Chapter 9: Remedial Reality
Mote Siphoning was the magical equivalent of weightlifting, and Lance Silverwoods was the kid who could barely lift the bar.
The remedial class was held in a specialized, low-power lecture hall where the atmosphere was thick with ambient Motes, providing plenty of energy for practice. Tutor Maeve, placidly sipping her herbal tea, had assigned the class to the most basic exercise: the Controlled Siphon.
"Imagine the Motes," Maeve instructed softly, gesturing to the shimmering golden dust around them, "as water. You must draw them into your Matrix in a steady, controlled stream. No surges, no leaks. Just pure, intentional flow."
The goal was to reach a Siphon Score of fifty units.
Opal went first. She aimed for a controlled stream, but her "firecracker" volatility made it impossible. She'd draw in thirty units, feel the surge, panic, and then release it all in a loud, uncontrolled fwoomp of light.
"Thirty-two units, Opal. Five units lost to chaotic release," Maeve noted calmly. "Better than yesterday."
Kian, using his Mote-Drain skill, managed a score of fifty, but his method was clearly cheating. He wasn't drawing the Motes; he was creating a vacuum, making the Motes rush toward his Matrix out of desperation.
"Fifty-one units, Kian. One unit flagged as 'forced suction' by the Resonator. Passable," Maeve said, giving him a knowing look.
Then came Lance. He sat on the stool, closed his eyes, and focused on generating a pull—a strong, magnetic will to attract the Motes. He concentrated on the pure mechanics of the task, trying to emulate Kian's vacuum or Opal's raw energy.
He pushed his control—his small, meager 1%—to the limit. The motes near him stirred, shimmering faintly, and a tiny, almost invisible stream began to flow into his wristband.
The score crept up: one... two... three...
At seven units, the effort became physically painful. His head began to throb, and he felt the energy blockage Dean Eris had mentioned. It wasn't that he couldn't do it; it was that the massive effort required to pull even a small amount was unsustainable.
His stream stuttered, flickered, and stopped entirely at ten units.
"Ten units, Lance," Maeve stated, recording the lowest score in the class. "You used more personal energy generating the focus than the Motes you siphoned. You are running a deficit."
Lance clenched his jaw in frustration. He was a Silverwoods, a "Founder's Legacy," and he couldn't complete the most basic magic task. His greatest skill, he realized, was completely useless here. Dampening was defensive; Siphoning was necessary for everything—for powering simple lights, for locking doors, for stabilizing portals.
Opal patted his arm sympathetically. "Don't sweat it. Tutor Maeve just said you're running a deficit. Kian runs a criminal enterprise, and he passed."
Kian, leaning against the wall, offered a cynical shrug. "I told you, Silverwoods. Stop trying to be the hero and start being the drain."
Lance spent the rest of the class struggling, his low score emphasizing his current weakness in raw power. He repeatedly failed to achieve the fifty-unit goal, his lack of offensive magic highlighting the steep climb ahead of him. This repeated failure reinforced his need to specialize in his unique, slow-growth skill of precision and stabilization.
As the class was wrapping up, Maeve approached Lance, her placid expression tinged with a thoughtful sadness. She saw his obvious frustration—the exact look of a student who was giving maximum effort for minimal results.
"Lance," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Do not be discouraged by this number. Raw siphoning measures output. It does not measure quality."
She looked pointedly at the low, humming walls of the lecture hall.
"Anyone can build a simple wall, child. Anyone can pull up motes. But it takes a different kind of vision entirely to design the foundation, to ensure the wall doesn't crumble under the first wave of chaotic energy."
Maeve smiled, a cryptic, knowing look that referenced the weight of his unrevealed family history.
"Do not let them judge the architect by the struggle to lay the first few bricks," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The greatest architects always struggled with the simple brick-and-mortar."
Lance looked up, realizing her quiet words were not meant to comfort, but to guide. She wasn't excusing his failure; she was directing him toward a different, more complicated kind of success—the success of his ancestor, the Master Stabilizer.
He had failed the basic magic test, but he had received his first genuine guidance regarding the nature of his lineage.