Puerto Nébula had never belonged to a single power.
Even the wind seemed divided.
From the western docks, the banners of the Naval Dominion snapped in rigid lines of deep blue and silver, their fabric marked with the crest of the Azure Fleet. Cannons rested along reinforced platforms, polished and silent, pointed not at enemies—but at the horizon.
Across the upper terraces, strung between cargo cranes and guild towers, hung the layered sigils of the Coalition: the Breeders' Spiral, the Navigators' Compass, the Core-Reclaimers' Sigil of Three Hooks. Their flags moved differently in the wind—less disciplined, more fluid.
Two authorities. One city.
And beneath both of them, the ocean.
Lyon Lhorne stood on the eastern overlook and watched the tide shift between pylons of saltstone and steelwood. The morning mist rose in pale veils, catching light from the floating lantern arrays above the harbor.
Sixteen years.
Old enough to receive a license.
Old enough to choose a Metamor.
Old enough to become visible.
He adjusted the collar of his dark coat and glanced toward the Academy platform that extended over open water. Naval officers were already positioned along the perimeter. Guild observers stood farther back, speaking in low voices.
Security was tighter than usual.
Not because of the ceremony.
Because three nights ago, something had stirred beneath the old lighthouse ruins.
The Dominion had called it seismic instability.
The Coalition had called it an opportunity.
No one had called it what it was.
Uncertain.
Lyon inhaled the salt-heavy air slowly.
His father's boots sounded against the stone behind him.
"Watching the tides won't steady your pulse," Captain Arven Lhorne said.
Lyon did not turn immediately. "It isn't my pulse I'm measuring."
A faint huff of amusement. "You always say things like that before something important."
When Lyon finally faced him, the resemblance was clear—same dark hair, same steady posture. But Arven carried the rigid stillness of command, while Lyon's stillness felt observational.
On his father's shoulder perched a Galehook Raptor, sleek wings folded tight. Its eyes were sharp, intelligent, tracking everything. Epic grade. Level 51.
Not legendary.
Not mythic.
But powerful enough to hold the sky above Puerto Nébula.
"You understand the limits," Arven said quietly. "Whatever you bond today, it will grow within structure. Don't chase stories of impossible grades."
"I know," Lyon replied.
And he did.
No human in the Azure Dominion possessed a Metamor beyond Epic.
Legendary creatures existed—but not under human command.
Mythic beings were recorded in war archives and ruin reports. Level 250 and beyond. Entities that reshaped coastlines. Entities that left permanent fractures in the world.
They were not companions.
They were events.
Lyon had studied maps older than the Dominion itself. He knew of monarchies inland, of sects that worshiped fossilized cores, of academies whose directors commanded Epic Metamor near Level 200. He knew Puerto Nébula was peripheral.
He also knew that limits were rarely natural.
Most were enforced.
A presence approached from the terrace stairs.
His mother.
She moved without hurry, long coat trailing slightly behind her. People rarely noticed it consciously, but they stepped aside when she passed. Not out of fear. Out of instinct.
She placed a hand briefly against Lyon's shoulder.
"You're steady," she said.
"Yes."
She studied him a moment longer than necessary.
There were things in her eyes he had never quite understood. Depths that did not belong to coastal life.
"You don't need the strongest beginning," she added softly. "You need the right direction."
His father glanced at her. "Strength first. Direction follows."
She did not argue.
She never did.
But Lyon had grown up between those two philosophies. Structure and horizon. Order and inquiry.
"Remember," she said, "the world is larger than this region. Never assume you're seeing its edges."
He met her gaze.
"I won't."
That was all.
No dramatic farewell. No emotional display.
They walked together toward the Academy platform.
The ceremony basin hovered over open water, anchored by three reinforced pylons. Naval officers maintained outer control. Guild representatives documented each bond for licensing.
At sixteen, every citizen could receive one Metamor.
One slot.
Additional slots would only open with confirmed grade advancement.
Illegal bonds existed, of course. Smugglers. Unregistered breeders. Black-market cores.
The Dominion hunted them.
The Coalition sometimes funded them.
Lyon stepped forward when his name was called.
"Lyon Lhorne."
The mist within the basin thickened as he entered.
Sound dampened.
The world narrowed.
He had felt the System since childhood—not as numbers, not as commands, but as something behind perception. Like standing at the shore and sensing the curvature of the sea.
Most people described their System as a structured display. Clear labels. Defined windows.
Lyon had never quite seen it that way.
When the mist enclosed him, something in his mind aligned.
The world shifted sideways.
Not visually.
Structurally.
Lines extended outward from his own center of awareness—thin at first, then branching, overlapping, converging toward distances he could not measure.
Possibilities.
They had always been there.
Today they sharpened.
A shape formed within the mist.
Small.
Low to the ground.
A fox-like creature stepped forward, fur gleaming with a tideglass sheen. A fin traced its spine. Three translucent tails drifted like suspended water.
It did not radiate dominance.
It radiated awareness.
The visible System interpretation coalesced at the edge of his perception.
MareafoxGrade: EpicLevel: 1Attribute: Tide
Standard conditions unfolded beneath.
Reach Level 20.Absorb Storm-Touched Core.Stabilize Resonance above 80%.
Simple.
Expected.
But the horizon behind the visible layer did not stop there.
The fox was not a fixed shape.
It was a branching convergence.
From its small body extended pathways—some bright and narrow, some vast and dim, some jagged with instability.
He saw one path deepen into something vast and abyssal. Another refracted light like a prism. Another—farther still—bent space around it.
The further the branch, the fewer alternatives remained.
Common beginnings led to wide divergence.
Higher stages narrowed into inevitability.
Mythic did not branch.
It resolved.
Pressure formed behind his eyes.
He exhaled slowly and let the deeper layers blur.
If he focused too sharply, the lines intensified. If he relaxed, they softened.
The fox stepped closer.
He sensed its Deriva—not wild, not unstable, but active. Responsive.
Its Estabilidad was unusually high for a newly manifested Epic.
Its base structural limit… higher than average.
He did not need numbers to understand.
He extended his hand.
The fox placed its paw against his palm.
The bond formed without resistance.
No surge of blinding light.
No dramatic collapse.
Just alignment.
Resonance.
The visible interpretation clarified.
Resonance: 93%
Higher than most first bonds.
Murmurs filtered faintly from beyond the mist.
Epic at first bond was rare in Puerto Nébula.
But Lyon barely heard them.
Behind the visible layer, something shifted.
A branch he had not focused on before flickered.
For a moment—only a moment—he perceived something that did not belong to the fox's structure.
A distortion.
Not external.
Not internal.
As if one of the horizon lines extended past the boundaries of the region itself.
He withdrew his attention immediately.
The pressure eased.
The mist began to thin.
He stepped back onto the platform with Mareafox balanced lightly against his shoulder.
Applause rose.
Guild representatives recorded the bond.
Naval officers exchanged measured nods.
His father's posture relaxed slightly.
His mother's gaze did not change—but something in it sharpened.
Lyon kept his expression neutral.
He would not display confusion.
He would not display excitement.
The fox's tails brushed lightly against his neck.
Beyond the ceremony platform, the sea shifted.
Subtle.
A tremor that did not register on visible instrumentation.
But beneath the city, far below the old lighthouse ruins, something responded.
Not to the bond itself.
To the observation.
As if the act of seeing had weight.
The Dominion banners continued to snap in the wind.
The Coalition sigils fluttered in answer.
Puerto Nébula remained divided.
Unaware that one of its newest licensed citizens had just glimpsed a horizon that did not end at the coast.
Lyon Lhorne did not believe in destiny.
He believed in structures.
And structures, when understood deeply enough, could be bent.
The fox shifted slightly and settled.
Above the harbor, gulls wheeled between divided flags.
Below the harbor, in stone chambers sealed long before the Dominion claimed the coast, an old fracture pulsed once.
And somewhere far beyond the Azure region, where the sea met territories uncharted, something vast stirred in its sleep.
Not awakened.
Not yet.
But aware.