Chapter 3: The Founder's Shadow and the Mote-Drain
Lance and Opal walked quickly down the residential hall, the pressure of Dean Eris's glare still burning on their backs. Once they rounded the corner into a slightly less pristine, but far warmer, residential hall, Opal let out a long, shaky breath.
"That woman is terrifying. My ATM machine was calmer," Opal whispered, clutching her brightly flashing wristband. "I think my firecracker classification is accurate."
Lance felt his shoulders finally drop. "At least yours sparks. Mine is 'weak tea.' I think that means if I try to cast a spell, I'll just mildly inconvenience someone."
Opal stopped and turned to him, her expression shifting from shared amusement to genuine curiosity. The question she asked was quiet, but it landed with the same force as Dean Eris's worst insults.
"But... you're a Silverwoods," Opal said, tilting her head. "The gnome—Mr. Flinch—he wrote it in massive letters on your processing card. He was whispering about you being a 'Founder's Legacy.' Why are you here in remedial? Aren't your family supposed to be, like, the source code of all this Aetherium magic?"
Lance stiffened. He knew nothing of a Founding Lineage or a Master Stabilizer—only the vague reverence his mundane family had for an old military ancestor. It felt like walking into a massive exam where everyone else had the textbook and he was starting with a blank slate.
"I have no idea," Lance admitted, the insecurity flooding back. "I don't know anything about being a Gatekeeper. I just saw the dust, and now I'm here. I think I'm just... a really delayed anomaly. Maybe the magic skipped a few generations."
Opal chewed her lip, considering him. "But it's you they're comparing us to. If you're the weak one, what hope do the rest of us have?"
Before Lance could attempt a response that didn't sound completely pathetic, they nearly collided with a third figure emerging from a dormitory doorway.
He was a lanky boy, slightly older than Lance, perhaps seventeen, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a mop of unruly brown hair. He wasn't wearing a uniform—just a faded band t-shirt and jeans—but his wristband was even duller than Lance's, completely silent and barely visible against his skin.
The moment he saw Lance and Opal, he winced, then immediately forced a wide, practiced smile.
"Ah, fresh Key Bearers! Welcome to the Aetherium's C-Wing—the magical overflow parking lot. I'm Kian, and you two look exactly how I felt five days ago: bewildered and deeply offended by an old woman in copper robes."
Kian offered a friendly hand. His voice was smooth and sardonic, clearly a coping mechanism.
"I'm Lance, and this is Opal," Lance said, genuinely grateful for the interruption. "You're a Key Bearer too?"
"The original model, apparently," Kian sighed, pointing to his near-invisible wristband. "I'm a Mote-Drain. My Mote-signature is so low, I actively suck the ambient energy out of the air. It's highly inefficient. I arrived via a glitching self-checkout lane at a grocery store, which, I'm told, is only marginally more dignified than a collapsing ATM." He looked pointedly at Opal.
Opal grinned, instantly connecting with Kian's self-deprecating humor. "I like him. He understands the shame of the portal experience."
Kian lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "Here's your first piece of essential advice from a semi-veteran: Do not trust the official maps, and never go near the cafeteria's pudding. It moves." He lowered his voice further, nodding toward Lance. "And you. Silverwoods. I heard Dean Eris tearing into you about your ancestor's signature. Don't let it get to you. Every remedial class starts with that speech. We all have some Master Stabilizer or legendary Rift Weaver in our past who makes us look like glorified dust bunnies."
Lance felt a slight spark of camaraderie. It was comforting to know that the pressure was a shared, miserable experience.
"Right. Dust bunnies," Lance agreed, managing a smile.
"So, new arrivals," Kian said, gesturing toward the end of the hall, which curved away toward a large, ornate metal door. "The remedial dorms are that way. But you both need to report for your first mandatory evaluation. It's called the Mote Concentration Test. It's basically just a baseline humiliation exercise, and I happened to overhear Dean Eris tell the instructor that she expects nothing less than two zeroes from the new Key Bearers."
Opal's eyes widened. "A zero? We fail before we start?"
"Pretty much," Kian said cheerfully. "But if you try too hard and don't score a perfect zero, you get stuck with the worst instructor: Tutor Vex. He can taste disappointment. You want Tutor Maeve—she lets us nap."
The motive was clear: avoid Tutor Vex.
"So, we need a zero," Lance summarized, the practical side of his brain finally kicking in. He pointed to his and Opal's respective problems. "Opal has uncontrolled surges, I have a massive block. Kian, you're a Mote-Drain—you actively suck the energy out. How do we make sure our weaknesses guarantee a score of zero?"
Kian tapped his chin. "The test measures focus. The motes are attracted to conscious intent. We need physical interference. Something that genuinely scrambles our natural Mote collection."
Lance pulled off his backpack. "The Mundane shield. My history textbook. It's inert, dense, Mundane paper. If we hold something completely out of sync with the Aetherium, maybe it confuses the Matrix and the focus fails."
"And my red canvas bag! Synthetic nylon," Opal added, clutching it. "We create a 'Bubble of Mundanity' around ourselves during the test."
"Perfect," Kian agreed. "You two are up first—new arrivals always go first. I'll scout the testing chamber and give you a final signal. Go in, look confused, clutch your Mundane shield, and try to think about nothing but not thinking about magic. Total, intentional self-sabotage."
Lance and Opal hurried toward the testing chamber entrance, their backpacks clutched like shields. Kian watched them go, then slipped around the corner, pulling out his own dull wristband and examining the faint, almost invisible light it emitted.
Master Stabilizers, Kian thought with a cynical smirk. They put so much stock in the bloodline they forget the Silverwoods always found a back door.
He pulled his frayed t-shirt sleeve down over his wristband, covering it completely, and resumed his scouting mission, leaving Lance and Opal to face their inevitable failure.