Morning in Caelum was like a fragile veil—thin, shimmering, stretched over a city still recovering from the quiet wounds of the previous day. Arin felt the shift in the Weave as soon as he stepped into the open walkway that overlooked District Three. The resonance threads that usually drifted beneath the metal platforms were faint, barely noticeable. A subtle tremor occasionally rolled through the suspended bridges—like the city itself exhaled, uneasy but steady enough to function.
The path ahead sloped downward toward the towering structure of the Acolyte Archives, its pale spires rising like slender fingers trying to steady the trembling skyline. Arin pulled his satchel closer to his shoulder, adjusting the strap as he walked besides the railing.
He breathed slowly.
Calm. Normal. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He repeated the quiet mantra, the same one Bram had given him to repeat whenever his anxiousness got the better of him. It kept his footsteps steady and his posture controlled. Every flicker of resonance brushing against his awareness felt like a cold fingertip across the back of his neck, but he forced no reaction. None. He could not afford attention—not here, not now.
He passed merchants pushing floating crates toward the morning markets. Their conversations carried low, drifting past him in half-whispers:
"—felt the tremor in the lower east again—"
"—said the Weave pulsed last night, like something touched it—"
"—just rumors; Wardens said nothing unusual—"
Arin kept his gaze forward.
The closer he drew to the Acolyte district, the more the architecture shifted. Structures became taller, thinner, and smoother—sleek surfaces of pale stone and transparent alloys, filled with veins of glowing light that pulsed gently like living arteries. Curved glass sheets acted as outer walls, bending light to create prismatic reflections across the path. Above him, rings of floating scrolls drifted in slow circles—thin plates of projection stone holding preserved knowledge. Their surfaces shimmered faintly as they rotated, whispering soft lines of ancient script.
This place always felt like another world entirely.
Not quite military. Not quite civilian.
And nothing like the Warden office, with its rigid angles and practical design. The Acolyte towers seemed grown rather than built—elegant and strange, shaped around the flow of knowledge instead of force.
Arin reached the first staircase leading to the Hall of Lattice Knowledge.
The building stretched up in layered terraces, each carved with delicate latticework patterns resembling woven threads. Soft blue-white veins of light traced through the stone, humming faintly in the morning air. Tall windows framed the entrance, each pane etched with swirling script that responded to passing Acolytes with brief glimmers.
Arin paused, taking in a breath.
Inside these walls, he had to be careful. Here, perceptive minds walked. Scholars trained to read anomalies. Instructors who could sense subtle changes—even those tied to the Weave.
He steadied himself and passed under the archway.
*******
The moment he stepped through the entrance, everything softened—sound, air, even the faint tremors of Caelum. The Hall's interior was immense, filled with pillars of translucent stone carved into spirals. Between them, floating archive tablets drifted like luminous fish swimming through still water. Each one emitted a gentle hum, their light shifting through pale blues and soft whites.
The floor beneath Arin was smooth marble-like composite, intricately inlaid with a massive symbol: a swirling spiral encircling a single straight thread—the emblem of the Acolytes. A representation of pursuing infinite knowledge while anchored by truth.
Acolyte apprentices moved across the room in quiet, purposeful motions. Some carried glowing rods. Others guided floating books bound in thin magnetic frames. A few clustered beside instructors, taking notes on tablets.
Arin felt eyes flick toward him occasionally—brief, acknowledging glances. They knew him. They had worked with him for months now. He was neither the best nor the worst among them.
But he did normal.
And today—he needed to be normal.
He crossed the Hall until he reached the narrow side passage leading down the gentle slope toward the Thread Index chambers. Just outside the doorway stood a thin man with close-cut gray hair and soft lines around intelligent eyes.
Instructor Thale.
He wore a layered dark-blue robe with sweeping sleeves embroidered in pale thread, each symbol marking different research disciplines. His posture was upright but relaxed—a scholar who didn't need authority to be obeyed. His face carried an expression of perpetual thoughtfulness, as though he always listened to more than what was spoken.
Thale looked up as Arin approached.
"Arin Caelis," he said, voice smooth and warm. "You arrived early."
"Good morning, Instructor," Arin replied, bowing his head slightly. "I wanted to begin before the others gathered."
"A commendable habit." Thale studied him with eyes too perceptive for Arin's comfort. "You seem different today."
Arin tensed. "Different?"
"Calmer," Thale said simply. "Your posture is steadier. Your aura more centered." He considered Arin for another long moment. "Your sleep must have been better than usual."
Arin forced a small nod. "I suppose it was."
Thale hummed softly, unconvinced yet not pressing further. "Good. We'll need clarity today."
He motioned for Arin to walk beside him.
"Your first assignment is in the Thread Index. Several memory-threads experienced minor fractures last night. Nothing dangerous—merely requiring reorganization." Thale paused. "And precision."
"I understand."
"I know you do." Thale gave him a faint, approving smile. "Let's see how well you manage today."
Arin's pulse flickered in his throat. He hoped—desperately—that whatever new steadiness the Anchor training had given him wouldn't reveal itself in ways he couldn't explain.
*******
The circular room glowed with a dim, warm light. Dozens of vertical rods—thin as fingers, tall as pillars—lined the chamber in ringed formations. Each rod radiated soft luminescence, threads of color drifting inside them like captured strands of light suspended in liquid.
Some threads were tangled. Others flickered fitfully. A few dimmed and brightened irregularly.
Memory-threads.
Recorded histories. Past Weave fluctuations. Personal recollections voluntarily donated. Significant moments preserved for study.
A cluster of apprentices stood at the central table as Arin entered.
Ronan was the first to turn.
He was sharp-featured, with intense violet eyes and sleek black hair tied into a short ponytail. His uniform tunic was pristine, fitted perfectly, accentuating his slim but athletic build. Ronan always looked put together—because he had to. He enjoyed attention, and Caelum seemed all too willing to give it to him. He was intelligent, talented, and perfectly aware of it.
And he hated competition.
"Oh," Ronan said, folding his arms. "Arin. You're early."
Arin forced a polite nod. "Good morning."
Behind Ronan, Mael lifted a hand in greeting—shy but warm. The young apprentice stood several inches shorter, with soft brown curls and gentle sea-green eyes. His robes were slightly wrinkled, his sleeves ink-stained from constant note-taking. He worked quietly, diligently, and preferred Arin's company to the louder groups.
"Morning, Arin," Mael said quietly.
Arin smiled at him. "Morning."
The other two apprentices—Jorah and Talis—offered nods before returning to their tasks.
Instructor Thale entered behind Arin, and conversation died immediately.
"You all know today's workload," Thale began, stepping to the center of the room. "Minor fractures in memory-rods twenty through forty-six. Arin—"
Arin straightened.
"You will assist with the stabilization of the damaged rods. Mael, join him." Thale tapped a sequence on his wrist band, causing a holographic list to appear. "Ronan, you will lead the cataloging unit today."
Ronan's eyes brightened at the responsibility—and then narrowed subtly when he glanced at Arin.
"Understood," he said coolly.
As the apprentices split into groups, Mael moved beside Arin.
"I thought Ronan would get stabilization again," Mael whispered.
"So did he," Arin murmured.
Mael snorted a small laugh.
They approached the damaged rods together. The air between them hummed faintly. Arin could feel the subtle pulse of resonance in each rod—bright, flickering, and fragile. He reached for the first one, careful to keep his breathing steady.
He placed his fingertips on the cool surface—
And the fractured light inside the rod responded instantly.
It tightened. Straightened. Smoothed into uniform threads.
The rod stabilized.
In seconds.
Mael froze. "…How did you do that so fast?"
Arin swallowed. "Lucky timing?"
Mael frowned, unconvinced but curious.
Ronan, however, had turned toward them.
He had seen it.
His expression slid from polite neutrality to thinly veiled annoyance.
"Instructor Thale?" Ronan called. "Arin stabilized number twenty… immediately."
Thale approached silently.
He placed a hand over the rod, sensing its pulse.
Then his eyes flicked to Arin.
"That was remarkably efficient," he said. "Very clean resonance. Not many apprentices can coax the threads into alignment without disruption."
Arin felt heat rise to his face. "I've been practicing."
Ronan's lips pressed into a thin line.
Mael shifted nervously beside him.
Thale seemed almost… intrigued. "Continue. And take care not to overexert. Stabilization requires internal balance."
Arin nodded quickly. "Yes, Instructor."
Thale stepped away.
Ronan's glare sharpened. "Practicing," he muttered under his breath. "Convenient."
Arin ignored him and reached for the next rod.
He didn't want to outperform anyone. He didn't want praise neither did he want attention.
He just wanted normal.
But when his fingers brushed the crystal again, the fractured light bent toward him instinctively—recognizing an Anchor's stability without his permission—and the rod corrected itself instantly.
Faster than before.
Ronan's hands clenched the ledger tablet. "Unbelievable."
Mael whispered, "Arin… something about you is different today."
Arin forced a smile. "Just slept well."
But his pulse thrummed uneasily beneath his skin.
*******
Tasks continued for the next hour. Arin worked carefully, forcing himself to slow down, to look unsure, to mimic the hesitation he used to feel.
But the rods responded too easily.
Ronan noticed every time.
When Thale passed by, Ronan's expression would shift into polite brightness as he pointed out his own progress—but always, always with subtle comparisons.
"Of course, Instructor, I'm cataloging faster than usual—though stabilization seems to be going unusually well today. Particularly for some."
Or:
"It's interesting how some apprentices experience sudden jumps in skill without formal training. Quite rare."
Thale offered neutral nods, like he didn't understand Ronan's insinuations.
But Ronan's irritation grew like a tightening coil.
Mael kept glancing at Arin with concern.
"Are you sure everything's fine?" Mael whispered when Thale was out of earshot.
Arin nodded quickly. "It's nothing."
"You've never worked like this. You seem… clearer. Like you understand the threads better than before."
Arin hesitated. "Just coincidence."
Mael raised an eyebrow but dropped it.
They worked in silence until the midday bell chimed.
*******
The apprentices flowed toward the lower courtyard, where a series of stone benches circled around a floating centerpiece—a rotating cube of script that shifted symbols every few seconds. The courtyard overlooked a distant view of Caelum's lower platforms, where shimmering haze obscured the abyss below.
Arin and Mael sat at one of the quieter benches near the edge. Arin placed his modest meal—a steamed bread packet and a small cup of herb broth—on the stone surface. Mael had a simple lunch as well: nut-slices, dried fruit, and a small container of sweetgrain pudding.
For a moment, they ate quietly.
Mael finally spoke. "So… really. You won't tell me how you got better?"
Arin paused mid-sip. "Because I don't know how to explain it."
Mael tilted his head. "You can trust me."
"I do," Arin said softly. "It's just… complicated."
Mael studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. When you're ready."
Before Arin could reply, footsteps approached.
Ronan.
He strolled past with two other apprentices, speaking loudly enough to be heard.
"Some people," Ronan said in an exaggerated sigh, "are born with talent. Others seem to suddenly develop theirs overnight."
The apprentices beside him chuckled.
Mael stiffened. Arin kept his eyes on his food.
Ronan continued, "And it's always funny when someone tries to rise above their tier out of nowhere."
Mael glared. "Ignore him," he muttered to Arin.
Arin tried.
Ronan's words slid off him, but not cleanly—they stuck like burrs under his skin. Not because they wounded him, but because they threatened attention.
Unwanted attention.
After a moment, Ronan's group moved away, leaving Arin and Mael in the settling quiet.
"You don't deserve that," Mael said firmly.
"Its fine," Arin murmured. "Ronan likes being the best. Anyone improving looks like a threat."
"He should just work harder instead of insulting people."
Arin offered a small smile. "You're better company at lunch anyway."
Mael blushed faintly. "Well… I try."
They finished eating, talking lightly about harmless things—Mael's latest attempt at rune transcription, Arin's trouble waking up early, a funny mishap involving a floating scroll drifting into a fountain.
For a moment, things felt normal.
And peaceful.
*******
Instructor Thale gathered them again after lunch and led the group toward another wing of the Archives.
The hallway grew darker.
Then opened into an expansive circular room.
The Living Script Chamber.
Softly glowing runes floated in the air like drifting embers—strands of light stretching and reshaping themselves into symbols that felt both ancient and alive. Some runes pulsed slowly, matching the rhythm of a heartbeat. Others swirled into spirals before unraveling again into free-roaming characters.
The walls were marked with deep carvings containing script that shifted subtly when approached, resisting interpretation unless the reader possessed the proper training—or intuition.
Thale addressed the apprentices.
"These fragments are part of the pre-Lattice era. Their meanings are mutable and require careful observation. Today, you will record the movement patterns of the runes and attempt to identify recurring structures."
Ronan lifted his chin arrogantly. "Of course."
Mael gulped.
Arin felt something else.
The runes vibrated faintly—like they recognized something inside him.
Thale handed each apprentice a recording slate and gestured for them to spread out.
Arin moved toward a quieter corner, where a cluster of pale golden runes drifted like lazy fireflies.
As he approached, one rune pulsed brightly.
Arin froze.
It drifted closer—slow, deliberate—until hovering inches from his face.
He swallowed. "…Hi?"
The rune flared.
A sound escaped Arin's lips—a quiet syllable he didn't understand.
Just… a half-phrase.
But the rune reacted.
It stilled—perfectly still—before softly reshaping itself into a new symbol. One unlike any other in the room.
Across the chamber, Thale's head snapped toward him.
Arin stepped back quickly.
The rune dimmed, returning to its drifting state.
Thale approached with slow, measured steps.
"What did you say?" the instructor asked quietly.
Arin forced his voice steady. "Nothing. It just moved oddly."
Thale watched him closely.
"Arin," he said softly, "the Living Script does not react without stimulus."
Arin swallowed. "Maybe I stepped too close."
Thale's gaze sharpened—not accusing, but studying. Calculating.
"…Perhaps," he said after a long moment. "Continue your observations."
He returned to the others.
Arin let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Mael, across the room, mouthed at him: Are you okay?
Arin gave a small nod.
But his heartbeat had quickened. His palms felt warm. And the runes whispered faint vibrations whenever he walked past.
He tried to work. To focus. To record the symbols like the others.
But he kept feeling the Weave subtly brushing against him—recognizing him.
Calling to him.
*******
By the time the day's tasks ended, the sun hung low across Caelum, casting long golden lines across the floating platforms. Apprentices gathered their notes, signed off on their daily logs, and thanked Instructor Thale before leaving.
Mael walked beside Arin toward the main entrance.
"You sure you're fine?" Mael asked quietly.
Arin hesitated. "I will be."
Mael nodded gently. "If you ever want to talk… I'm here."
Arin offered a grateful smile. "Thank you."
They reached the courtyard. Apprentices dispersed across the walkways, heading toward home, markets, or quiet corners of the district to unwind.
Arin tightened his satchel strap.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.
Mael waved. "Yeah. And try not to outshine Ronan too much next time."
Arin laughed softly. "No promises."
He turned toward the outer bridges—toward the dim, distant silhouette of Bram's home perched near the suspended greenhouse platforms.
Evening winds brushed against his clothes as he crossed into quieter sections of the district. The city trembled faintly beneath him—gentle, rhythmic, like the heartbeat of a tired giant.
Arin exhaled.
Now came the part of the day he had been dreading and also looking forward to in equal measure.
Anchor training.