Evening light stretched across Caelum in bands of copper and grey by the time Arin reached the greenhouse. His legs ached from the walk, and the training crystal in his pocket had gone nearly silent—just one pulse in the last ten minutes. That should have felt like progress. But just seemed ominous.
The elevated pathways were less crowded this time of day. Workers heading home, merchants closing stalls, the city transitioning between shifts. Arin moved through it all with partial openness maintained almost unconsciously. He could sense the people around him without looking—their movement, their proximity, the threads of resonance that connected living things to the Weave's vast structure.
It had become background noise. Natural. Like breathing.
The greenhouse appeared through thickening mist, its curved glass panels glowing with soft blue light from the bioluminescent plants inside. Arin felt Bram's presence before he saw him—a steady point of awareness, calm and focused, deeper in the structure.
He pushed open the door.
Warm air washed over him, heavy with moisture and the mint-sharp scent of resonance flora. The glowvines brightened slightly in response to his presence. They always did that now. At first it had frightened him—now he barely noticed.
Bram stood at his workbench near the back, bent over a row of ceramic pots. His broad shoulders moved with careful precision as he transplanted sigil-roots from smaller containers to larger ones. The roots pulsed with amber light, their surfaces etched with patterns that shifted like living script.
"Arin," Bram said without looking up. "Close the door. Don't want the cold getting in."
Arin obeyed, then moved closer. The workbench was cluttered with tools—small spades, clippers, measuring instruments, jars of soil that glowed faintly with stored resonance.
"How was it at the Archives?" Bram asked, still focused on his work.
"Trying as much as I can to remain incognito. Not sure how long I can keep it up." Arin leaned against a nearby planter bed.
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is."
He led Arin toward the central clearing, that circular space where floor tiles were etched with resonance patterns older than modern theory. The glowvines surrounding it pulsed in slow rhythm—like heartbeat, like breathing.
"The assessment is in days," Bram said, gesturing for Arin to sit. "We need to know exactly what you can do and what you can't."
Arin lowered himself cross-legged onto the cold stone. "Alright."
"First, your Self-Ward." Bram remained standing, arms crossed. "Establish it and keep it at full strength."
Arin closed his eyes.
He found the structure inside himself—the shape of his identity, the boundaries where he ended and everything else began. Memories, convictions, the recognition of self. He pulled it close, reinforced the edges, made the walls solid.
The familiar sensation settled over him like armor that fit perfectly because it was made from his own substance.
"Hold it," Bram said.
Then pressure came.
Not physical. Not visible. But Arin felt it like hands pressing against every surface of his awareness. Bram was channeling resonance, pushing against the Self-Ward, testing for weak points or gaps where the Weave might bleed through.
The pressure increased.
Arin held steady. The distinction between himself and the pressing force remained clear.
Bram pushed harder.
Still solid.
Minutes passed. Sweat gathered at Arin's temples from concentration, but the structure didn't crack.
Finally, the pressure eased.
Arin opened his eyes, breathing slightly harder than before.
Bram was nodding slowly. "That's excellent work. Approaching mastery level." He sat down across from Arin. "Most Initiates take months to achieve that kind of stability. You've done it in less than a week."
"Because of what I am?"
"Partly. Your Anchor nature gives you intuitive understanding of boundaries that others learn through theory and repetition." Bram's expression grew thoughtful. "An Initiate builds their Self-Ward by studying principles and practicing techniques. You feel where the boundary should be naturally. Like having perfect pitch for music."
"That should make hiding easier."
"Should." Bram's tone carried weight. "But it also means the Weave is more receptive to your manipulation. Which makes you more noticeable when you use it."
Arin's stomach tightened. Always a catch.
"Next test," Bram said. "Partial openness. Show me your control."
Arin found the position—that delicate balance between closed and open. He let awareness expand just enough to sense the greenhouse. The structure around him. The plants breathing their slow vegetable existence. Bram's steady presence across from him.
"Good. Now just this clearing."
Arin pulled back, narrowing the aperture. His awareness contracted until it encompassed only the circular space they occupied. The stone beneath them. The glowvines at the periphery.
"Now focus on a single plant."
Arin shifted his attention, letting everything else fade into background noise while one glowvine—the largest one to his left—came into sharp relief. He could feel its structure. The way resonance moved through its leaves. The slow pulse of growth.
"Excellent. Back to the greenhouse."
Arin expanded again smoothly without overshooting. A rare level of control.
The training crystal in his pocket remained silent.
"You've mastered this," Bram said. "That level of fine control typically takes Initiates six months of dedicated practice. You achieved it in a week."
Bram leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Your Anchor senses are doing more than making things easier—they're letting you feel the correct positions. An Initiate learns through trial and error. You sense when the resonance is properly balanced."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Both." Bram's expression was serious. "It's an advantage in learning. But it means you're naturally exceptional at this, which makes you memorable. We're trying to make you as unremarkable as possible, remember?"
The weight of that settled over the clearing like fog.
"So what's next?" Arin asked.
Bram stood. "Now we teach you the most important skill. The one that might actually let you pass this assessment without exposing yourself."
He walked to his workbench and returned with several glass vials and crystalline rods similar to those Arin had worked with during memory-thread organization at the Archives.
"Today, you'd be learning Redirection," Bram said, arranging the instruments in a row. "And it's going to be harder than everything else combined."
*******
Bram set the first vial in front of Arin—clear glass filled with liquid that shifted between grey and pale green.
"During your assessment," Bram began, "they'll test your resonance responses using specialized equipment. These instruments are designed to measure sensitivity, capacity, and natural affinity." He tapped the vial. "A normal Initiate or Apprentice shows moderate responses. Bright enough to indicate competence. Not so bright it suggests exceptional ability."
"And an Anchor?"
"Would cause the equipment to react strongly, due to your affinity with the Weave. Dramatically. In ways that immediately flag you as unusual." Bram picked up the vial. "Unless you can redirect that resonance away from yourself."
Arin frowned. "Redirect it where?"
"Anywhere but through you." Bram held the vial up to the light. "The technique works in layers. Your Self-Ward prevents the Weave from flooding into you during the test—keeps your Anchor nature from becoming fully engaged. Your partial openness lets you sense the resonance patterns in the testing equipment precisely. And redirection takes the energy that would naturally flow through you and channels it elsewhere."
"Into what?"
"The room. The floor. The testing equipment itself, but in ways that appear normal." Bram set the vial down. "You're not blocking it—that would be obvious. You're making sure it gives the acceptable response while the excess flows harmlessly away."
Bram extended his other hand. For a moment, nothing happened. Then faint threads of silver light began weaving through the air between his palm and the vial. The glass hummed—soft at first, then building into a clear note.
The liquid inside began to glow.
But not brightly. Just a moderate, steady luminescence.
"I'm channeling significant power right now," Bram said, voice calm despite the concentration on his face. "Enough to make this vial blaze like a torch. But I'm redirecting most of it into the floor through pathways the resonance naturally wants to follow. What you see is what I want you to see—a normal response."
The threads vanished. The vial's glow faded.
"Your turn," Bram said.
Arin reached for the vial. "Just like that?"
"Just like that. Establish your Self-Ward. Open partially to sense the vial's structure. Then channel resonance toward it while redirecting most of the flow away."
Arin closed his eyes.
Self-Ward first. The structure formed easily now—automatic, like flexing a well-trained muscle. Then partial openness, letting awareness expand just enough to sense the vial. He could feel its shape. The liquid inside. The channels where resonance could flow.
He reached for the Weave carefully, pulling threads toward the vial.
The glass exploded.
Not violently. Just a soft crack and then liquid spilling across the stone in a spreading pool. Arin jerked back, eyes snapping open.
"Oh well," he said.
"Expected." Bram retrieved another vial from his workbench. "You opened a little too wide. Let too much through. Try again."
Arin took the second vial. "How do I know how much is too much though?"
"Practice. Feel the flow. Adjust in real-time." Bram sat back. "It's like pouring water. You learn the exact angle where it fills without overflowing."
Arin tried again.
This time he was more cautious, pulling just a thin thread of resonance toward the vial. The liquid began to glow—faintly, barely visible. Too weak.
"More," Bram said. "You trying to remain incognito not look suspiciously cautious."
Arin pulled harder.
The vial brightened—still not exploding, but now glowing with uncomfortable intensity. Too much again.
"You're either blocking everything or letting it all through," Bram observed. "Find the middle ground. Let some flow naturally through the instrument while redirecting the rest into the surrounding structure."
"How?"
"Feel where the resonance wants to go. It follows patterns—pathways built into the material world. The floor tiles beneath you are etched with channels. The stone walls have natural grain. Guide the excess energy into those paths instead of letting it all concentrate in the vial."
Arin closed his eyes again, maintaining his Self-Ward while sensing the vial and everything around it. The floor patterns Bram mentioned were visible in his awareness—lines of least resistance where resonance flowed more easily.
He tried once more.
Pulled threads toward the vial. Let some flow through—just enough to make the liquid glow moderately. Then he pushed the rest downward, following the patterns in the floor, channeling excess energy away from the instrument.
The vial glowed. Steady. Moderate. Normal.
It held for maybe five seconds before his control slipped and brightness flared. Still not exploding, but clearly too much.
He pulled back quickly, letting the glow fade.
"Better," Bram said. "You found the position for a few seconds. Now you need to hold it."
*******
Hours passed.
Arin practiced with vial after vial, rod after rod, every approximation of assessment equipment Bram had managed to acquire or create. Each attempt taught him something—where the balance point was, how much pressure it required, what signs indicated he was about to lose control.
The corrections came constantly. Patient but demanding. Each one helped Arin refine his technique, understand the nuances, develop the muscle memory that would let him do this without conscious thought.
The challenge was threefold. Maintain Self-Ward to protect his core identity. Hold partial openness to sense resonance flow precisely. And actively guide that flow in real-time.
It was like juggling while walking a tightrope while solving mathematics.
By the thirtieth attempt—maybe the fortieth, he'd lost count—something clicked.
Arin pulled resonance toward a crystalline rod, letting just enough through to make it glow with perfectly average brightness while the rest flowed into the floor patterns so naturally it looked unforced. The rod hummed with what anyone watching would assume was simply his natural resonance level.
He held it for thirty seconds. Forty. A full minute before exhaustion forced him to release.
Bram was nodding. "That's it. That's what we need."
Arin opened his eyes, breathing hard. His hands trembled. His head felt like someone had been pounding nails into his skull. But he'd done it.
"Can you do it again?" Bram asked.
"I think so."
"Go for it."
Arin did. Slower this time, but with more confidence. The redirection came easier, the pathways clearer. He was learning the pattern. Teaching his body and mind the correct position.
They practiced until the light changed—early evening gold fading to late evening blue as bioluminescent plants took over from pale sunlight. Arin's exhaustion deepened into something that felt almost physical, like carrying stones on his shoulders. But each successful redirection built his confidence.
He could do this. Maybe. If the assessment equipment wasn't too different. If they didn't use techniques Bram hadn't prepared him for.
Too many ifs.
The door opened.
Arin's concentration broke, the rod he'd been working with flaring bright before going dark. He turned, blinking sweat from his eyes.
Lira stood in the doorway, still in her Warden uniform though she'd removed her gauntlets and her hair had escaped its braids. She looked tired—the kind of tired that came from long shifts and longer worries—but unsurprised to find them still working.
She closed the door quietly and moved into the clearing, arms crossed, watching as Arin attempted one more redirection. Her sharp eyes tracked the rod's response, the way his hands moved, the concentration on his face.
When Bram finally called an end to the session, she approached.
"How's he doing?" she asked.
Bram wiped his hands on a cloth. "Better than expected. He's mastered Self-Ward and partial openness. Redirection is developing—he can hold it consistently now, which is remarkable given how little time we've had."
"But?" Lira's tone said she'd heard the unspoken reservation.
"But the assessment is designed specifically to identify exceptional abilities." Bram's expression was guarded. "We're working with best guesses based on historical records. The actual protocols are classified. If they use techniques I haven't prepared him for, he'll have to improvise."
"How dangerous would it be for him to improvise?"
"Very. A single slip could expose everything."
"And if they use equipment you haven't simulated?"
Bram met her eyes. "Then we pray his Anchor instincts are good enough to adapt in real-time. Which is a prayer I'm not comfortable relying on."
The weight of uncertainty hung heavy between them. Arin sat on the stone floor, too tired to stand, listening to them discuss his chances like odds on a dice roll.
"We've come this far," Lira said finally. "We'll adapt to whatever comes."
Her voice carried determination that didn't quite match the worry in her expression. But Arin appreciated the effort.
Bram began cleaning up his instruments, packing them away with careful precision. "That's all we can do for tonight. See you guys tomorrow."
Arin forced himself to stand on legs that felt hollow. Everything ached. His head throbbed with pressure that wouldn't fade. The stabilizer burned against his chest like a brand.
"Come on," Lira said, touching his shoulder gently. "Let's go home."
*******
The streets at night were quieter than usual. Fog had thickened until visibility dropped to maybe ten meters—buildings appearing and disappearing like ghosts as Arin and Lira walked. Lamps glowed with halos of moisture-diffused light. The city hummed its constant background noise, muffled now by weather and hour.
Arin practiced as they walked, maintaining partial openness despite exhaustion. The training crystal pulsed occasionally—reminders he was drifting too closed—but less frequently than days ago. His control was improving despite his fatigue.
Their apartment building appeared through fog. The courtyard's lumipool cast pale light across walls, making shadows dance. Inside, the rooms were dark and cool.
Lira lit lamps while Arin collapsed into a kitchen chair without even removing his coat properly. His body had finally decided it was done cooperating. Sitting was all he had energy for.
Lira moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency—filling the kettle, selecting tea leaves, the small domestic rituals. When she set a cup in front of him, the scent was of mint and honey. Calming.
She sat across from him with her own cup, and they drank in companionable silence for several minutes.
Then Lira spoke.
"Kael's going to do it tomorrow."
Arin looked up from his tea. "Do what?"
"Sabotage the assessment structure." She said it calmly, like she was talking about the weather. "He's been working with contacts in facilities management. Tomorrow during his patrol shift, he'll trigger what looks like natural calibration failure in several key instruments."
The words took a moment to process. "He'd really do that?"
"It'll buy us more time. Few days, maybe a week if the malfunction looks serious enough." Lira's expression was carefully neutral. "Just enough to require recalibration before they can conduct assessments."
Arin set his cup down. "That's insane. If he's caught—"
"He won't be caught. He's good at this."
"If he's caught," Arin repeated, "they'll court-martial him. Maybe worse if they suspect sabotage instead of accident."
"I know."
"Then why—" Arin stopped, throat tight. "Why would he risk that?"
Lira took a slow sip of tea before answering. "Because he's your friend. Because he thinks you're worth the risk. And because he made this decision himself, fully aware of the consequences."
The words settled over Arin like wet cloth. More people were being pulled into this. More lives were being disrupted because of what he was. The guilt was sharp and familiar.
"I'm really not comfortable with—"
"You can't stop him either." Lira's tone was gentle but firm. "Trying to stop him now would only insult his agency and accomplish nothing. He's already committed."
Arin pressed his palms against his face. His head throbbed. "How many people have to risk everything before this ends?"
"As many as choose to." Lira leaned forward. "Arin, look at me."
He did.
"You're not alone in this. From the beginning, people have chosen to help you. Me. Bram. Kael. Even Maira slowing her report." Her eyes were steady. "These aren't people acting out of obligation. They're helping because they want to help."
"At what cost?"
"That's not for you to decide." Her voice softened. "Do you think Kael hasn't calculated the risks? Do you think I don't know what I'm risking by not handing you in? We're adults making informed decisions."
"About my life."
"About all our lives." Lira's hand found his across the table. "The city is changing. The disturbances are getting worse. The Council is hunting for answers in all the wrong places. You being exposed won't stop any of that—it'll just put you in a cage while everything falls apart anyway."
Arin's throat felt tight. "You really believe that?"
"I do." She squeezed his hand. "And I believe Kael does too. Whatever he's risking tomorrow, he thinks it's worth it. Honor that choice instead of drowning in guilt about it."
They sat in silence. Arin turned her words over in his mind, trying to find the angle where they didn't feel like rationalization. Where accepting help didn't feel like watching people walk into danger for his sake.
He couldn't find that angle.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe accepting help meant accepting the discomfort of letting people choose their own risks. Respecting their choices even when it terrified him.
"I would do the same for him," Arin said quietly. "For any of you."
"I know. That's why we're doing it for you." Lira's expression softened into something almost like pride. "You're not the burden you think you are. Your presence in our lives has given us purpose. Yes, danger too. But also meaning. Something concrete worth fighting for."
"That's generous."
"That's true." She released his hand and picked up her tea again. "Besides, Kael would be bored out of his mind doing standard patrol work. This gives him something interesting to plan."
Arin almost smiled. "That's probably accurate."
They finished their tea slowly. The conversation drifted to safer topics—small observations about the day, complaints about Archives bureaucracy, speculation about whether Mael's mechanical fish would actually work or become another ambitious failure.
Eventually exhaustion won. Lira reminded him that tomorrow he still had to go to the Archives, maintain his routine, pretend everything was normal while Kael worked in the background.
"I know," Arin said, standing.
She stood as well, collecting their cups. "Go sleep. You need it."
Arin nodded. "Thank you. For everything."
"Thank me after the assessment." But she squeezed his shoulder once—brief and firm. "Goodnight, Arin."
"Goodnight."
He went to his room, changed into sleep clothes with mechanical movements, and lay down in darkness.
Sleep came slowly, in fragments. Half-dreams where he stood in assessment chambers while instruments blazed with betraying light. Waking moments where he touched the stabilizer to confirm it was still working. More dreams where Kael was dragged away in chains while Arin watched helplessly.
When he finally sank into deeper sleep, it was with the uncertain thought of how long he would have to put up with all this.