Presentable robes, for a probationary disciple from the Smoke Dormitories, did not exist.
Lin stood before the small, polished bronze mirror in his cell, regarding his reflection with despair. The standard-issue grey novice robes were coarse, frayed at the cuffs from hours of form practice, and permanently stained with soot and ash. They hung on his lean frame like a sack. He had scrubbed his face and hands until they were raw, and combed his black hair with water, but it did little to elevate him above "charity case."
A soft, rhythmic clank-click sounded at his door. Before he could answer, it slid open. Nyssa stood in the corridor, her mechanical gauntlet glowing with a soft, operational hum. She took one look at him and let out a short, derisive puff of air.
"You look like a half-drowned chimney sweep someone invited to a palace."
"I am a half-drowned chimney sweep someone invited to a palace," Lin replied morosely.
Nyssa stepped inside, her green eyes scanning the sparse room. "Elyria Ignis. That's a viper's nest of expectations. You can't go like that." She tossed a bundle of cloth onto his cot. "Try these."
Lin unfolded the bundle. It was a set of robes. Not the fine crimson-and-gold of the elite, but a deep charcoal grey, almost black, made of a smooth, sturdy fabric that felt expensive. The cut was simple but sharp, with subtle silver threading at the collar and cuffs that mimicked circuit patterns. They were clearly Nyssa's—adapted for her gauntlet, with a specially reinforced left sleeve.
"They're yours," Lin said, stunned.
"I have another set. The Archivist insists her assistants don't look like vagrants. They'll be too short in the leg and tight in the shoulders for you, but it's better than your funeral shroud." She crossed her arms, the gears in her gauntlet whirring softly. "And take this." She tossed him a small, silver pin—a simple, abstract geometric shape. "It's a neutral faction marker. It says you're affiliated with the Archivists, not any noble house. It might keep the wolves from seeing you as completely unattached prey."
Lin changed quickly. The robes were tight across the shoulders and short at the ankles, but they fit his frame with a severity that looked intentional rather than pathetic. The fabric moved quietly, without rustling. The pin, when fastened at his collar, felt like a tiny shield.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked quietly, facing the mirror.
Nyssa leaned against the doorframe. "Because we're both broken things they're trying to fix with unorthodox methods. Because the Archivists' faction is small and we need allies. And because," she added, her voice dropping, "I've read your parents' notes. What they were trying to do... it's not heresy. It's revolution. If you can make it work, it changes everything for people like me. People who don't fit the pure-element mold."
Lin met her eyes in the reflection. There was no pity there, only a hard, pragmatic solidarity. He nodded. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just survive the party. And remember: you're not trying to impress anyone. You're trying to be forgettably adequate. A non-entity. That's your safest role."
Non-entity. Lin took a deep breath, falling into the Breath of the Cracked Vessel. He felt the familiar fractures, the tiny points of stable amalgamated energy. He was a mosaic. Tonight, he would be a blank wall.
The Sun Gallery was not a gallery but a cathedral of fire. It was a vast, circular chamber high in the Tower, its entire domed ceiling a single, transparent crystal that offered a dizzying view of the Heart Flame raging at the spire's peak. The light from that eternal fire filtered through, bathing everything in a dramatic, shifting chiaroscuro of white, gold, and deep orange. The walls were lined with ever-burning braziers shaped like phoenixes in mid-flight, and the floor was polished obsaster—a black stone that captured and reflected the firelight like still water.
The air thrummed with energy, music from unseen instruments, and the low, polished murmur of a hundred conversations. Disciples and junior adepts in their finest robes moved in glittering groups. The elite wore crimson and gold, others wore the colors of their specialized schools: orange for Pyro-Alchemists, black for Forge-Masters, russet for Battle-Adepts. Lin felt like a grey smudge on a masterpiece.
He spotted Elyria near the center of the room, holding court. She had changed into a gown of liquid crimson that seemed woven from captured flame, its edges shimmering with actual, harmless heat-haze. A delicate gold diadem shaped like a phoenix wing rested in her hair. She was surrounded by a circle of similarly dazzling young men and women, all laughing at some witticism.
Lin hovered at the edge of the light, uncertain. Then Elyria's hazel-gold eyes found him across the room. She didn't smile, but gave a slight, imperious tilt of her head. Come here.
Swallowing, Lin navigated through the crowd. The conversations dipped slightly as he passed, eyes noting his ill-fitting but quality robes, his Archivist pin, his unfamiliar face.
"Ah, my escort," Elyria said as he arrived, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Disciples, this is Lin Feng. Professor Ignis's remedial project. He's attempting to learn the basics, despite his… challenges." Her tone was not unkind, but it was clinical, placing him firmly in the category of a curious pet.
A tall, handsome boy with fiery red hair snorted. "Challenges? I heard he can't even light a candle without setting himself on fire."
"That was one time, Jax," said a girl with elaborate braids, her eyes sparkling with malice. "And I heard it was quite the spectacle. More ash than flame."
Lin kept his face politely neutral, his hands clasped behind his back. Non-entity.
"Be nice," Elyria chided, without heat. "Lin is a testament to the Tower's commitment to nurturing every spark, no matter how faint." She looped her arm through his with a surprising, steely strength. "Come. Let me introduce you to some of the Tower's real luminaries. You might learn something."
For the next hour, Lin was paraded like a show pony. Elyria guided him from clique to clique, her grip firm. She introduced him to Pyro-Alchemists who smelled of exotic combustibles, to Forge-Masters whose hands were permanently etched with heat-scars, to austere Battle-Adepts who assessed him with the cold eyes of predators evaluating prey. Through it all, Elyria maintained a running, sotto voce commentary.
"See that man with the scar? He lost his temper during a duel and melted his opponent's ceremonial armor. A scandal, but his family donated a new wing to the library, so here he is."
"The woman in the orange robes?She can distill a gallon of water from a cubic foot of air using only Fire Qi. A parlor trick, but it impresses the trade delegations."
"Those three by the brazier?They are from the main Ignis line. My cousins. They would set you on fire just to watch you burn if they thought you were worth the attention. You are not."
Her words were a map of invisible currents—alliances, grudges, power plays. Lin realized this was not just socialization. It was an education in survival. Elyria, for her own inscrutable reasons, was giving him the keys to navigate the jungle.
At one point, they passed a refreshment table laden with glittering crystal goblets filled with a bubbling, amber liquid that steamed gently. Kyrus stood there, holding a goblet, deep in conversation with a lean, intense-looking disciple whose robes were edged in the black and silver of the Tower's internal security—the "Cinder Guard."
Elyria's arm tightened almost imperceptibly on Lin's. "Ah. My distant, meddlesome cousin. And his new friend from the Guard. How predictable."
Kyrus spotted them. His eyes lit up with malicious delight. He excused himself and sauntered over, the Cinder Guard disciple following a step behind, his gaze watchful.
"Cousin Elyria," Kyrus said, performing a flawless, shallow bow. "And the project. I must say, Feng, you clean up marginally better than expected. The Archivist's cast-offs suit you. They have the same… experimental air."
"Kyrus," Elyria replied, her voice like cooled honey. "I see you've found a minder. Having trouble following the rules on your own?"
Kyrus's smirk didn't falter. "Merely discussing recent anomalies in the lower dormitory Qi readings with Disciple Rook here. The Guard is always interested in… fluctuations." His eyes slid to Lin. "Especially those that correlate with particular individuals."
Disciple Rook, a young man with a face like a hatchet and eyes the color of slate, said nothing. He just watched Lin, his expression unreadable.
"How diligent," Elyria said. "I'm sure the Tower is safer for your efforts. Now, if you'll excuse us, I'm due to present the seasonal yield from the South-Western forges to my father's guests." She began to steer Lin away.
"Of course, of course," Kyrus said, raising his goblet in mock salute. "Do enjoy the Festival, Feng. And do try the Phoenix Spark wine. It's quite… illuminating. For those who can handle it."
As they moved away, Elyria's voice was a razor in Lin's ear. "The Cinder Guard monitors all Qi usage within the Tower. Officially, for safety. Unofficially, for control. Kyrus has filed a report. They are watching you now. Do nothing. Absolutely nothing."
The pressure was a physical weight on Lin's shoulders. He felt the eyes of the Guard on his back, the curious stares of the elite, the crushing expectation of Elyria's performance. He was a walking anomaly in a room dedicated to perfect, orthodox power.
The climax of the Festival was the "Spark Display." As the music swelled, disciples with proven skill were invited to demonstrate a controlled, artistic use of Fire Qi for the assembly. It was a tradition, a way to showcase the Tower's rising talent.
Jax, the red-haired boy, went first. He created a complex, rotating sculpture of interlocking fire-rings that danced in the air to the music. The girl with braids followed, weaving ribbons of flame into a glowing, temporary tapestry depicting the Tower's founding. Each display was met with polite, appreciative applause.
Then, to Lin's horror, Elyria released his arm and glided to the center of the floor.
"For our final display," she announced, her voice carrying easily, "I thought we might illustrate the principle of mentorship. The strong guiding the weak." Her hazel-gold eyes found Lin in the crowd. "Disciple Feng. Join me."
A murmur rippled through the gallery. This was unexpected. This was theater.
Lin's blood turned to ice. He saw Professor Ignis, standing near the Tower Master's dais, his face pale. He saw Archivist Lian, partially hidden in a shadowed archway, her golden eyes narrowed. He saw Kyrus, grinning like a shark. He saw Disciple Rook of the Cinder Guard, watching, recording.
He had no choice.
He walked forward on legs that felt like wood, stopping a few feet from Elyria. The light from the dome above made her seem like a goddess of flame, and him like a shadow at her feet.
"The simplest technique," Elyria said, addressing the crowd but looking at Lin. "The Ember Palm. The foundation. Watch as I guide his energy."
She extended her perfect, unblemished hand, palm up. A tiny, exquisite flame the color of a sunflower bloomed there, dancing with absolute obedience. "Pure intent. Pure control."
She then turned her palm towards Lin. "Now, Disciple Feng. Mirror me. Let us see the result of patient tutelage."
Lin's mouth was dry. He could feel the gaze of the entire Tower's elite, the crushing scrutiny. He could feel the amulets, warm against his chest, a secret lifeline. He could not fail here. But he could not succeed too well, either. He had to produce his forgery, under the eyes of experts.
He raised his right hand, palm facing hers, a foot apart. He sank into the Breath of the Cracked Vessel, finding the calm within the fractures. He located the Stormstone amalgam. He called upon the amulets, feeling their subtle guidance like a hand on his shoulder.
He commanded the jump.
The familiar, sickening lurch. The cramming agony in his palm. He let the strain show on his face—a grimace, a tremor in his arm. It wasn't hard to act.
HISSS-CRACK!
The jet that burst from his palm was its usual muddy orange-brown, veined with grey, throwing off its characteristic ash and crystalline dust. It was weak, sputtering, and visibly unstable next to Elyria's serene sunflower flame. But it was there. It lasted two full seconds before guttering out, leaving his palm smoking and his arm shaking visibly with real pain.
A few stifled laughs echoed. Someone muttered, "Pathetic."
But Elyria did not laugh. She stared at the space between their hands, where the energies had briefly met. Her flawless brow furrowed, just for an instant. She had been close enough to feel it. Not just see it. To feel the texture of his energy—its granular, composite nature, its dissonant harmony.
She lowered her hand, extinguishing her flame. The polite, slightly condescending applause of the crowd washed over them.
"As you see," she said, her voice regaining its smooth, public cadence, "progress is often messy. But it is progress. Thank you, Disciple Feng."
Lin lowered his aching arm, the humiliation hot on his cheeks, but beneath it, a cold dread. She knew. She had felt something.
As the crowd began to disperse for the final toast, Elyria leaned close, her scent of ozone and expensive perfume enveloping him. Her smile was fixed for the audience, but her words were for him alone, each one a chip of ice.
"That was not Fire Qi," she whispered. "That was a collage. My father will be very interested." She pulled back, her public smile never wavering. "Do enjoy the rest of the evening. I believe your Archivist is waiting for you."
Lin turned and saw Archivist Lian at the edge of the room, her expression unreadable. He walked towards her, the sounds of the Festival fading into a roar in his ears. He had worn the mask. He had played the non-entity.
And the most powerful girl in the room had seen right through it.
The Tower Master's daughter now knew his secret. And if she knew, it was only a matter of time before the Tower itself decided what to do with its living, breathing, heretical experiment.