate had vanished was rippling. It began with the sound. Then the shimmer cracked open like fabric pulled taut until the threads strained and parted. Light bled through in a prismatic, broken appearance, as though every color in existence had been scattered and forced back together in the wrong order. Her classmate emerged from it in fragments: first the outline of an arm, then the arc of their shoulder, the shape of their face still flickering with translucence. For an instant they looked doubled, like two versions of them trying to exist at once, slightly out of step. The anchor ring blazed in one final pulse, snapping the image whole. Their multisigil dimmed rapidly, from brilliance to faint scar, until it was nothing more than a faint mark again. The shimmer folded in on itself, collapsing with the soft sound of cloth falling still.
The boy stumbled, sweat rolling down his temple. "I—" He caught his breath, then laughed shakily. "I did it."
"You crossed," confirmed the instructor above. His voice carried a rare note of approval.
There was triumph in his face that Eleanor envied—a recognition that he had gone somewhere, and more importantly, that he had come back.
The entire room exhaled and applauded. Eleanor realized she had been holding her breath the whole time, palms damp, fingers pressed so hard into her chest she could feel her multisigil twitching against her bones. It terrified her how quick it had all been—five seconds of absence, yet her classmate had crossed infinity and returned, as if brushing the skin of another universe and slipping back.
His triumph seemed to ignite the chamber; one by one, her classmates stepped forward. One by one, they vanished and returned—pale, shaking, but triumphant. Their laughter filled the chamber. Eleanor clapped with them, but her palms stung with sweat. Why did they make it look so effortless?
"Eleanor Kostova," her professor called.
The name landed like a stone dropped in still water, rippling through her chest, through her gut, until it settled somewhere heavy and immovable. For a heartbeat, Eleanor wished she could fold herself into the crowd, vanish beneath the weight of her own surname, but every eye had already turned to her. Elizabeth Kostova's daughter. The girl who should have already mastered this. The girl who had no excuse.
Her legs moved before her will caught up, a stiff, reluctant rhythm carrying her toward the circle. Her heart pounded in her throat, and beneath her uniform, her multisigil stirred faintly—shifting in restless iridescence, as though mocking her hesitation.
She stopped at the edge of the circle, pressed a hand to her chest. The faint pulse of her multisigil answered from beneath the fabric.
The professor gave a curt nod. "Begin."
Eleanor drew in a sharp breath, shut her eyes, and whispered her resonant mantra. The sound quivered in her throat, the syllables vibrating into her chest, into the very marrow of her bones. The air responded. Thin, invisible threads shimmered into view around her, faint as spider silk catching light, each humming faintly at a different pitch. She reached for one, felt it respond to her touch, and then—
The circle fell away.
She was suspended in a place that was both void and labyrinth, the Interlace opening around her in all its impossible expanse. Thousands of threads stretched in every direction, weaving an infinite fabric of elsewhere. The air was neither dark nor bright, but quivering, shifting, like oil over water. Eleanor's lungs seized; every breath tasted like static.
And then she saw it.
At first, she thought it was a rupture in a place where the threads hummed louder. But then the shape began to unfurl, crawling out from between the strands — a Nullith. Its form was unfinished, fluid, like something sculpted from smoke and bone. Its many eyes flickered open, all of them finding her at once.
Her body went cold. The threads around her vibrated under the weight of its presence. The Nullith slithered forward slowly as though savoring her fear.
She tried to move, to flee deeper into the Interlace, but the thread she held burned hot in her palm, and then—the world snapped.
Eleanor stumbled back into the circle. Her chest heaved, her skin damp with sweat, her multisigil glowing so brightly she thought it might sear straight through her uniform. But she was here, whole, safe. She pressed a trembling hand over her heart — and for the first time, a smile broke across her face. She had done it. She had crossed. She had seen. Even if it was terrifying, even if she had almost been consumed, she had touched the infinite.
But then she noticed the stares.
Her classmates weren't smiling. They weren't cheering as they had for the others. Their faces were pale, puzzled, a hush hanging in the room. Even the professor's gaze was unreadable in a way that made her stomach twist.
She stepped out of the circle on shaky legs, still clutching her chest. A friend brushed against her shoulder gently.
"That's fine," Maris whispered. "Not everyone gets it the first time."
Eleanor froze. "What are you talking about? I was there. I crossed. I saw—"
Her friend's brows drew together, worry etched into the corners of her face.
"What do you mean? You didn't disappear." She placed a hand on Eleanor's arm, grounding, pitying. "Eleanor… you didn't cross."