The greenhouse settled into an uneasy quiet after Bram's declaration—quiet in sound, but not in feeling. The air itself felt charged, dense with invisible threads that seemed to stretch between Arin and every living surface in the room.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Lira stayed close beside Arin, watching him with the fierce attention of someone waiting for the slightest twitch that meant danger. Kael stepped back only slightly, but kept a shoulder angled toward Arin—as if to guard him from the very Weave itself, absurd as that was. Bram stood opposite them, hands resting lightly on the old parchment. The scroll's corners curled inward, as though trying to fold back in on its secrets.
Arin tried to focus on breathing.
In.
Out.
Soft pulses of awareness brushed the edges of his consciousness—like strands of gossamer catching on his thoughts. The sensation wasn't painful. More like a tug. A nudge. A request to look deeper, to notice something beyond what his physical senses were built to understand.
He forced himself to ignore it.
For now.
Bram cleared his throat gently, drawing their attention back to him.
"Before we begin," he said, voice softer, "you need to understand something essential. The Weave is not a single entity. It is a network—alive, reactive, fragmented—but still immensely vast. When you feel it brushing against your mind, that is only the smallest point of contact."
Arin nodded slowly. "So… what I feel now isn't the whole Weave. Just part of it."
"Exactly." Bram angled the crystalline slab slightly, and the holographic map shifted, threads of light bending and swirling. "Anchors experience the Weave like a landscape. Hills. Valleys. Currents. What you felt earlier—the Beckoned recognizing you—that is akin to a beacon lighting in the distance."
Kael crossed his arms. "And these Beckoned… they're not here physically?"
"Not unless called," Bram replied. "Or unless the Weave grows unstable enough for them to manifest."
Lira frowned. "Manifest how?"
Bram hesitated.
"By crossing through the fissures."
The room chilled.
Even the glowvines dimmed in response.
Arin felt his pulse climb again. "So the fissure wasn't random."
"Nothing the Weave does is random," Bram said. "Chaotic, perhaps. Desperate, definitely. But not random."
Kael ran a hand through his hair. "All right. Then let's talk about what matters. You said you'd teach him. So start. What exactly does an Anchor do? What do they become?"
Bram looked at Arin as though weighing something invisible.
"Like I said before," he began slowly, "Anchors, are not chosen because they are powerful. They are chosen because they are receptive."
Arin blinked. "Receptive to what?"
"To the Weave's intelligence. Its memory. Its impulses. Its search for balance."
The tug on Arin's consciousness tightened slightly, like an invisible hand closing around his thoughts—not to take, but to remind him it was there. Watching.
Listening.
He ignored it again.
Barely.
Bram continued, "Most people interact with the Weave only through the city's conduits—artificial channels that regulate energy flow. You've lived your entire life inside a controlled simulation of the Weave's natural patterns."
Kael snorted. "Figures. Another layer of control."
"Yes," Bram admitted. "And no. Without the conduits, Caelum would have torn itself apart decades ago. The Weave's raw state is too unstable for ordinary minds."
"And Anchors aren't ordinary," Lira said quietly.
"No," Bram said. "But that does not make them invulnerable. Arin—your contact earlier? With the Beckoned?"
Arin nodded slowly.
"That first touch," Bram said, "has already begun altering your perception. You may not notice it immediately. But by tomorrow, colors may feel different. Vibrations may feel like meaning. You may sense people before you see them."
Kael stiffened. "Is this dangerous to him?"
"It can be," Bram admitted. "If the Weave pushes too quickly, or if Arin resists too hard. Balance is crucial."
Arin exhaled. "So you want me to… what? Let it in?"
"Not fully," Bram said firmly. "Not yet. First, you need grounding. Discipline. Structure. Otherwise the Weave could overwhelm your identity, and that…" He trailed off. "That is not a fate I'd wish on anyone."
Arin swallowed. "So teach me to stay myself."
"Yes," Bram said. "Exactly that."
Lira brushed her fingers lightly against Arin's arm—barely a touch, but grounding in its simplicity. Arin anchored himself to the sensation. Real. Physical. Human.
Bram turned back to the table.
"Our first step is to strengthen your boundary. Your sense of self must be stable before you interact with the Weave at deeper levels."
Kael frowned. "Sense of self? Like… meditation?"
"In a manner of speaking," Bram replied. "But with more risk."
He retrieved another thin crystal from a drawer, this one duller than the slab but etched with geometric lines.
"This," he said, "is a resonance stabilizer. Normally only used by apprentices in Weave studies. But it will serve another purpose here."
Arin stepped forward slowly. "What do I need to do?"
Bram set the crystal on the table.
"Place your hand on it."
Arin hesitated.
Lira's voice was soft. "You don't have to if you're not ready."
"I am," Arin said before he could second-guess himself. "I need to be."
He reached out and rested his fingers on the crystal.
Instantly, warmth traveled up his arm—not hot, but bright, like sunlight filtered through water. The geometric lines on the crystal lit softly, echoing the glow.
Arin inhaled sharply.
"Good," Bram murmured. "Now stay still. Don't force anything. Just allow your mind to settle. Let the stabilizer mirror you."
Arin closed his eyes.
He felt the warmth spread—not outward, but inward. Into his chest. Into the base of his skull. Into the space behind his thoughts. The sensation wasn't like magic—not the wild, unpredictable surge he'd felt during the Beckoned encounter. This was slower. More controlled.
Almost gentle.
Then—
A thread brushed his awareness again.
The Weave.
Arin flinched before catching himself.
Bram's voice floated to him. "Don't push it away. Let it pass like wind. You are observing, not engaging."
Arin swallowed and steadied himself.
The Weave's presence lingered at the edges of his perception. Curiosity, not force. A soft tapping. A ripple touching a boundary.
Arin imagined his mind as a sphere. Solid. Defined. His.
The tapping pressed softly against the surface.
Bram murmured, "Good… good. It's testing your boundary. But you're holding."
Kael shifted restlessly, watching every flicker of Arin's expression.
Lira barely breathed.
The tapping intensified for a moment, then receded—like a wave pulling back into the ocean.
Arin exhaled shakily and opened his eyes.
The crystal dimmed.
Bram smiled faintly. "You did well. Very well."
Arin wiped sweat from his brow, surprised to find his hand trembling. "It felt like… it was waiting for something."
"It was seeing if you were prepared to receive more," Bram said. "And you are not. Not yet. Which is good. Boundaries keep Anchors sane."
Kael muttered, "And what if the Weave doesn't like boundaries?"
"It doesn't dislike them," Bram said. "It simply doesn't understand them. Not anymore. It remembers unity—connection—shared consciousness. It struggles with individuality. That is why Anchors often lose themselves if they rush the process."
Arin stared at the crystal. "How long until I can handle more?"
"That depends on you," Bram said. "On your discipline. Your fear. Your acceptance. On how quickly the Weave pushes. On how strong the destabilization becomes."
Lira stepped forward. "Speaking of that—the destabilization points. How many do we expect?"
Bram sighed deeply and gestured to the hologram of the city on the table. "Come here. I'll show you."
They gathered around.
The map shifted again, pulsing at two bright nodes.
"Destabilization point one," Bram said. "Triggered three days ago. Most likely a natural rupture caused by Weave strain."
"And the second?" Kael asked.
"That one was… different," Bram said. "Different in pattern. In intensity. In resonance."
Arin swallowed. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning it wasn't a natural fissure."
Silence fell again.
Slow.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Lira's voice was barely above a whisper. "The same person tampering with the Weave?"
"Yes," Bram said. "Or something else."
Kael growled, "Who would want to break the Weave? It holds the entire city in the air."
"That is precisely why someone might want to break it," Bram said darkly. "Collapse Caelum, and the power structure collapses with it. The elite fall. The hierarchy dissolves. Chaos would level the playing field."
"Or destroy everyone," Lira said flatly.
"Revolution often walks hand-in-hand with destruction," Bram murmured.
Arin stared at the pulsing nodes. "So… what does the Circle want with me? Why would they want an Anchor?"
"Control," Bram said simply. "If they own the Anchor, they own the Weave. Or believe they do. In their eyes, you are not a person—you are infrastructure."
Arin's chest tightened.
Kael slammed his hand against the table. "Then they're not getting him."
Lira nodded sharply. "We'll protect him."
Arin felt the words wrap around him, stabilizing him more firmly than the crystal had.
But then Bram's voice cut through the moment.
"You must understand something crucial. Protecting Arin is not enough."
Kael glared. "What do you mean 'not enough'?"
"You must protect him from the Circle," Bram said quietly. "From the Beckoned. From the destabilization. From the Weave itself. And from himself."
Arin felt the room tilt slightly.
"From… myself?"
"Yes," Bram said. "Because Anchors hold power inside them that can destroy the mind if misused. The Weave will try to shape you. Influence you. Guide you. Not maliciously. Not intentionally. But inevitably."
Lira asked, "Then how do we stop that from happening?"
Bram looked at Arin.
"You give him something stronger to anchor to than the Weave."
Arin blinked. "Like what?"
Bram's voice softened.
"People."
The vines rustled around them as though acknowledging the truth in his words.
Kael placed a hand firmly on Arin's shoulder.
Lira stepped closer, her presence steady and grounding.
Arin felt something settle inside him—a weight, but not a burden. More like a center.
Bram nodded approvingly. "Good. That is your foundation. Now, we begin the real work."
Arin exhaled slowly. "What's next?"
Bram turned a page of the ancient scroll to reveal another diagram—this one far more intricate. Layers of spirals, intersecting lines, symbols that seemed to shift when Arin looked at them too long.
"This," Bram said, "is the first pattern you must learn. It is called the Self-Ward. The most basic defense an Anchor can wield."
Arin studied the diagram, heart thudding.
"It looks… complicated."
"It is," Bram said. "But you don't need to memorize its shape. You need to understand its meaning."
Kael squinted. "Meaning?"
"Understanding creates stability," Bram said. "Stability creates resistance. Resistance creates identity."
Arin nodded slowly.
"Okay," he whispered. "Then teach me."
Bram smiled—tired, strained, but real.
"Very well," he said. "I'm only going to give you an introduction, so listen carefully. Because what I am about to tell you has been lost for centuries."
He tapped the diagram.
"The Self-Ward begins with memory."
Arin blinked. "Memory?"
"Yes," Bram said. "Your memories define your selfhood. The Weave may be vast, but it cannot replicate the human experience—your joy, your fear, your relationships, your regrets. These become anchors for the Anchor."
The Weave pulsed faintly, as if objecting—or listening. Arin couldn't tell which.
Bram continued, "Close your eyes."
Arin did.
"Now," Bram said, voice low and steady, "think of the moment you realized you were different. Not recently—long ago. A childhood memory. Something small. Something that touched the Weave without you knowing."
Arin's mind drifted.
Dust floating in a sunbeam.
A cracked window in his childhood home.
The faint shimmer of light that danced behind the glass—something he thought was imagination at the time.
He whispered, "I was eight. I thought the air was alive."
Bram's voice softened. "It was. And it saw you."
Arin's pulse quickened.
"The Self-Ward," Bram said, "begins with recognizing that moment… but refusing to let it define you. You are not chosen by the Weave. You acknowledge it, but you are not its servant."
Arin inhaled.
Slow.
Steady.
And something within him—something that had been coiled tight since the fissure—loosened.
Just a little.
Bram exhaled. "Good. Now open your eyes."
Arin did.
The world looked the same.
And yet… sharper.
Clearer.
More alive.
Lira stared at him. "Arin… your eyes."
"What about them?"
"They're glowing," Kael said, stunned.
Arin blinked, startled. "What? No, I—"
But when he lifted his hand, faint trails of light followed his motion—dim, fading quickly, but unmistakably there.
Bram clapped once, sharply. "Excellent. The first resonance shift has occurred."
"What does that mean?" Arin asked, heart racing.
"It means," Bram said, "you are beginning to awaken fully as an Anchor."
Arin stared at him.
"Is that… good?"
Bram hesitated, but then said quietly—
"It is necessary."