I didn't wait for the Weavers to finish their discussion or for the crowd to fully disperse. The moment the initial shock wore off, and the chaos began to subside, I moved. My legs, which had been frozen, now propelled me with a desperate urgency. I melted into the still-recovering crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs, each beat a frantic drum against the walls of my chest. I didn't look back. I didn't dare.
The sounds of the Weavers' voices, their controlled power, the murmurs of the crowd, all faded into a dull roar in my ears as I fled.I ran until my lungs burned, until the elegant spires of the central district were replaced by the familiar, narrower streets of the lower tiers. I didn't stop until I reached the relative anonymity of my own district, then my own dwelling. I slammed the door shut behind me, leaning against it, gasping for air, my body slick with cold sweat. My hands still tingled, a phantom echo of the raw Aether that had erupted from me.This wasn't a minor surge. This wasn't something I could dismiss as imagination, or a trick of the light. I had directly interfered with the Weavers' power, caused a visible disruption in the heart of Aethelgard. I had seen the alarm in Lyra's eyes, the shock in Seraphina's.
They knew something was wrong. They might not know what, but they knew. My time was running out. The city, once my home, was now a cage with a rapidly tightening net.The fear that had been a constant companion now morphed into a cold, desperate resolve. Hiding was no longer enough. Suppressing was no longer an option. I needed answers. I needed to understand what I was, what this power was, and why it was condemned. The Matriarchy's narrative, that male channeling was an aberration, a disease, felt like a flimsy veil after witnessing Joric's purification and experiencing my own uncontrollable outburst. There had to be more. There had to be a truth hidden beneath centuries of lies.My
mind immediately turned to the Hall of Records. As a scribe, I had limited access to its vast, labyrinthine archives. Most of my work kept me in the more mundane sections – trade manifests, civic decrees, property records. But I knew there were deeper, older sections, rarely accessed, filled with forgotten histories, philosophical treatises, and records deemed irrelevant or, perhaps, inconvenient.That night, I ate little, my mind consumed by my new, terrifying purpose. My parents noticed my quietness, my distracted air, but attributed it to the lingering shock of the Purification, or perhaps the growing burdens of adulthood. They offered quiet comfort, which I accepted with a forced smile, my secret a heavy weight between us.As soon as darkness fell and the city settled into its nightly hum, I prepared.
I dressed in my darkest tunic, choosing clothes that would blend into the shadows. I took a small, oil-filled lantern, its flame carefully shielded, and a worn leather satchel. My heart pounded with a mix of fear and a strange, exhilarating sense of purpose. This was dangerous, perhaps even more dangerous than my accidental surges. If I was caught researching forbidden texts, especially texts related to male channeling, it would be direct proof of my "corruption." It would be a one-way ticket to the Purification platform.The Hall of Records was a colossal structure of pale, ancient stone, its exterior adorned with intricate carvings depicting the Matriarchy's triumphs and the glorious history of female channeling.