The journey from Hollowreach to the grand, mechanized heart of Thalenor was a stark lesson in the Arcanum's doctrine of Structure. Vael Ardent travelled south for three days, the mild, persistent dampness of the temperate zone clinging to his cloak. Every kilometer brought a fresh influx of human organization: cobbled roads replaced mud tracks, simple farming villages gave way to complex, grumbling factory towns, and the air thickened with the acrid scent of coal smoke and ozone—the exhaust of contained Lúmenic power.
Vael walked alone, a solitary figure against the relentless, organized flow of the world. His innate detachment—once a defense mechanism against small-town gossip—now served as a necessary psychological shield against the overwhelming structure of the industrialized continent. He observed everything, judged nothing, and prepared to be the quiet agent of absence in the loudest city on Avernus.
He crossed the last valley on a rattling, overcrowded steam-train. The carriage was an exercise in controlled efficiency: every rivet was in its place, every schedule rigidly enforced by the Law of Repetition, and the very air was measured and regulated. The pressure cooker of human proximity was a perfect test for his newfound power.
A loud, vulgar man in a cheap, velvet coat—a minor guild manager, judging by his excessive gold chain—sat opposite Vael, loudly complaining about his business rivals. The man grew agitated, spitting tiny droplets as he gesticulated wildly. He noticed Vael's pale, detached expression and the unusual, silvered rings around his eyes.
"What are you looking at, boy?" the manager snapped, his voice scraping against the quiet atmosphere Vael preferred. "You got no manners? Is this your first time out of the muck?"
Vael simply tilted his head, his face remaining perfectly still. He offered no apology, no aggressive retort, only a silent, unwavering regard. It was the lack of respect the manager expected, met not with disrespect, but with a profound, cold absence of recognition.
The manager's hand instinctively went to the small, ornate Lúmenic pistol holstered on his belt. It was a common accessory in Thalenor, a symbol of personal Containment. "If you got a problem, state it," he growled, already pulling the weapon halfway from its leather.
Vael did not move. He focused his Quiétude. He imposed the Controlled Vacuum not on the bullet, but on the infinitesimal pocket of space surrounding the firing pin. He maintained the Vacuum for less than a second, then released it, the disruption entirely undetectable to the human senses.
"I have no problem, sir," Vael replied, his voice low and utterly even. "But you seem agitated."
The manager, confused by the boy's refusal to react, finished drawing the pistol. He waved it vaguely, the metal glistening under the carriage lamp. "See this? This is Law. This is structure. You keep that dead stare to yourself."
He fumbled slightly, re-holstering the weapon. The moment he tried to seat the pin, the mechanism jammed—not because of impact, but because the structure of the metal itself had been momentarily corrupted, shifting the alignment by the smallest possible measure. The weapon was now a useless, heavy ornament, structurally broken.
The manager cursed, checking the weapon's chamber repeatedly, convinced it was cheap manufacturing, not a metaphysical intervention. Vael watched, his expression unchanged. He had asserted his own Law in the face of another's arrogance, and the arrogant one was none the wiser. Vael had won, not by fighting, but by enforcing a principle.
As the train descended into the basin of Thalenor, the sky above turned a perpetual, industrialized bronze. The Iron Rain was not always water; often, it was fine soot and rust particles, clinging to the pervasive fog. Thalenor was immense, a towering landscape of black stone, iron bridges, and chimneys that resembled stone monuments rather than industrial conduits.
The Arcanum's presence was absolute. Every clock, every light, every vehicle, and every guard wore the stylized, oppressive Law of Containment. The atmosphere was one of profound, focused energy, but it felt stagnant, choked by its own structural rigidity.
Vael's Quiétude was constantly challenged by this environment. The sheer volume of imposed Laws—electrical grids, hydraulic systems, communication networks—felt like a deafening, structured scream inside his Lúmen-sensitive mind. He had to keep the Threshold focused and tight, maintaining his own internal absence as a countermeasure.
He found cheap lodging in the lower city, a district known as the Grates, where the steam runoff from the Arcanum's central engines collected. His first task was to find the records his father mentioned.
Haren Ardent had not only worked in the mines; he had been a meticulous researcher. His journals mentioned the "Sub-Arcanum Repository," a secondary archive where the vast, but often forgotten, research notes of former Arcanists were stored—research deemed too speculative or non-compliant with the Law of Containment.
Vael spent the following day navigating the city, moving with the same contained efficiency he applied to his power. He avoided contact, answered questions with minimal syllables, and relied on the ingrained habits of people to ignore the inconspicuous. His cold, pale presence became part of the city's shadow.
He found the Repository—a large, grim library attached to the back of the Arcanum's Central Tower. It was guarded not by men, but by the Law itself: complex, interconnected Flux alarms and pressure plates designed to detect any interruption to the city's structured flow.
The interior was silent, dusty, and smelled of old, decaying paper—a welcome relief from the metallic tang of the streets. Vael, wearing a borrowed scholar's coat to blend in, approached the main desk, where an elderly, thin Arcanist sat engrossed in a massive, leather-bound volume.
"I require access to the former Arcanist Dareth's notes. Research on the Law of Imposition, sub-category Passage," Vael said, using the formal Lúmen terminology he'd memorized from his father's texts.
The Arcanist, startled by the precise, quiet voice, looked up. His eyes, though tired, held the sharp, calculated gaze of a true believer in structure. He recognized the tone, if not the person.
"You are not on the Arcanum's active roster. Identification," the man demanded, his hand reaching for a brass signal button.
Vael knew he had seconds before the man activated the alarm and sealed the archives. He could use the Vacuum, but in such proximity to the Central Tower, it would be instantly detected and triangulated.
He spoke again, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, the tone heavy with the contained, internal cold of his power. "Arcanist, your life is an exercise in structure. I know every Law that holds this room together. Do not introduce a variable you cannot calculate."
The Arcanist hesitated, his finger hovering over the button. Vael did not threaten him; he merely stated a fact of ontological existence. The silver rings in his eyes seemed to capture and reflect the library's dim light, making them look like twin holes into deep space.
Vael focused his Quiétude, not on the man, but on the delicate, brittle paper of the book the man had been reading. He applied the Vacuum just at the corner of the title page, targeting the Law of Material Cohesion.
The paper did not tear; it simply came apart at the atomic level, shedding a small, white, silent shower of material dust onto the desk. The Arcanist saw it, a momentary, impossible disintegration of matter under no visible force.
Terror, not of a visible threat, but of a conceptual violation, froze the man.
"Dareth's notes are in Section Gamma-Seven, Vault P-5," the Arcanist whispered, his voice dry. "Access is manual code: 7-9-2-4. Go, and do not disrupt the Law."
Vael gave a crisp nod, a single gesture of appreciation for the man's sudden compliance. He walked quickly toward Gamma-Seven, leaving the Arcanist paralyzed, the scent of atomic dust faint in the air. Vael felt no satisfaction, only the successful execution of an equation. His father's pursuit had been metaphysical, but the Arcanum's control was merely mechanical. The Vacuum was the perfect tool to exploit that difference.
He reached the vault, input the code, and accessed the notes. He did not find his father's direct research on the Limenic Flare, but a set of secondary maps, notations on a hidden gathering point, and a single, critical address written on a loose piece of parchment: "Selene's Atelier, Clockwork District."
The Arcanum was closing in. The brief Vacuum he had used in the main hall was already being triangulated. Vael tucked the documents into his satchel and exited the Repository through a back alley, disappearing into the perpetual, iron fog of Thalenor. He had found his next clue, a person who knew his father, and the clock was ticking.