Chapter 7: The First Flicker and the Forbidden Sound
The remedial dormitories were sparse, designed more for function than comfort. After the dampening class, Opal was energized by her progress, but Lance felt drained. Stabilizing Opal's chaotic "firecracker" motes had required a continuous, low-level effort that left his mind aching, as if he'd been holding his breath for an hour.
Opal was busy attempting to 'Mote-proof' her red backpack by wrapping it in an absurd amount of common, aluminum foil she'd found near the cafeteria (ignoring Kian's warning about the moving pudding).
"We need a better shield," Opal muttered, carefully smoothing a wrinkle in the foil. "My bag absorbed too much residual static in the test. If Kian tries another stunt, we need something fully inert."
Lance was sitting on his bed, the heavy, Mundane history textbook resting in his lap. He looked at the spine, then at his own wristband, reflecting on Tutor Maeve's strange comment: "Do not discard the past simply because the present is loud."
Was the past loud, or was the book the only quiet thing he had?
"I don't think we need more shields," Lance said, his voice quiet. "I think we need to understand why these Mundane things work as shields."
He slowly reached out and placed his palm flat against the smooth, plasticized cover of the textbook. It was the book full of lies, the mandated history about the 'Ascended Farmers.' He concentrated, not on dampening or siphoning, but simply on the texture of the cover—the feel of the cheap, reflective plastic and the dense, compressed paper underneath.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, the motes—the shimmering golden dust that only he could truly see—did something new. They rushed into the cover of the book, not out of it. The textbook became an inverse siphon, pulling the energy inward.
The First Flicker
The moment the last mote vanished into the plastic, Lance's vision erupted.
It wasn't a visual memory of a person or a place. It was a sensory flash, overwhelming and violently brief, lasting less than a second.
Sound: A high, complex, ringing musical language. It wasn't spoken; it was sung, layered with mathematically perfect harmonies that made the air feel thick and resonant. It was the most beautiful and absolute sound he had ever heard, laced with an undertone of profound, sudden sorrow.
Smell: Ozone, metallic dust, and the sharp scent of burnt sugar.
Emotion: Intense, crystalline clarity followed by a crushing, deafening silence.
Lance gasped, jerking his hand back as if the book had burned him. The room snapped back into focus, and the sudden, mundane sounds of Opal crinkling aluminum foil felt deafeningly crude. The plastic cover was now pulsing faintly with a warm, internalized heat.
Opal jumped, startled by his sudden movement. "What was that? Did your wristband short out?"
Lance shook his head, breathing heavily. He looked at the textbook, now lying innocently on his sheets. It hadn't shorted out. It had acted like a recording device, played back using his Mote energy as the power source.
"I heard something," Lance said, rubbing his aching temple. "A sound. A language. It was incredibly complex, but it wasn't English, or Latin, or anything I know."
Opal cautiously leaned over to examine the book. "A secret language? Maybe that's the real history, trapped in the plastic cover?"
"It felt trapped," Lance agreed. "And it felt... ancient. Like a memory that wasn't mine."
He carefully touched the cover again, ready for the pain. This time, he was trying to listen, not just react. He focused his 1% control on maintaining the link.
He didn't get the full, explosive sound again, only a faint echo: "Aethel..."
He snatched his hand away. Aethelgard. That was the name of the ancient city referenced in the official, lying history books.
"The book is lying," Lance whispered, the realization clicking into place. "The textbook is meant to suppress knowledge, but because it's Mundane, it traps the true history inside the cover's structure. My motes, my stabilizing energy, let me briefly hear the residue."
Opal looked at him, completely forgetting the aluminum foil. "So, the most boring book in the Mundane World is actually a secret artifact that plays back the forgotten past?"
"And that sound—that language—it's what they tried to forget," Lance realized.
He thought back to Tutor Maeve's lesson. She had touched her own ledger, and a high-pitched trill had come from the parchment. It was similar to the musical complexity of the language he just heard.
Lance jumped off his bed, grabbing the textbook. "We need to find Kian. He knows how to work the outside system. If this book holds forgotten history, he's the only one who can help us exploit it."
Opal looked doubtful. "Help? The guy who sold us out to Dean Eris five hours ago?"
"He's a thief, Opal," Lance clarified, his jaw set. "Not a Void Weaver. And he's resourceful. If he wants to stick it to the Aetherium, exposing their lying history might be the best way to do it."
He tucked the textbook into his backpack, the heavy weight now feeling like an important burden, not just schoolwork. His journey was no longer about failing a test; it was about uncovering a truth he was uniquely equipped to hear.