The week of shared convalescence had forged a fragile bond between the members of the Iron Compact, but it was a bond built on a shared wound. For Liam, the quiet moments were the loudest, filled with the echoing failure at Sub-station 7. The reprieve ended abruptly. Borin summoned him to his office, the air heavy with the scent of old metal and unspoken expectations. Ronan was not with him. This was a private matter.
"Your progress has stalled," Borin began, his voice leaving no room for argument. He gestured to a chair, a rare concession. "In the field, your power was a liability. It was a storm of grief that offered no shelter and illuminated nothing. The Ahenk Law for a Sealbearer of Time is built on a foundation of patience and the acceptance of the natural flow. Your entire being is at war with this foundation. As you are now, you are a broken tool."
Liam's hands clenched in his lap. He could not deny the truth.
"Therefore," Borin continued, "your training will be twofold. Half of your day will be spent with Isolde in the archives. She will guide you in the art of stillness, of silencing the mind. It is the only way you will learn to hear the true, singular echo of the past without being deafened by the noise of your own pain." Borin paused, his gray eyes fixing on Liam with an unnerving intensity. "The other half of your day will be spent with someone else. The Blank Page Legion deals in lies, forgeries, and the manipulation of truth. To hunt them, to understand them, you must understand their methods. You must learn the art of deception."
Liam frowned. "I'm not a liar, Captain."
"I am not training you to be a liar," Borin corrected him, his voice sharp. "I am training you to recognize the architecture of a lie. To see its foundations, its load-bearing walls, and its hidden fractures. You cannot dismantle a machine you do not understand."
Borin led him from the office, through the main workshop, and into a section of the Gearhouse Liam had never seen before. It was a series of interconnected rooms designed to look like various locations within the city: a grimy tavern, a noble's opulent study, a Guardian checkpoint. It was a training ground for infiltration and espionage. In the center of the first room, a mock tavern, an old man sat at a table, calmly sipping a cup of tea. He was thin and unassuming, dressed in the simple robes of a city scholar, his face a roadmap of fine wrinkles. The only remarkable thing about him was his eyes; they were a pale, piercing blue, and they seemed to see everything at once.
"Liam Corbin," Borin announced. "This is Silas. He will be your instructor in the less… reputable arts of information gathering."
Silas smiled, a warm, grandfatherly expression that didn't quite match the analytical sharpness in his eyes. "Ah, the young Watcher of the Moment. A pleasure." His voice was smooth and cultured. "Borin tells me you have a rather literal mind. Let's test that, shall we?" He set his teacup down. "I will make three statements. Two will be true, one will be a lie. Identify the lie. First: I served with our dear Captain in the Mizan Guardians for twenty years. Second: The tea I am drinking is a rare blend from the Southern Continent, worth more than your weekly salary. Third: I am a Sealbearer of the Path of Perception."
Liam considered. The first statement seemed plausible; it would explain his presence here. The second was a boast, but the man had an air of quiet wealth. The third seemed the most likely truth, given the context. He was a teacher of observation and deception. "The lie," Liam said after a moment, "is the second statement. About the tea."
Silas's smile widened. "Wrong." He took another sip. "This tea is indeed exquisitely expensive." He then looked at Borin. "I never served with the Captain. We've known each other for years, but I found the Guardians' methods far too restrictive for my tastes." He then turned his piercing gaze back to Liam. "And I am not a Sealbearer of Perception. My Seal is that of the 'Tangled Skein,' a minor branch of the Path of Fate, focused on confusing the destinies of others. But you assumed Perception because it fit the narrative I presented. You looked for the most obvious deception, not the most subtle one."
Silas leaned forward. "That is your first lesson, young Watcher. Truth is not a fact. It is merely a story that two people agree to believe in. To fight the Legion, you must stop looking for facts. You must learn to read the stories people tell themselves, and learn how to offer them a better one."
The bell of the grand clock in the main hall chimed, signaling the end of the hour. "Your lesson in the temporal world awaits," Silas said, dismissing him with a wave.
Liam left the simulation room, his mind reeling. He felt as though the very foundations of his orderly, logical world had been shaken. He made his way to the archives, where Isolde was waiting for him, a single object on the table between them: the frozen chronometer, the anchor of his grief.
"The Captain told me what you are to do," she whispered, her voice a calming pool of silence. "The memory inside this object is a storm. Do not try to fight the waves. Do not try to command the tide. Just… float. Find the center of the storm and listen."
Liam sat, taking the cold, heavy object in his hands. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let the [Temporal Echo] pull him under. The world vanished, replaced by the familiar, agonizing sounds and smells of his workshop from two years ago. Elara's laughter echoed in his ears. The scent of wood polish filled his senses. The temptation was immediate, a physical force that threatened to drown him. Change it. Warn her. Stop it.
He fought against it, a silent scream building in his throat. He was not floating. He was thrashing, drowning in the sea of his own past. The echo shattered, and he was thrown back into the present, gasping for air, his heart hammering against his ribs. The quiet of the archive felt like a mockery. His first lesson in stillness had ended in a tempest.