The night after the surge, the Archive didn't sleep.
Energy still bled through its walls in faint silver lines, whispering beneath the metal floors. Most recruits had returned to their bunks uneasy but exhausted.
Connor lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, hearing that same hum that had haunted him since training.
It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat—slow, steady, then louder until it filled the room.
He sat up, breath quick, the light from Deog's wrist device painting ghostly shapes across the wall.
"Deog?" he whispered.
The younger boy stirred but didn't wake. Only the vibration answered.
Connor rose quietly and placed his palm against the conduit panel. Warm. The current inside flowed upward like liquid light, threading through the dorm and toward the tower's heart.
Then came the voice.
You hear it too.
He froze. "Who's there?"
Not who. What waits.
It sounded close—not in the air, but inside the hum itself.
"This isn't real," he whispered.
Real is what listens back.
The conduit flared white. The whole dorm shuddered.
Deog jolted upright, eyes wide. "Connor—what did you just do!?"
"I don't know!"
The light burst outward, then vanished, leaving a silence so sharp it rang in their ears.
◇◇◇
Morning brought rumors.
Conduits had failed on three floors. Archive engineers were running diagnostics.
No one admitted fear, but everyone moved faster, spoke softer.
"You're pale," Deog muttered as they crossed the training atrium.
"Didn't sleep."
"You mean you heard something again."
Connor didn't answer. The intercom tone cut through the hall before he could.
"Recruit Connor Vale. Report to the Upper Hall. Immediately."
Dozens of heads turned.
Marek whistled. "First week and already summoned upstairs? Must be nice."
Lira's voice was flat. "Or dangerous."
Connor exhaled slowly. "Guess we'll find out."
◇◇◇
The Upper Hall felt different from the rest of the tower—quiet, polished, alive with a pressure that made every breath deliberate.
At its end stood a door bearing the Archive's seven-pointed crest.
It opened before he could touch it.
Vonix waited inside.
He wasn't what Connor expected: tall, calm, dressed in black trimmed with silver, presence heavy but composed—like a storm that had learned restraint.
"You've caused quite the stir," Vonix said, voice even.
"I didn't mean —"
"Intent is irrelevant. Aether answers what lies beneath your words."
His gaze was steady, unblinking. "When you hear it… what does it say?"
Connor hesitated. "That it's waiting."
A faint smile crossed the High Arbiter's face. "Then the Archive remembers."
The lights dimmed; the hum deepened—slow, rhythmic, alive.
Vonix turned toward the glass wall overlooking the city.
"Do not fear it," he said softly. "The tower's heart is not dead. It merely dreams—and tonight, it dreamt of you."