(Third-Person Limited — Lysera, age 7)
The week after Lysera touched the Conduction Pillar had sharpened into something brittle. No punishments were declared. No announcements were issued. No priest came pounding on House Asterion's gates. But the world had shifted—quietly, structurally, like a building settling into a new, less forgiving foundation.
Servants changed the way they walked past her. Teachers let their gazes pass through her, not to her. Other girls whispered less loudly but looked longer.
The academy did not forbid anyone from sitting with Lysera. It simply ensured she would be alone.
And Lysera, who understood patterns far better than she understood people, began to understand this one too.
Today, the pattern would deepen. Today, the Flame would do something no one could ignore.
I. Morning Recitations - Liturgies and Diagnosis
Mistress Veyra's voice guided the morning recitation, crisp as polished glass. "Speak the First Sigil of Devotion."
Twenty young voices echoed the chant. "Flame that governs our breath— Teach us order, teach us sight."
Lysera's voice was softer than the rest, but she spoke the words with flawless precision. She was good at patterns, and hymns were patterns wearing sacred clothing.
Yet when the class moved to ignite their small ritual lamps using the warm conduction beads embedded in the altar, Lysera stepped back. She already knew what would happen.
A girl beside her—Mira—leaned forward, bead cupped gently in her palms. A small, approving flame curled upward. Another student's flame rose even higher.
But when Lysera was prompted to try, the room seemed to pause. The bead quivered in her hand, the light inside flickering—
—then abruptly fading.
Veyra didn't chastise her. She didn't even look surprised.
She simply made a note on her slate. "Non-receptive. Continue."
For everyone else it was a lesson. For Lysera, it was a diagnosis.
II. The Shrine Directive Arrives
Halfway through posture drills, a junior instructor entered and bowed stiffly at Mistress Veyra's ear. A sealed parchment—bearing the red wax sigil of the Shrine—was passed into her hands.
Lysera recognized the seal. Priest Lethair had carried one like it.
Mistress Veyra read the brief message. Her fingers tightened slightly on the parchment's edge—enough to make the wax crack. When she addressed the class, her tone was unchanged, but something colder threaded beneath it.
"Lady Lysera Asterion. You will remain after lunch."
Several girls glanced over. The message was clear. Something was wrong with her. Something the Shrine cared about.
Lysera bowed her head. "Yes, Mistress."
III. The Resonance Stability Calibration
After lunch—which Lysera ate alone, at her lonely table by the wall—Mistress Veyra guided her to a small, circular chamber near the inner courtyard. It resembled an examination room.
A single flame-basin sat in the center: a shallow bowl of marble, etched with copper sigils. It was normally used for talent calibration—nothing dangerous, everything controlled.
But something about the air felt wrong. Tight. Held.
"Step forward," Veyra instructed. Lysera obeyed. "Extend your hand above the basin. Do not touch."
Lysera lifted her palm. The flame rose in a soft curl—a warm, living ribbon—the way it rose for every other child.
For a moment, Lysera wondered if it would behave today. If she could be normal here.
The flame reached upward—
—and froze.
Not extinguished. Not recoiling. Not rejecting. Frozen.
A flame held unnaturally still, a perfect sculpture of fire, as if the world's breath had been sucked out of the room.
The copper sigils beneath the basin flickered, then dulled completely. The air temperature dropped with eerie abruptness.
Lysera felt nothing from the flame. No heat. No movement. Just... absence.
"Step back," Veyra said quickly.
Lysera obeyed. The instant her hand withdrew, the flame collapsed inward and guttered out.
Silence fell so thick it felt physical.
Mistress Veyra stared at the dead flame for three long seconds before she bowed her head and whispered a prayer—not for the flame, but for clarity.
Then she wrote a line on her slate. A line Lysera could not see.
"Go wash your hands," Veyra said softly. "Return to class."
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
It was the calm of someone writing a report that would climb many ladders of authority.
Lysera nodded and fled the chamber.
IV. Lunchtime Isolation (The Choice)
Lunch came again—though Lysera had no appetite. Children gathered in clusters, talking about posture exams, liturgy mistakes, which girl had cried after mispronouncing a sigil. Normal things.
Lysera sat alone with a bowl of vegetable broth she barely touched.
A younger girl—dark-haired, bright-eyed—glanced over at her. Just as yesterday, she took one step in Lysera's direction.
But this time, she looked toward the instructors first. Mistress Veyra was watching.
The girl hesitated, bowed her head obediently, and rejoined her group.
Lysera lowered her spoon. Patterns, she realized, were not only in marble tiles or flame sigils. They were in people. In fear. In social distance carved by whispers.
If she mapped it correctly, she could predict where the hostility would fall. If she mapped it perfectly... perhaps she could avoid getting hurt.
V. The Sister She Could Not Reach
Classes ended. The courtyard filled with students changing shoes, laughing, adjusting ribbons or veils. Lysera walked slowly toward the gate, waiting for the ritual carriage.
Then she heard it: Elphira's voice. Gentle, steady, and unexpectedly strong for a nine-year-old.
She was practicing liturgical chorus with a small group. Elphira stood in the center, correcting their pitch with soft taps of her fingers. Girls around her smiled. One whispered, "You'll be chosen for the Summer Chant, I'm sure of it."
Lysera froze. Not in envy. Not in resentment.
But in a strange, aching recognition—
This was the world Elphira belonged to. A world Lysera could not enter, no matter how quiet she kept her steps.
Elphira noticed her. Her smile faltered—just a little. She made as if to walk over.
But two of her friends whispered: "Isn't that the storm-born girl?" "Mistress Veyra said we aren't supposed to distract her training..."
Elphira's steps slowed. She offered Lysera a tiny smile—warm, apologetic, brave in a way only soft-hearted children could be.
Lysera managed a small, nearly invisible wave.
Elphira's friends tugged her back, and the chorus resumed.
For the first time, Lysera realized there were distances even love could not cross. Not because people lacked courage— but because the system built walls taller than their young shoulders.
VI. The Shrine Watches (Report Confirmed)
Mistress Veyra sent a sealed report to the Shrine that evening. Inside it were only three lines:
Subject: Lysera Asterion Observation: Flame enters stasis within 0.5 meters of subject. Recommendation: continued surveillance. Potential X-class resonance.
The missive was delivered by courier falcon to Thalenhaven's lower shrine. Priest Lethair received it with a smile far too satisfied.
"Predictable," he murmured. "Dangerous," whispered his acolyte.
Lethair's expression sharpened. "Oh, not yet. But she will be."
VII. Returning Home - The Softness Waiting at the Gate
The ritual carriage rattled up the hill toward House Asterion. Through the window-screen, Lysera saw Kaen sprinting across the courtyard, his arms flailing in excitement.
"LYSE-RAAAAAA!"
He crashed into her the moment she stepped down, hugging her waist with surprising strength. "Did you do fire tricks today?" he demanded.
Lysera shook her head. "Oh." Kaen deflated briefly, then brightened again. "It's okay! Maybe tomorrow! Or the day after that! Or when you're taller!"
Lysera almost laughed. Almost.
Maelinne approached next, gentle hands already reaching for Lysera's hair. Her fingertips halted when she felt the knots.
"Too tight," she whispered, wincing at the red indentation forming across Lysera's scalp. She loosened the veil pins carefully. Lysera didn't complain, though the relief made her eyes sting.
Dorian appeared from the arched hallway, still wearing his Son's Academy uniform, collar slightly crooked—he had obviously run home quickly. He knelt to Lysera's height.
"Did anyone interfere with your instruction?" he asked. Lysera shook her head.
"That's not what I meant," Dorian said softly. His gaze searched her face. "Did they treat you as if you were... dangerous?"
Lysera hesitated. Which answer would hurt him less? "No," she whispered.
But Dorian's jaw tightened anyway. "Someone will answer for this," he muttered, standing abruptly.
Maelinne placed a calming hand on his arm. "Not now. Please."
Not now. Not yet. But the day was coming.
VIII. Nightfall - The Candle That Refused to Dance
Night draped the estate in quiet silver. Lysera sat alone at her small writing desk, a single candle flickering before her. She held her breath, watching the flame's shape.
She leaned forward. Exhaled gently.
The flame trembled— just slightly— as if startled.
Then it froze. Perfectly still. Like earlier in the academy.
Lysera's heartbeat quickened. She whispered to the candle: "Why do you stop? What are you afraid of?"
No answer. Just stillness. A soft, unnatural stillness that felt like the world holding its breath.
Lysera touched the wooden desk, grounding herself. "If the world demands silence from me," she whispered, "I will learn the geometry of its whispers."
The flame shivered faintly— not in recognition, but in acknowledgment of presence.
"If the Flame refuses to speak," Lysera continued, "I will learn the laws that govern its burn."
The flame steadied. Neither friend nor foe. Something else entirely. Something waiting.