Aston exhaled.

This isn't just training. This is transformation.

The cloth felt heavier in his hand now—not in weight, but in implication.

He stepped into a quieter section of the alley, away from direct line of sight, and gently pressed the Seraphis Shed to his face.

The change wasn't explosive. No energy pulsed, no light blazed. It was… soft.

A cool sensation passed across his skin like water drawn from midnight, and a second later, he felt his own features shift. Slightly.

His nose changed shape. His jawline adjusted. His voice—when he whispered "Nova"—echoed with a sharper cadence.

He pulled it off quickly, heart beating a little faster.

Effective. Subtle. Dangerous.

His mind, ever analytical, considered the implications.

And yet…

The warning lingered: Emotional diffusion, identity dissonance. The risk of forgetting who you are beneath the mask.

"What is the time limit of the mask?"

[The Seraphis Shed may be safely worn for up to six consecutive hours. After that, for the next four hours, mild emotional blending may begin. Two hours after that, identity dissonance becomes a real danger—confusion, misremembering facts, and adopting false memories may occur. To fully reset, the mask must remain unused for as long as the user used it.]

Upon reading this, his worries washed away.

"Warn me about overusing the mask."

Receiving Nova's confirmation, he tucked the cloth away, securing it in a double-wrap compartment in his belt.

It was time.

He stepped toward the edge of Halcyon Reach, toward the transit lines heading to the far rim of West District. His trial location awaited—Nova had marked it.

As he vanished into the city, he didn't realize yet that back in the academy, the rumors had begun to grow. His absence—unreported, unannounced—had triggered its own story.

Some said he was summoned for his reawakening early and failed. Others whispered he had been scouted by the empire's black branches and had vanished into espionage. A few believed he had simply run—cowardice masked by silence.

But the truth was quieter than all of them.

—

The transport hub at West Halcyon was quieter than Aston expected. Compared to the academy convoys—slick, silent, and rune-driven—this vehicle was older, its metal hull scraped by years of utility. The driver was a grizzled man with goggles permanently fixed on his forehead, who only grunted when Aston handed him the spirit-tag for travel clearance.

The two-hour ride was uneventful.

No security checks. No curious passengers.

Aston sat near the back, silent, hood low. Gray curled in his lap like a coiled shadow, tail twitching once in a while. Mirage had chosen to stay cloaked, hovering quietly above the metal roof. Occasionally, her presence created a slight hum against the glass.

The road bent west, leaving behind the towering spires of Halcyon Reach for the denser forests and scattered ridgelines of the outer settlements. The further they moved, the less spirit-tech infrastructure there was. Fewer towers. Older road glyphs. Magic ran thinner here—like water through cracked stone.

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"Approaching final drop point," the driver muttered through the speaker.

Aston gently stroked Gray's back. "We're nearly there. Stay quiet, stay small."

The cat only yawned and curled tighter, already half-asleep.

When the vehicle finally slowed to a halt, Mirage descended in a flicker of wing and wind, perching quietly on Aston's shoulder. Her eyes, colorless and luminous, scanned the misted horizon beyond the open doors.

Aston stepped down.

The Westridge Hollow Settlement stretched before him—quiet, layered in fog, and built along a carved basin where two hills met and spilled into a wide ravine.

The air smelled of damp wood and spirit dust. Cragged outposts lined the edges—houses of stone and timber, reinforced by spirit-glass shingles. Lanterns glowed faintly in recessed alcoves, their light subdued as if trying not to be noticed.

At first glance, Westridge looked like any other remote commune: clustered homes, a central trade ring, and a distant shrine half-covered by vines.

But Aston's eyes caught more.

People moved too deliberately. Guards didn't wear uniform sigils, but their movements were trained. The tavern door stayed half-open, not for airflow—but surveillance. A pair of children ran past him barefoot, laughing, but a third one lingered behind, eyes scanning his belt, not his face.

This wasn't just a forgotten town.

It was a cover.

[Entry complete. Mapping initiated.]

A text line ran through Aston's vision.

"Tag our coordinates. Begin surveillance," Aston whispered.

[Confirmed.]

Aston adjusted the strap of his pack and stepped off the cobbled path, merging with the slow trickle of foot traffic toward the outer edge of the plaza.

It was time to wear his mask—and disappear.

He found an alley near the rear of a closed pottery shop. Vines curled up the side of its kiln chimney. The wall was still warm—heat stored from a fire long since died. Aston turned his back to the street and pulled the Seraphis Shed from its belt-wrap case.

The material rippled once in the fading light.

He pressed it gently to his face.

The transformation took less than a second. His skin adjusted first—darker tone, heavier lines beneath the eyes. His chin lengthened. His cheekbones narrowed. Even the shape of his ears subtly restructured to better fit the new identity—Narec Vale, the wandering beast tamer from East Reaches.

Though Aston's limbs remained unchanged beneath the cloth, passersby saw a man of lean frame and average height—because the mask didn't alter reality, only how others remembered it.

It was explained by Nova during the ride to Westridge Hollow Settlement that due to the innate skill of the Seraphis Lamiar Garter—the Veilshift Core—anyone who looks at Aston while he's masked automatically 'fills in the blanks' subconsciously, believing his height, gait, and silhouette match a grown man's. Unless his real height and limbs are revealed by touching, or if someone stronger than the garter snake is present, this psychic alignment is nearly perfect.

Nova fed him the background he'd studied in the last two hours.

[Alias active. Vocal resonance shifted. Aura masking calibrated. Recommended behavioral parameters uploaded.]

He stepped back into the fading dusk and re-entered the plaza, now as someone else.

He moved slower, with the gait of a drifter. Not too polished, not too awkward.

When a merchant nodded absently at him, he returned it with the tired politeness of someone who'd passed through too many towns to remember names.

Already, he felt the pull of the mask—not in his face, but in his thoughts.

The identity wanted to settle.

Nova pinged a soft reminder.

[Five hours and fifty-four minutes remain until effect threshold.]

Aston didn't respond. He just walked.

A sign hung crookedly ahead—The Glasshook Tavern—and the scent of something roasting drifted through its window slats. Behind it, past the garden wall, a warehouse sat sealed by a simple lock and no visible glyphs.

Too simple.

He logged it mentally.

His contact would not appear immediately. The mission required three days of stillness—observation, alignment, infiltration.

For now, he needed to find a place to stay.

Narec Vale would rent a room, pay in exact coin, and ask no questions.

Aston Rhyner would wait—quietly—and watch the entire town breathe.

The trial had begun.

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