The skyline of Silverstar City cut through steam and pale sunlight, its ivory spires clawing at the heavens like the fingers of a patient god. The gear-bridge beneath the train trembled with mechanical rhythm, the pulse of a city that had long since traded its soul for order and progress.
As Elara disembarked, the metallic air stung her lungs, laced with ozone and the faint perfume of aetheric residue. Her emerald eyes no longer flickered with hesitation. What replaced it was resolve—cold, deliberate, forged in the soot and hunger of Slagtown.
Kaelan Blackwood did not allow her even a heartbeat's pause. He took her light pack with a gentle, proprietary motion, his voice warm as sunlight filtered through glass—beautiful, but untouchable.
"Elara," he said, "I've already arranged your lodging. The Whispering Spire—a side chamber adjacent to my own quarters. Its psionic field is the most refined in the Weavers' Cloister: stable, quiet, perfect for your studies. And," his tone softened, "I can… ensure you're properly cared for."
His eyes were not on her. They swept the platform instead, over the few gathered figures—senior students in silver-trimmed robes, junior Association officials carrying sigilled tablets. They bowed, reverent before a Sage, yet their glances toward Elara held quiet calculation. In that tableau, she was merely another ornament of Kaelan's standing, proof of his benevolence, his control.
The Whispering Spire rose beyond the central observatory—a slender, pale tower wound with glimmering conduits that pulsed faintly like veins of light. It was not the grandest residence within the Academy, but its location spoke volumes: proximity to power, to privilege, to the Council itself.
To Elara, it was nothing less than a gilded cage.
She could already feel it—the faint hum of Kaelan's awareness brushing against her thoughts. A fine filament of psychic perception, soft as a breath, invasive as frost. It skimmed the surface of her emotions, testing, reading, cloaked beneath concern.
Elara drew a slow breath, forcing calm into her veins. Then, lowering her gaze just enough to maintain the illusion of humility, she said, "Brother… thank you. But—could I have a little more time?"
Her voice trembled in precisely the right measure, timid but not defiant. "Just a week. I've been away from the dorms too long. I need to review my class notes with others. If I move suddenly, people will notice… and I don't want to bring unnecessary attention to you. One week, that's all."
The reasoning was flawless—ordinary, even. Exactly what a nervous, average second-tier Soother might say.
Kaelan's expression didn't change, but something behind his composure flickered—like a faint distortion across a perfectly smooth mirror. His aura pulsed once, nearly imperceptibly. The psionic tension in the air drew taut, like the tightening of a web spun across the station.
Then the moment passed. His smile returned, warm and immaculate.
"Of course," he said softly. "Adjustment takes time. One week, then. I'll have your belongings sent for you."
He reached out, slow, as if to brush her shoulder in reassurance. At that precise instant, a pipe hissed nearby, venting steam. Elara stepped aside instinctively, feigning startlement.
His hand paused midair, a heartbeat too long. Then withdrew, graceful as ever. The web, invisible yet palpable, seemed to draw closer all the same.
Elara turned away, her gaze tracing the city's sprawling heart—the rotating gearworks, the shuttles of aether-trams gliding between towers, the halo of faint blue energy crowning the observatory's peak.
Silverstar pulsed with brilliance and discipline. Every corridor, every warded passage hummed with the combined resonance of hundreds of minds weaving, measuring, cataloguing. Beneath the wonder, she felt only suffocation.
Her fingers brushed the strap of her satchel, grounding herself. Within it were two things that mattered: the brass pendant pulsing faintly with its unstable protection, and Foundations of Rune-Etching—her map to a kind of freedom that could not yet be spoken aloud.
One week.
Seven days to breathe, to prepare, to find a way before the web closed completely.
Be absorbed, domesticated—another instrument within the Sage's perfect order—or shatter the cage itself.
Her jaw tightened. The train's departing whistle echoed behind her, and she felt, faintly, the psychic tremor of Kaelan's attention lingering like a shadow at her back.
He won't wait long, she thought. Neither can I.
Her steps quickened as she left the platform, vanishing into the lattice of bridges and lifts that wove the Weavers' Cloister together.
The war had begun, though neither side had yet spoken its name.
Elara whispered her own vow into the hum of the city's machines:
I must reach Leon.
Confirm the Brotherhood's outpost.
Accelerate the new distillation sequence.
Time, in Silverstar, moved like a blade—gleaming, measured, merciless.
And for the first time, Elara walked toward it, not as prey, but as someone quietly sharpening her own.