The dawn light filters through the narrow windows of the dining hall, casting long shadows across the worn stone floor as I’m guided by the same servant to the same space where yesterday’s revelations unfolded. Do they pick everyone up every morning so they don’t forget when their appointed breakfast time is? Or is this exceptional because I’m new? It somehow feels like a really silly thing to ask, especially of the person guiding me. Hopefully at least someone I met yesterday will be here today. This morning, however, the hall seems stripped of its earlier vibrancy—no animated officers debating the Academy, no crowds of servants talking about their day, just a handful of unfamiliar faces bent silently over their meals. Their plain tunics lack the embroidery that now adorns my collar, which I interpret to mark them as servants or perhaps lower-ranking personnel whose business keeps them from whatever military proceedings occupy the officers this morning.
It seems to me like there’s a distinction between civilian personnel, channelers, and military. The channelers (if Roelof is anything to go by) denote their rank with the intricacy of the embroidery. The civilians—I sweep my gaze around—don’t seem to have anything like identifying marks, though I’m sure they must have some form of hierarchy. The officers have their uniforms and ranks. While I recognize all the ranks I heard yesterday, I’m not sure if I can associate them with specific uniforms or marks yet. It does seem like a lot of the officers here have similar ranks, though. No lower-ranking personnel. I’m not sure what that says about the importance of the operation. Maybe all the lower rungs are simply busy somewhere?
I study the sparse offering laid before me: a wedge of pale cheese, bread that lacks yesterday’s notable freshness, and a pitcher of milk that beads with condensation despite the dining hall’s ambient temperature. I guess they do mirror at least one habit my countrymen have. My fingers trace the cool surface of the ceramic pitcher, wondering about the logistics of keeping milk cold in what appears to be a medieval setting. Do they have cows on the premises? Magic seems the obvious answer—perhaps some lower-grade version of the suppression runes that had activated in the testing chamber? They must keep it fresh somehow. I pour a careful measure into my cup, noting how the milk’s surface barely ripples despite my shaking hands. After yesterday’s emotional roller coaster and unexpected revelations, this morning’s spartan breakfast feels like a deliberate reset, a clearing of the board before whatever moves come next in this game of imperial politics.
The creak of the bench draws my attention as Lieutenant Raaf unceremoniously drops onto the seat beside me, his meticulous appearance from yesterday in complete disarray. His uniform rumpled as though he’d slept in it, and dark circles shadow his eyes—a stark contrast to yesterday’s polished officer who’d questioned me with clinical precision. The transformation is so complete that I nearly don’t recognize him until he flashes that same predatory smile, somewhat softened by exhaustion.
“Masterfully played yesterday,” he announces without preamble, reaching for my untouched bread with the casual familiarity of an old friend. “The way you let Roelof step in—brilliant timing.” He tears off a chunk and pops it into his mouth, continuing through his chewing. “Most people try to talk their way out when cornered about unknown runes. But you? You let the old man save you without ever confirming or denying anything.” His approving nod leaves me utterly baffled. The idea that I was executing some calculated strategy rather than barely keeping my head above water is so absurd that I almost laugh. Whatever chess match he thinks we’re playing exists entirely in his imagination—I’ve been desperately trying not to drown while he apparently believes I’m executing competitive swimming maneuvers.
I regard Raaf with calculated wariness as he shifts even closer on the bench, his shoulder now pressed lightly against mine in a way that feels deliberately invasive. The space between us has collapsed to nearly nothing, his proximity triggering an involuntary tension in my muscles that I’m annoyed to discover I can’t fully control. His casual violation of personal boundaries seems too deliberate to be accidental—a tactical choice rather than social clumsiness. Is this the opening shot to another attempt at gathering information? The programmer in me recognizes this pattern: create physical discomfort to distract from logical defenses, a human version of a denial-of-service attack targeting my ability to think clearly.
“Look,” he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that forces me to lean slightly toward him to hear properly, “whatever rune or formation you used that night doesn’t matter anymore. Master Roelof’s pardon covers it completely.” His breath carries the faint scent of mint, incongruously fresh for someone who looks like he hasn’t slept in days. I find myself caught between analytical irritation at his obvious manipulation technique and an unwelcome awareness of his physical presence. Is this entire interaction choreographed? The rumpled uniform, the exhausted appearance, the forced proximity—all carefully designed elements of an information-extraction protocol disguised as friendly morning conversation? The thought makes me shift away slightly, only to find my escape blocked by the edge of the bench, trapped between stone and his persistent nearness.
I study Raaf with growing discomfort, when suddenly a sharp rapping sound breaks the tension. Lieutenant Raaf jerks forward, his hand flying to the back of his head as he twists around with an expression of wounded dignity to find Captain Janssen standing behind him, her knuckles still poised from delivering what must have been a rather painful knock. Her close-cropped blonde hair catches the morning light as she fixes him with a glare that could wither fruit on the vine.
“For heaven’s sake, Raaf,” she sighs, sliding onto the bench across from us, “just because you’ve been up all night doesn’t mean you can forget basic human decency.” She turns to me with an apologetic grimace. “Don’t mind him—he’s brilliant with intelligence but absolutely hopeless with people. Always has been. Everything’s a, what’s the name? Puzzle to be solved.” Raaf opens his mouth to protest, but Ava silences him with a pointed look that suggests this is a long-established dynamic between them. I find myself grateful for her intervention while simultaneously wondering if Raaf is genuinely oblivious to how uncomfortable he was making me, or if the whole thing was indeed a calculated interrogation technique. Either way, watching his approach crumble under Ava’s casual rebuke is oddly satisfying.
I stir my milk absently, watching the tiny whirlpool form and dissipate as Ava and Raaf settle into what appears to be their normal bickering rhythm. The mundane nature of their interaction—Ava chastising Raaf’s lack of social graces, him defending his “research methodology”—feels jarringly ordinary against the backdrop of yesterday’s revelations. After several minutes of this familiar dance, my curiosity finally overcomes my caution. “So,” I venture, keeping my tone deliberately casual, “what exactly happened after dinner last night? You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward, Lieutenant, while the others seem to have vanished entirely.”
Ava sighs, running a hand through her short hair. “You want to know what happened after dinner? The short answer is, a lot of paperwork, a lot of urgent messages sent, and not nearly enough sleep.” She leans back, her gaze sweeping over the near-empty hall. “Master Roelof immediately took charge after your… revelation,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “He spent the evening closeted with his most trusted researchers and the higher-ups from the Academy, presumably trying to make sense of that explosion.” She pauses, a faint smile touching her lips. “Knowing Roelof, they’re probably still at it, arguing theories and historical precedents. He’s really insistent on getting to the bottom of this thing.”
She shoots Raaf a pointed look as he slumps further over his stolen bread. “Some of us drew the short straw and spent the night documenting every detail of that warehouse incident for Master Roelof’s review.” Raaf winces visibly at the mention of the old academic. “Trust me,” he mutters, rubbing bloodshot eyes, “you don’t want to see Roelof right now. I’ve never seen him this angry—not even when someone rearranged his entire library alphabetically instead of by theoretical framework.”
I watch Raaf’s exhausted face, curiosity finally overcoming my caution. “I don’t understand,” I say, keeping my voice low despite the dining hall’s emptiness. “Why would Master Roelof be so angry about an explosion in an enemy city? From a purely tactical perspective, wouldn’t that be considered a success?” The contradiction has been nagging at me since dinner yesterday—do these imperials mourn League casualties with genuine regret? Roelof’s fury at the loss of civilian lives did not seem fake to me, but I’m hardly an expert in reading human emotions. It doesn’t align with anything I’ve been told about the heartless Empire.
Raaf glances quickly at Ava, who gives him a slight nod before he leans forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “The Empire’s relationship with the League and others is… more complicated than most understand,” he says, choosing each word with obvious care. “There are certain principles that transcend military objectives—unstated understandings between nations that exist for reasons beyond simple tactical advantage.” His bloodshot eyes hold mine with surprising intensity. “Master Roelof is old enough to remember the consequences of uncontrolled escalation, and wise enough to recognize that what benefits armies in the short term can devastate regions for generations.” A flash of anger flashes across his face, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. He straightens suddenly, his expression closing like a book snapping shut. “But that’s already saying far more than I should. Some topics remain classified even long after you become an captain.”
I stare at my untouched breakfast, remembering Van Hoef’s carefully measured words from yesterday. “When he said the explosion was ‘about the best outcome we could expect given the circumstances,’ he wasn’t minimizing it, was he?” I muse aloud, the realization dawning on me with uncomfortable clarity. “He meant that whatever was in that warehouse could have done far worse than what I witnessed.” The thought sends a chill through me despite the morning warmth. If what I saw was the low end of the effect scale, what might the high end look like?
Raaf shifts beside me, his exhausted face suddenly guarded, but Ava merely rolls her eyes with exasperated familiarity. “For heaven’s sake, Raaf, you’ve already told her this much—might as well finish now. I know they say even mentioning it is classified, but it’s pure silliness. What’s she going to do if you answer her question?” She turns to me, her face lighting with that particular blend of professional assessment and genuine enthusiasm that makes my skin crawl. “Besides, I expect you’ll race through the Academy curriculum and earn proper clearance before long anyway. There’s no way they’ll keep you away from that knowledge. Your formation potential alone guarantees fast-tracking.” Her casual certainty about my future—this predetermined path of Academy training, officer status, clearance levels—lands like lead in my stomach. The ease with which they’ve mapped out my life, slotting me into their imperial hierarchy without once asking me what I might actually want, creates a hollow ache beneath my ribs. Yet I can’t deny that I’m interested. And their assumption works perfectly for maintaining my cover; this eager recruit narrative shields me far better than any protest could. It’s not like I’ve done anything but claim there’s nothing keeping me here, that I have zero attachments to the League. I force myself to smile back at Ava, swallowing the bitter taste of that identity I never chose.
Ava and Raaf exchange a loaded glance, the kind that confirms my suspicions about classified information hovering just beyond my reach. After a moment of apparent internal debate, Raaf sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping with either exhaustion or resignation.
“The warehouse contained, lets call them experimental materials,” he admits quietly, leaning so close that his words barely travel beyond our immediate space. “Highly unstable in the best case scenario, but extremely useful for a variety of purposes.” He pauses, searching for words appropriate for my supposed level of knowledge. “Let’s just say that under different circumstances, the explosion could have been many magnitudes worse. What you witnessed was indeed a controlled failure, if such a thing exists.”
I feel the blood drain from my face as I mentally replay the devastation—the collapsed buildings, the charred bodies, the screams that still echo in my dreams. “Many magnitudes worse than what I saw?” My voice emerges as barely more than a whisper. “How much worse are we talking?”
Raaf’s expression turns grim. “The entire district rather than a few buildings. Maybe more.”
The implications hit me with sickening clarity. We’d have been vaporized in an instant. In my world, such destructive potential had names, categories, scientific measurements of devastation.
“So essentially you were storing the magical equivalent of a fuel-air bomb,” I mutter.
The moment I hear my own words, I feel a cold wave of dread wash over me.
The look that crosses Raaf’s face is subtle but unmistakable—the slight narrowing of bloodshot eyes, the momentary stillness of his hand mid-gesture—before he leans forward with renewed intensity. “Hold on,” he says, his exhaustion seemingly forgotten as he fixes me with that same analytical stare I recognized from last night’s interrogation. “What do you mean by ‘magical equivalent of a fuel-air bomb’?” The words roll off his tongue with careful precision, each syllable weighed and examined like specimens under glass. “It sounds like that’s a subject I would very much like to learn more about.” I feel my heart stutter against my ribs—another careless revelation born of false comfort. I’ve spent months hiding any hint of my otherworldly knowledge, only to casually drop modern warfare terminology into breakfast conversation purely because the people I’m talking to sounds like they should know what I’m talking about.
You’d think the anachronistic military uniforms would clue me in, but no. The urge to physically clamp my hand over my traitorous mouth is nearly overwhelming; perhaps removing my tongue entirely would be the only reliable solution to prevent these disastrous lapses. Ava continues chattering about Academy curriculum, completely oblivious to the landmine I’ve just stepped on, while Raaf’s gaze never leaves my face.
Raaf’s bloodshot eyes light up with an almost predatory gleam, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he studies me with renewed interest. I brace myself for the inevitable interrogation about my terminology, but to my surprise, he merely shoots a quick glance at Ava before leaning back, his expression shifting to something more casual despite the obvious excitement dancing behind his eyes. “You know,” he says with calculated nonchalance, “I think our guest could benefit from some physical activity after all this heavy conversation. Ava, why don’t you take Emma to the training room for a morning spar? Show her what formation combat looks like outside a controlled testing environment.” His suggestion rings with the particular tone of someone carefully filing away information for future use, rather than pursuing it immediately.
Ava’s eyebrows arch skeptically as she turns to face Raaf, the morning light catching on her close-cropped blonde hair. “Combat formations don’t get covered until second year for good reason,” she says, her voice carrying that particular blend of professional assessment and genuine concern. “Emma has remarkable talent, certainly, but she’s completely untrained in formation combat. Throwing her into a spar would be like asking someone to defeat Willem in a duel before they’ve learned how to hold a sword—funny to watch, perhaps, but hardly fair.” Her eyes flick briefly to me, a mixture of respect and protective caution in her gaze that makes me instantly uncomfortable.
Raaf’s exhausted face crinkles into a knowing smile as he leans forward, his elbows creating small indentations in the worn wooden table. “Fair?” he echoes, not bothering to hide his amusement. “This is the woman who nearly escaped from Captain Van Hoef while utilizing just a single rune. Then, when offered a rematch in controlled conditions, she nearly turned him to cinder.” His bloodshot eyes shift to me with analytical interest. “I’d wager she has more practical combat experience than half our junior officers, Academy curriculum notwithstanding. Besides,” he adds with a dismissive wave, “we’re not talking about a full combat scenario—just a friendly demonstration to work off some of this morning’s tension.”
I look at Ava with what I hope appears to be thoughtful consideration rather than complete bewilderment. These imperials throw around terms like “formation combat” as though they’re discussing something as basic as addition, yet until a few days ago, I’d known exactly one effective rune—burst—and had barely managed to avoid killing myself while using it. Since then, I’ve somehow acquired the heat rune, that pleasure formation Master Roelof showed me (which I’m still not entirely sure about the actual purpose of), and that simple three-line training pattern. Each new rune seems to follow the same fundamental principles, but jumping from individual runes to formations to some kind of magical combat feels like being asked to write complex software after learning how to print “Hello, World!” The knowledge gap is so vast it’s almost laughable.
I can’t help but wonder what other runes or formations Ava might know—and whether I could replicate them as easily as I did the others. Surely Van Hoef and Roelof have already informed them about my unusual ability to copy any rune I see? What would combat formations even look like? Do channelers hurl multiple runes simultaneously at each other like some kind of geometrical artillery? Or perhaps they create defensive formations to counter offensive ones in a magical chess match of escalating complexity? I’m fairly certain Van Hoef’s shield is a formation. The possibilities intrigue me despite my reservations, and I find myself genuinely curious about what Ava might demonstrate—though I’m considerably less enthusiastic about being on the receiving end of whatever these combat formations might entail.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
I study Ava’s lean form, noting the way her close-cropped blonde hair frames features that speak of years of disciplined training. “I’m not opposed to trying,” I say cautiously, “but I should probably warn you that I have absolutely no idea what I’m in for. My experience with combat formations is… well, nonexistent would be generous.” The admission feels strange on my tongue—after days of deliberately trying to appear less capable than I am, it’s weird to honestly acknowledge one of my actual failings. Yet there’s something liberating about it too, like setting down a heavy pack after a long journey.
Ava shrugs, her uniform shifting across shoulders that carry the distinctive definition of someone who trains daily rather than simply survives. “Don’t worry about it,” she says with easy confidence, “we can always switch to physical sparring if the magical component proves too challenging.” I grimace at this suggestion. Physical combat would make things exponentially worse, not better. I can’t help but notice how her body moves with the fluid economy of a predator—all lean muscle and controlled power. My own form, while certainly improved from my sedentary programmer days, bears the hallmarks of street survival rather than systematic training; I’m stronger than I was, definitely, but there’s a significant difference between scrounging for food and the kind of regimen that produces a physique like Ava’s.
The vast testing chamber yawns around me, its ancient stone walls bearing silent witness to yesterday’s humiliating display. My eyes drift involuntarily to the exact spot where I’d collapsed after depleting the artificial juice, phantom echoes of that overwhelming pleasure making my cheeks flush despite my best efforts to remain composed. The empty space feels somehow charged with memory, as if the stone itself had absorbed the essence of my embarrassment and now radiates it back at me like a particularly cruel mirror. Ava strides confidently to the center of the room, her close-cropped blonde hair catching the light filtering through the high stained-glass windows as she turns to face me with expectant enthusiasm.
“Wait,” I say, sudden realization dropping like a stone in my stomach. “I don’t have any juice in my system. At all.” The words emerge more panicked than I’d intended, my mind racing through the obvious problem with our impromptu training session. Without juice, I can’t form runes, can’t slip into quick-sight, can’t do anything remotely magical—I’m essentially asking a professional soldier to demonstrate combat techniques to someone who can’t even see what’s happening. It’s like asking for a programming tutorial while my computer is unplugged.
Ava’s laughter bounces off the stone walls, her head tilting back with genuine amusement rather than mockery. “Did you forget to gather some yesterday?” she asks, her eyebrows arching with good-natured surprise. When I simply stare back at her in blank confusion, her expression shifts to something closer to bewilderment. “You know, basic meditation cycles? Pulling ambient essentia from your surroundings?” Her hands make a flowing gesture toward her core, as if this should clarify everything. “Wait, seriously? You don’t know how to recharge without consuming fruit or artificial essentia? How have you been maintaining your reserves all this time?” The genuine shock in her voice makes me suddenly and uncomfortably aware of yet another fundamental gap in my magical education—the captain had hinted at it, but there’s a method of replenishing juice that doesn’t involve either rare fruit or expensive vials, something so basic that Ava assumed even a complete novice would know it instinctively.
I suppose it sort of makes sense they have a different method, since it would be inconvenient if their academy had to expend several months of officers salary every time they wanted to teach a lesson to a novice.
Ava’s laughter bounces off the stone walls of the testing chamber, her expression a mixture of amusement and genuine interest. “Absolutely brilliant with formations, yet completely ignorant of basic essentia gathering. You’re quite the paradox, aren’t you? A lucky peasant with extraordinary talent.” She gestures toward the center of the room with exaggerated formality, her close-cropped blonde hair catching the morning light. “Come, sit. Let’s see if we can’t teach you how to pull ambient essentia from your surroundings—a skill most children master before they’re ten.” It’s clear that she is simply amused, and doesn’t mean anything by it, but I can’t help the sting I feel at her words.
I settle cross-legged on the cold stone floor, a thrill of anticipation coursing through me despite my wariness. This is exactly what I need—the ability to replenish my magical reserves without relying on rare fruits or their artificial substitutes. I briefly wonder if Van Hoef would approve of this impromptu lesson; a captive who can’t access magic is far easier to control than one who can replenish her power at will. But I push the thought aside, keeping my expression carefully neutral. If Ava is too oblivious to realize she’s potentially undermining their security protocols, that’s hardly my problem. The prospect of finally understanding how to gather energy independently feels too valuable to question, even if it comes from someone who probably underestimates me. I guess that’s to be expected from their previous prodigy.
Ava settles across from me, her posture relaxed yet precise in that particular way of someone who has performed the same ritual thousands of times. “Close your eyes,” she instructs, her voice dropping to a steady, almost hypnotic cadence. “Forget about runes or formations for now—just focus on your will. While it may feel like it, it doesn’t actually disappear when your vessel empties; it merely grows quieter.” I comply reluctantly, my eyes sliding shut as I try to understand what she means. How am I supposed to use my spark without juice? My spark has always been something I access through juice-sight, not some independent faculty I can summon at will.
“You’re thinking too mechanically,” Ava observes, somehow sensing my frustration through my closed eyelids. “The will exists whether or not you have essentia to feed it. Think of it like… like your lungs. They don’t cease to exist when you hold your breath, do they? They’re still there, waiting for air.” I almost sigh at the metaphor—it seems these imperials are as fond of vague spiritual comparisons as the meditation apps I’d deleted from my phone back home. Still, I try to follow her guidance, searching for that familiar sensation without the electrical buzz of juice powering my perception. It feels like maybe she’s confusing the vessel and spark? What exactly am I supposed to be looking for? Some ghostly afterimage of my spark? A phantom limb where my magical senses should be? It feels like trying to hear a whisper during a rock concert, only the concert ended hours ago and I’m still straining for a sound that’s no longer there.
I focus on Ava’s metaphor, letting it resonate with something familiar. The will existing without juice to feed it—like lungs without breath. Suddenly, a clarity washes over me, not unlike those moments when a particularly stubborn programming bug finally reveals its solution. It’s not about searching for some mystical energy center; it’s about recognizing what’s already there. My spark isn’t some separate entity I access through juice-sight—it’s an integral part of me, as fundamental as my consciousness itself. Just as I don’t need to visualize my brain to think, I don’t need juice to use my spark. It’s there, quiet but present, an extension of my identity that persists whether powered or not. It merely took sitting down and turning all other thoughts off, in perfect silence, to realize it was still there. Little wonder I never found out while surrounded by kids.
I let my awareness turn inward, not seeking some ghostly afterimage of magical power, but simply acknowledging the aspect of myself that interacts with this world’s magic. The sensation is subtle at first—like recognizing the weight of my own body after lying perfectly still, or becoming conscious of my breathing only after it’s mentioned. There’s a whisper of something familiar, not a visual or even tactile sensation, but an unmistakable presence that I’ve been interacting with all along without fully comprehending its nature. The closest analogy I can summon is that moment when a fading song still echoes in your mind after the music stops—not heard with the ears, but experienced nonetheless.
“I think I’ve got it,” I murmur, surprised by the certainty in my voice. My eyes remain closed as I explore this newfound awareness, this aspect of myself that exists independently of the juice that powers it. Ava shifts slightly across from me, and I sense her surprise even without seeing her face.
“Already?” she asks, obvious skepticism coloring her tone. “Most people take days to reach this stage. Are you sure you’re not just telling me what you think I want to hear?” Despite her doubts, I can hear a note of genuine curiosity in her voice. “Don’t worry if it takes longer—this isn’t something that can be rushed.”
I pause, reflecting on the subtle presence I can feel even without juice flowing through my system. “I obviously can’t be sure,” I say slowly, “but it feels like my spark—like my will. It’s really no different than when I’m in juice sight, it’s just not being used for anything right now.” I trace abstract patterns in the air, mimicking Ava’s earlier gestures. “Since I first figured it was there to direct juice, I’ve never had a reason to believe that wasn’t true.” The realization feels significant, like discovering a fundamental aspect of myself I’ve been overlooking. All this time I’ve been thinking of my spark as a tool activated by juice, when perhaps it’s more like a muscle that exists regardless of whether I’m actively using it—dormant but present, waiting to be engaged.
Ava’s eyes crinkle with genuine amusement. “Your path to power must have been incredibly eclectic,” she says, shaking her head with something between admiration and bewilderment. “Most channelers follow predictable trajectories—formal training, structured learning, careful progression. But you? You’re like someone who wandered into a library blindfolded, somehow grabbed the most advanced theoretical texts, and understood them without ever seeing the basics.” Her casual assessment lands with unintended precision, and I find myself fighting a smile at just how profoundly she’s underestimated the true eccentricity of my situation. If only she knew that my “eclectic path” involved crossing between worlds, surviving in an entirely alien reality, and discovering magical abilities that shouldn’t exist according to the physics I’d spent my entire previous life taking for granted. Compared to that, teaching myself to code without formal education would have seemed straightforward.
Ava leans forward, her intensity betraying genuine interest in my unexpected progress. “Now that you can perceive your spark, use it to probe your surroundings—just as you would when trying to feel out a formation, but without any expectation of finding structure,” she explains, her fingers tracing abstract patterns in the air between us. “Extend your awareness outward in expanding circles and listen for… a resonance, I suppose you could call it. It won’t feel anything like the concentrated power in a fruit or artificial essentia—more like noticing a faint breeze when you’ve been sitting perfectly still in a closed room.” Her voice takes on that particular blend of professional instruction and personal experience that suggests she’s translating from deeply ingrained muscle memory rather than formal teaching methods.
My brow furrows as I follow her guidance, sending my spark outward in widening circles. This still doesn’t come naturally to me, having been able to see runes visually just fine. Flailing around like this without a specific reference point feels incredibly wasteful to me. Isn’t there a way to speed this up? This time I’m testing the limits beforehand, and I’m surprised to find—though I probably shouldn’t be—that the limit of my perception here is again everything I can see in front of me, and around 6 meters behind. Why should I be able to perceive further ahead even with my eyes closed? How does the spark even know what I’m looking?
Initially, there’s nothing—just the empty echo of my own awareness bouncing back at me—but then, at the furthest edge of my perception, I sense something: a subtle vibration, almost imperceptible, like the lightest touch against a spider’s web. “There’s something,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper as I focus on that faint resonance. “It’s so subtle I nearly missed it entirely—nothing like the electrical buzz of fruit juice.” Ava nods encouragingly as she continues. “That’s ambient essentia. Now, imagine drawing it toward your vessel, like breathing in that faint breeze. Be patient; it’s like filling a bucket with morning dew rather than from a river.”
I focus on the spot of ambient essentia, trying to draw it toward my vessel as Ava instructed. The process is painstakingly slow—like trying to gather morning dew with tweezers—but after several minutes of concentrated effort, I feel a subtle shift within my vessel, a minuscule influx of power where before there was emptiness. It’s barely perceptible, perhaps only a fraction of a percentage of what a single fruit would provide, but unmistakably real. I find two more such spots around the chamber, each yielding the same meager harvest of ambient power—not enough for any practical application, but proof that replenishment without external sources is possible.
A smile breaks across my face as the implications hit me with stunning clarity. I, and the children, can channel continuously, slowly replenishing our vessels through this ambient method rather than relying solely on the fruits that are at best 5 days away. The knowledge feels like a door suddenly flung open, revealing possibilities I’d never considered. Mairi’s natural talent, combined with this technique, could have meant continuous practice without the constant anxiety of depletion. I can’t help the giddy laugh that escapes me as I picture telling them about this discovery—assuming I ever make it back to them.
At that moment, the door to the testing chamber crashes open with a bang, revealing Van Hoef’s rigid silhouette against the corridor’s torchlight. His eyes narrow as he takes in our seated positions, a flash of irritation crossing his features before being filed away behind his professional mask. “Whatever unauthorized training exercise this is can wait,” he announces, striding into the chamber with purpose. “Our guest will be transferred to the imperial vessel Windreaver this afternoon. They’re setting sail for the capital with the evening tide.” His words fall like stones into still water, each syllable carrying the weight of finality that brooks no argument.
Ava springs to her feet with uncharacteristic inelegance, her close-cropped blonde hair catching the light as she shakes her head in disbelief. “That’s impossible, Peter,” she protests, military formality forgotten in her shock. “Even with our fastest messengers, the request couldn’t have reached the capital yet, let alone returned with authorization for transfer.” Her eyes narrow with professional suspicion as she studies Van Hoef’s carefully neutral expression. “Unless…?” The question hangs between them, loaded with implications neither seems willing to voice aloud as I remain cross-legged on the cold stone floor, the final wisp of ambient essentia I’d managed to gather evaporating like morning dew beneath the sudden tension filling the chamber.
I study Van Hoef’s face as he explains the situation, searching for any hint of deception beneath his military composure. “There’s no mistaking the authorization code,” he says, his eyes meeting Ava’s with professional patience. “While I share your confusion about the timeline, I can only assume there exist methods of communication we lack clearance to know about—ways to reach the capital in an instant rather than days.” His fingers tap absently against his sword hilt as he speaks, the gesture betraying a tension his voice carefully conceals. “What truly concerns me is not how the message reached them, but the speed of their decision. Just ten hours have passed since Emma’s testing, which suggests they spent most of that time in deliberation. The Imperial Council reaching such a significant determination in less than eight hours, even after receiving our report, is unheard of.”
Ava’s expression shifts from skepticism to concern as she processes Van Hoef’s words, her body language betraying the subtle transformation from colleague to subordinate. “Do you think it was something Roelof did?” she asked, her voice quieter now. The implication hangs heavy in the air between them? More troubling still is what this unprecedented haste might signify about my importance to the Empire. I contemplate what awaits me aboard the Windreaver. A journey to the imperial capital had always seemed inevitable, but the urgency of this transfer suggests forces at work beyond simple academic interest in my unusual abilities.
I stare at them both, the situation feeling increasingly absurd. “I don’t claim to understand imperial politics or protocols, but this seems… excessive,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the air between us. “Yesterday, I was under the impression that while my performance was impressive, it wasn’t ‘abandon everything and rush me to the capital’ impressive. One-twenty-three formations is admittedly at the high end of ‘pretty good,’ but Master Roelof seemed more academically interested than urgently concerned.” The words tumble out before I can fully consider their wisdom, but the sheer strangeness of the situation demands acknowledgment. “This sudden urgency feels like something else entirely.”
Ava nods frantically beside me, her close-cropped blonde hair catching the morning light as she steps forward. “Exactly what I was thinking,” she agrees, shooting Van Hoef a pointed look. “Even when I set the previous record, they waited nearly three weeks to arrange transfer.” Peter’s face softens briefly with unmistakable sympathy before military discipline reasserts itself, his shoulders squaring beneath his uniform. “I understand your confusion,” he admits, his fingers tapping a restless pattern against his sword hilt. “But orders are orders, especially when they come directly from the capital with proper authorization codes. Whether or not I fully comprehend the reasoning behind them.” The resignation in his voice suggests he’s asked similar questions himself, finding no satisfactory answers in whatever channels are available to him.
I crumple against the nearest stone table, the room spinning around me with sickening clarity. No more time. No chance to find Mairi and the others, to explain why I’ve disappeared, to make sure they’re safe. The cruel timing crushes whatever hope I’d been nurturing—learning to gather ambient essentia only moments before discovering I’ll be shipped away like valuable cargo. With just a few more days, I might have gathered enough power to escape, to slip back to the children who depend on me. I could have convinced Van Hoef to let me say goodbye, could have negotiated some protection for them under my newly-granted pardon. The bitter irony of finally understanding how to replenish my power independently, only to have the knowledge rendered immediately useless, feels like a particularly vicious cosmic joke.
Van Hoef’s face shifts from military detachment to genuine concern as he steps toward me, one hand outstretched uncertainly. Even Ava, who barely knows me, moves closer with obvious alarm. They don’t understand—can’t possibly comprehend—what this rushed departure truly means. For them, this is merely an unexpected acceleration of an inevitable process, a logistical surprise rather than a devastating severance. They see a promising recruit being fast-tracked, not a woman being torn from children who have already lost everyone else who ever cared for them. The thought of Mairi searching the city for me, of Calum organizing the others into search parties, of all of them eventually concluding I’ve been killed, or worse, have abandoned them just like every other adult in their lives, sends invisible knives twisting between my ribs. No time. Not even to say goodbye.
discord server for Book of Days, please join if that sounds fun to you. I've also started a new advertising campaign because arc 2 is finished now. The first one was very successful, so maybe this one will be too. See if you can find the correct ad ;)
