The office was still when Ryneth entered — a silence that wasn't absence, but intention. The air smelled faintly of parchment, old ink, and polished wood. Pale morning light seeped through the tall windows behind Arven's desk, illuminating the room in a cold, colorless glow.
Arven sat with his usual composure, posture straight, every movement deliberate. The only sound was the scratching of his pen as he signed something on a set of official forms — smooth, controlled strokes, each line carrying the precision of someone who never wasted a gesture.
Ryneth waited by the door, saying nothing. He had learned that Arven's silences weren't lapses; they were measurements.
When Arven finally looked up, his tone carried neither warmth nor reproach — only quiet acknowledgment.
"On time," he said. "I expected you would be."
Ryneth's eyes flicked briefly to the parchment before him. The Directorate's insignia — a twin-ringed flame — was stamped in black wax at the top corner. "I assume that's mine."
Arven gave a faint nod. "Your induction papers. You've been officially appointed as a junior investigator under the Crown's Directorate. You'll be assigned preliminary cases first — minor infractions, routine examinations. The kind that reveal how you think rather than what you already know."
Ryneth stepped forward slightly, his tone even. "And what if I prefer knowing to thinking?"
Arven's lips curved faintly — not in amusement, but in interest. "Then you'll learn how dangerous that preference can be here."
The room fell silent again for a moment. Dust drifted in the light. Somewhere in the building, a bell chimed faintly — distant, ceremonial.
After a pause, Ryneth asked quietly, "How long will you keep the truth about Leslie buried?"
Arven leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. "As long as it needs to be."
"You're saying no one in the Arcanum knows what really happened?"
"They don't," Arven replied smoothly. "And they won't. The Directorate doesn't share its failures with the public. Those afflicted with resonance-related diseases are brought under our custody. Their condition — and their end — is kept discreet."
Ryneth's jaw tightened. "You'll say she's been cleansed."
Arven nodded, unflinching. "It's the standard explanation. Either she's undergoing treatment, or she's been purified for the safety of others. Truth, in these matters, is rarely a useful tool."
Ryneth's expression was unreadable, but a faint twitch crossed his fingers. A pulse brushed through his foresight — subtle, momentary — like the echo of a thought he couldn't fully hear.
"Then," he said softly, "you've already written the ending."
"Not quite," Arven replied. "That part, Calder, is what you're here for — to ensure no one writes a version that doesn't suit us."
For a moment, their gazes locked — two minds dissecting each other in silence. Then Arven stood, sliding the document across the desk.
"Sign it," he said. "Your life at the Arcanum ends here. Your work with the Directorate begins now."
Ryneth looked down at the paper, the inked letters shimmering faintly in the light. Somewhere, in the quiet folds of his intuition, he felt the faint pull of something vast — the sense of stepping not into service, but into a web already spun.
He took the pen, turned it once between his fingers, and signed his name.
The quill leaves a faint trail of ink as Ryneth signs the final line. The parchment absorbs it like blood into cloth. Silence follows—thick, measured—broken only by the subtle rasp of Arven's chair as he leans back, examining the signature.
"Done," Arven murmurs, as though pronouncing a verdict. He gestures to Morwen without looking up. "See that he's prepared."
Morwen nods once, her expression unreadable, and motions for Ryneth to follow. He does, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished marble floor as they leave the chamber. The door closes behind them with a deep, resonant thud—like a seal being set.
The corridors beyond are quiet, bathed in pale daylight streaming through tall windows. Each shaft of light cuts the stone floor into geometric shapes, and the stillness feels deliberate, almost watchful. Ryneth's mind lingers on the weight of what he's just done. Each step feels heavier than the last, not out of regret but from the sense that some unseen current has finally decided its direction. Faintly, a whisper of foresight flickers—threads of possibilities brushing against the edges of perception, just enough to hint at the paths ahead without revealing them.
"You've made quite an impression," Morwen says after a long silence, her voice calm, almost conversational. "Few have ever joined the Directorate this quickly. Arven must have seen something in you."
Ryneth glances at her, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "He saw something to use."
Morwen doesn't deny it. "Use, value—often they mean the same thing here."
They stop before a modest oak door. Morwen opens it without ceremony, revealing a small but refined chamber lit by lanterns with mirrored interiors. On a low stand rests a folded set of garments, dark and pristine—deep ash-grey with faint silver thread woven along the cuffs and edges, subtle enough to catch the light without gleaming. Beside it, a narrow wooden box lies open, revealing a small metal insignia: the twin-ringed flame of the Directorate, perfectly polished.
"This," Morwen says, gesturing toward the attire, "is not a uniform. You'll find no sigil stitched into the cloth, no mark declaring your rank. We don't wear loyalty here; we carry it."
Ryneth runs his hand lightly over the fabric. It's smooth, dense, tailored for movement but dignified in its cut—a long coat with layered folds at the shoulder, dark trousers, and simple gloves. The badge, resting beside it, gleams faintly in the lanternlight.
"A gift?" he asks quietly.
Morwen's lips curve faintly. "A formality. Every investigator receives one. Consider it a… gesture of welcome. The insignia is the only thing that binds you to us. You may wear it as you wish—or not at all. But keep it close."
He studies the badge again, the two intertwined rings surrounding the flickering flame. "It's not what I expected."
"No one's expectations survive long here."
A silence stretches between them before Ryneth breaks it, his tone changing slightly—curious, but edged.
"How long will you keep the truth about Leslie buried?"
Morwen's posture stills. Her eyes narrow slightly, though her face remains calm. "You'll have to ask Arven about that."
"I did," Ryneth says, his voice low. "And I intend to again."
He pauses, letting the words settle with themselves as he notices how the light hits the insignia, casting fleeting reflections along the folds of the coat. A faint ripple of foresight brushes against him—a soft sense that the path from this room stretches farther than he might yet grasp.
For a moment, neither moves. Then Morwen exhales softly and turns toward the door. "Finish here. When you're ready, come to the Assembly Hall. The others will be waiting." She leaves, her footsteps fading into the corridor's silence.
Ryneth stands alone, the pale lanternlight painting narrow lines across his face. His reflection glints faintly from the polished metal of the insignia. For a moment, he imagines the twin rings tightening—closing, a subtle echo of control and obligation intertwined.
He picks up the badge and fastens it onto his coat. The motion is quiet, precise, almost ceremonial. His fingers linger briefly on the metal, feeling its cold weight, letting it settle like a promise on his chest.
He straightens his collar, adjusts the cuffs, and surveys the room once more, his mind running ahead. A subtle pulse of foresight brushes the edges of his consciousness—a sense of footsteps he has not yet heard, words he has not yet spoken.
Finally, he steps toward the door. His expression is calm, composed, but behind it simmers the quiet recognition of the path he has chosen—and the distance he may yet descend.
The light in the room flickers once before settling again.