Soren filed away a handful of phrases, closed the book, and left for the seminar a full five minutes early, another habit drilled into him, another vector for not being observed.

The lecture hall was humid, acoustics damaged by the condensation on the high skylights. Ohn paced the dais with her hands clasped behind her back, the posture of a warden awaiting an incident.

"Doctrine is not law," she said, opening the session to scattered coughs and shuffles. "It is the rehearsal of law, in the soul, until obedience to it requires no conscious effort." Her gaze passed over each bench, pausing on the empty seats, then the cluster of Blades at the back, and finally on Soren, in the front for once, close enough to see which of her silver hairs were banded with black and which were simply polished steel.

She set the topic without preamble: "Yesterday in the underhalls, you saw a fragment of our history. What did it teach you?"

A hand at the far right: "That containment is failure."

Ohn nodded, but her eyes didn't leave Soren.

He waited, then said: "It reminded me that everything we control leaves a memory of what it tried to be."

A flicker along her jaw, almost a smile, then: "Expand."

He did so, reciting what he'd gleaned from the book, layering it with what he'd felt in the cold haze at the base of the Spire. Ohn let him speak without interruption, then acknowledged the answer with a nod and let the session move on.

The rest of the class spun out as it always did, a quarrel of perspectives, some earnest, most performative. Soren paid only partial attention, mostly to the pattern of questions and who bested whom. At the end, as the benches cleared, Ohn detained him with a flick of her hand.

"Stay," she said.

When the last of the students filtered out, she leaned in, voice low. "Do you know why Dane watches you more closely than the rest?"

Soren shrugged.

"Not because you threaten order." She tapped the desk, once, the sound quick and decisive. "It's because you're one of the few who can recognize when doctrine becomes mask instead of mirror."

He waited; she watched the condensation arc on the nearest skylight, as if deciding something invisible. Then, quietly: "If you ask him about the sword, he will not answer. But he'll watch how you react to the silence."

She straightened, voice returning to its full volume. "Dismissed."

He spent the next three hours in the library, then the next bell at physical drill, then refectory for dinner, heavy broth and barley, no conversation. Soren drifted through the motions, feeling the resonance grow by increments. At one point, a dropped plate clattered so loudly it almost ruptured the air, then the echo lingered long after the student had scampered away.

The last bell brought curfew and the familiar shuffle of half the cohort toward the dorms. Soren trailed behind, intent on mapping the echo effect back along the route to the underhalls.

The further down the stairwell he went, the stronger the sensation, like tracing a vein of current through the stone. He'd reached the penultimate junction, the seam where Veyra's old blue sigils had been, when a voice spoke from the shadow behind him.

"Vale."

Soren turned, noting the twitch of every muscle and the cold on his back. Master Dane, not even bothering to conceal his presence, filled the corridor with a density that made every echo suddenly mute.

"You're wanted," Dane said. "Now."

They took the service stairs up to the west wing, bypassing every occupied hallway. On the ascent, Dane didn't speak, but his gait betrayed fatigue, hands balled tight, the color in his knuckles unnatural, jaw set so hard it might have cut glass. At the landing, he gestured Soren through the door to his office.

Inside, the space had changed subtly. Charts and blueprints laid open on every surface, some half-covered by field jackets or ranked piles of historical dossiers. The smell of ink and steel was nearly drowned by the alkaline tang of dissolving chalk.

Soren saw, through the corner of his eye, that the map on Dane's desk had been overwritten three times in three colors, each showing a different arrangement of the building's wardlines, none overlapping with the original.

"Sit," Dane said, sounding more human than before. He passed Soren a mug of tea, waited, then addressed him directly. "You're not afraid of the dark. I respect that."

Soren watched the steam, not the man. "The dark doesn't care if I respect it back."

Dane's teeth showed, a grin with nothing soft in it. "Good. Keep that. You're sharp as a first draw, but too much intuition puts you in danger." He took a sip of his own tea, then said it: "You touched something down there."

A lie beckoned, but Soren let it die. "It felt familiar."

Dane set his mug down and steepled his hands above the map. "The blade? Or the boundary?"

Soren shrugged, and the shared silence made the room shrink. He answered only after it became clear Dane would not move on: "Both."

Dane's eyes narrowed, but he didn't seem angry. "That sword, what's left of it, was not always an object. It was, once, a person. Or what passed for one." He scanned Soren's face, waiting for the reaction. "It shattered during the Sundering. All the wards in this place haven't kept its memory from growing roots."

He let the statement settle, then added: "I am assigning you a new duty. You will report to the restricted archives, not as a student, but as a witness to history. You'll log everything that moves through the Spire's foundation for the next term." He slid a parchment across the desk: an official directive, not optional, already marked with Ohn's counter-signature and a blue thumbprint that had to be Veyra's.

Soren scanned the assignment. On the surface it was little different from library duty, but the hours, between midnight and second bell, gave away its purpose. Most initiates would have interpreted this as punishment or exile, but Soren saw the utility: Dane didn't want him shadowing instructors, so he'd built a shadow for him to inhabit.

"Why me?" Soren asked, knowing it was pointless.

Dane's reply was as indifferent as powder snow. "Because what's in you can pick up echoes the rest of us ignore. Every year a few students collect the reflections. You'll find the rest."

Soren folded the directive and tucked it into his sleeve. He wondered if Dane expected gratitude or if the man, like so much at Aetherion, simply wanted the responsibility gone from his own hands.

Dane leaned forward then, discarding the blade-edge in his voice. "The job's riskier than you think. The last witness went wild as a hurricane, tried to peel his own soul off with a silver spoon. The Arcanists wiped the details, but I heard him scream through five feet of stone. If you feel it coming on, you report to me, direct, understand?"

Soren nodded. Part of him suspected the Swordmaster would kill him at the first sign of instability, but he found a kind of comfort in the directness of it, so much simpler than games of pretense.

He rose, took the assignment, and left Dane's office, the echo effect now amplified into a resonance he could feel vibrating in his molars.

The restricted archives were below the west tower, reachable only through a two-door vestibule watched by a stone sentinel and the automaton librarian.

Tonight the machine awaited him at the threshold, its face a mask of dulled silver, eye-lanterns shining a wet blue. No words, just a hand extended to receive his assignment slip and a chambered click as it filed him under "privileged observer."

"Light or dark?" the librarian asked. Soren wasn't prepared for the choice.

"Dark."

The automaton nodded, then pursed metal lips in what might have been amusement. "As you wish."

Inside, the restricted stacks had their own scent: old copper, rotted memory, the faint musk of spells burned out but never aired. Most books here were chained to the shelf or sealed in glass.

Each volume was labeled with an index of use, some showed a single exposure; a rare few, dozens, but almost none had been read in Soren's lifetime. The true isolation came from the acoustics: every shuffle, every turn of page, rebounded off the vault ceiling in triplicate. He could not have felt more surveilled if the librarian had stood over his shoulder.

He set up at the reading desk nearest the back wall, which overlooked the slope down toward the underhalls.

Through the glass panel, he saw nothing but blue-black haze, but the window was rimed with the same residue that sealed the rest of the Academy. He wondered if it was condensation or the fallout of whatever burned in the air after the Null Spine's last memory.

The first two hours, nothing. He cataloged three inventory ledgers, transcribed three pages of a treatise on "Dream-Ward Malfunctions," then alphabetized a shelf of glass-encased court scripts documenting the aftermath of the Sundering.

The head-throb from before intensified, but the echo effect in this room was tighter, almost like being submerged in foam, a hush, but with the weight of presence behind it.

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