Chapter 2: The Remedial Corridor
The corridor was not a hallway; it was a sensory overload.
It was vast and silent, floored with polished obsidian that mirrored the ceiling, creating an illusion of endless height. Instead of traditional lights, thousands of thin, crystal tubes—the same ones Lance had seen in the Entry Atrium—were embedded in the walls, humming faintly and pulsing with gentle, golden light. These tubes, Lance realized, were filled with the motes. They were the veins of the Aetherium.
Dean Eris walked with a rapid, purposeful stride, her copper robes rustling. Lance had to jog to keep up, his mundane sneakers feeling ridiculously loud against the silence of the magic.
"The Aetherium," Dean Eris stated, her voice echoing slightly, "is the nexus of three dimensions, built upon stabilized residual magic left by the Founders. Do not attempt to use your phone; it will be rendered inert. And do not, under any circumstances, wander into the Research Quarters before you pass Basic Mote Control. The results are messy."
Lance swallowed. "Messy how? Like, a little explosion, or..."
Dean Eris stopped abruptly, turning on her heel. Her expression was completely devoid of humor. "Messy like having your atoms rearranged into something that resembles a rubber chicken, Silverwoods. Do you understand the gravity of your current situation? You are surrounded by forces your Muggle science cannot comprehend."
Muggle science. He was already picking up the vocabulary of the new world, and it was ridiculously pretentious.
"Understood. No rubber chickens," Lance muttered, trying to look appropriately terrified.
They reached a side corridor marked with a swirling, stylized geometric symbol. The gold motes here were thicker and brighter, and the air felt heavy, like standing under a low-hanging rain cloud.
"This is the Annex," Dean Eris said, pointing down the hall. "The remedial section. This is where the truly delayed students are processed. You will find your peers suitably motivated, if not naturally gifted."
The emphasis on naturally gifted stung, yet again.
As they approached a door marked 'Registrar of Low Aptitude,' Lance heard a loud, frantic clatter from within, followed by a theatrical groan.
Dean Eris rubbed her temples and sighed. "Always a spectacle."
She pushed open the door. The room was smaller than the corridor, dominated by a large, antique wooden counter and shelves crammed with scrolls, crystalline devices, and what looked alarmingly like preserved animal parts. Behind the counter sat a tiny, exhausted-looking gnome with thick spectacles perched precariously on his nose.
But the spectacle was not the gnome. It was a girl—about Lance's age, with dark, curly hair tied back with a worn rubber band—who was currently sprawled on the floor beside an overturned stack of scrolls.
She looked utterly defeated, surrounded by the mess she had made. Her backpack, a bright red, overstuffed canvas bag, had clearly caused the accident.
"Oh, for the love of the Founders!" Dean Eris roared, instantly dissolving her calm veneer.
The girl flinched, scrambling to gather the scrolls. Her cheeks were flushed bright red, exactly like Lance's had been five minutes prior.
"I am so sorry, Dean Eris!" the girl gasped, her voice thick with panic. "The motes—they got really bright around the scrolls, and I think I tripped on a residual charge, I swear, it's not just me being clumsy!"
Dean Eris crossed her arms. "Name, student."
"O-Opal Verma, Dean. I just arrived from Mumbai via a collapsing ATM machine. I think the humidity caused a feedback loop."
Lance let out a tiny, involuntary puff of air that might have been a laugh. A collapsing ATM machine. Okay, maybe his subway car portal wasn't so bad.
Dean Eris shot Lance a warning look, then addressed Opal. "Verma. Another one. Mr. Flinch, please process the two new Key Bearers."
The gnome behind the counter, Mr. Flinch, peered over his spectacles at the two teens. "Ah, the new batch of low-voltage bloodlines. Excellent. Stand close, children. I need your residual Mote-signature for the Matrix calibration."
Opal immediately abandoned the scrolls, rushing toward the counter, looking terrified but eager. Lance, feeling slightly better now that he had a partner in embarrassment, followed.
Mr. Flinch pulled out two thin, silver bracelets—one for Lance, one for Opal—that were dull and unadorned.
"These are your Stabilizer Matrixes," Flinch explained, his voice dry as parchment. "Standard issue for Key Bearers. They absorb and filter unstable Motes. Eventually, they will teach you control. For now, they just stop you from accidentally turning yourself or your peers inside out."
He took Lance's hand, placing the cool, metallic bracelet on his wrist. The moment the silver clasp clicked shut, the bracelet began to pulse with a faint, steady gold light.
"See?" Flinch pointed a gnarled finger at the bracelet. "Your Mote-signature is contained. Very faint, very stable. Like a weak tea, Silverwoods."
Opal shifted next to Lance, her insecurity momentarily forgotten in her curiosity. "And mine?"
When Flinch placed the second bracelet on Opal's wrist, the silver metal didn't just glow—it flashed violently, spitting a tiny arc of harmless static electricity onto the counter.
Mr. Flinch blinked, adjusted his spectacles, and wrote a note on his ledger. "Ah, Verma. Low aptitude, but highly volatile. Like a cheap firecracker. Do try not to explode before orientation."
Opal looked down at her buzzing wristband, then up at Lance, her brown eyes wide with shared panic. A hesitant, conspiratorial grin spread across her face.
"Well," Opal whispered to Lance, ignoring Dean Eris entirely, "I guess 'weak tea' is better than 'cheap firecracker,' right? At least you won't take out the whole remedial corridor when you try to open a door."
Lance managed a genuine, if slightly nervous, smile. He wasn't alone. He was in an impossible world, facing impossible expectations, but he had found his first friend—another misfit Key Bearer just trying to keep from exploding.
Dean Eris clapped her hands sharply, bringing their attention back to the danger at hand.
"Enough socializing. Silverwoods, Verma. Report to the remedial dormitories. Your remedial classes in Mote Siphoning begin at dawn. And if either of you destabilizes another Portal-Lock, I will personally assign you cleaning duty in the Research Quarters."
She didn't need to specify what that cleaning duty might entail. Lance imagined mopping up rubber chicken atoms.
He wouldn't fail again. Not if he had someone to fail alongside.
Lance and Opal exchanged a look, a silent agreement to stick together, and headed toward the exit marked 'Student Housing.'