Dawn crept into Arin's room slowly.
He'd been awake for hours. Lying still. Watching darkness fade from absolute black to charcoal grey to the bruised purple-blue that preceded sunrise. The stabilizer pulsed against his chest—warm, steady, a heartbeat that wasn't his own. Each pulse reminded him: You're running out of time.
The device had been cool when Bram first gave it to him. Now it ran hot. Not painfully so. Just enough to notice. Just enough to worry.
Outside his window, Caelum's suspended streets began their morning transformation. Lamps dimmed as natural light filtered through fog. Distant sounds of the city waking: vendors opening shutters, resonance conduits humming to life, boots on stone as early workers began their shifts.
Normal sounds. A normal morning.
Arin pressed his palm against the stabilizer through his shirt. The glass was almost body-temperature now. Working harder. Compensating for pressure that grew stronger each day.
Two weeks, Lira had said. Maybe less.
He forced himself to sit up. His body protested—muscles stiff from yesterday's training, from hours spent channeling resonance through carefully controlled pathways while Bram watched with increasingly worried eyes. From pretending at the Archives that he was fine, competent, unremarkable.
From being something he wasn't while trying desperately not to be something he was.
The floorboards were cold against his feet. He dressed mechanically: dark trousers, simple tunic, the patched coat that had become armor against scrutiny. Tied back his copper-brown hair. Checked his reflection.
Noises filtered from the kitchen. Lira, moving through her morning routine. The clink of ceramic. Water heating. The familiar rhythm of someone who'd been awake for long.
*******
Lira stood at the stove, in her Warden uniform—full tactical coat, gauntlets resting on the counter, shoulder insignia catching pale morning light. Her dark hair was already braided with military precision, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face in a way that made her look younger.
She glanced up when he entered. Her expression softened slightly—concern she couldn't quite hide.
"Morning," she said. "Porridge?"
"Sure."
Neither of them moved toward food.
Arin sat at the small table. Lira poured two cups of something that smelled like herbs and burnt honey—some Warden stimulant she kept for long shifts. She set one in front of him, then lowered herself into the opposite chair with careful control.
They sat in silence.
"You didn't sleep," Arin said finally.
"Neither did you."
Fair point.
Lira stirred her cup without drinking. "Patrol route today covers Districts Three and Five. Standard inspection. Kael will be covering the Archives perimeter." She paused. "Equipments started malfunctioning yesterday. Very mysterious."
Arin almost smiled. "How long can he keep that up?"
"Few more days. Maybe a week if he's creative." Her fingers tapped the table's edge—nervous habit she rarely showed. "Commander Sera delayed the cross-departmental inquiry. Bought us two weeks. Maybe."
"And then?"
Lira met his eyes. "Then we'll figure something out."
The confidence in her voice didn't match the worry in her expression.
"Lira—"
"Don't." She reached across the table, fingers finding his wrist. Warm. Steady. "Don't start thinking about worst-case scenarios. Not yet. We have time. You're getting better. Bram said so."
"Bram also said I'm barely holding together."
"You're holding." Her grip tightened slightly. "That's what matters."
Arin wanted to believe her. Wanted to find comfort in her certainty the way he always had.
But the stabilizer pulsed hot against his chest, and belief felt like luxury he couldn't afford.
They ate breakfast in near-silence. Porridge that tasted like ash. Fruit that might as well have been sawdust. Food was fuel now. Nothing more.
When Arin stood to leave, Lira followed him to the door. She straightened his collar—gesture so automatic she probably didn't realize she was doing it. Her fingers lingered for a moment on the fabric.
"Be careful today," she said quietly.
"I'm always careful."
"Be more careful than that." Her dark eyes searched his face. "And Arin? If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you find me. Immediately. Don't try to handle it alone."
"I won't."
Lira pressed her palm against his chest—right over where the stabilizer pulsed. "I can feel it working harder. Bram needs to check that tonight."
"I'd see you at the greenhouse right?"
She nodded once. Then stepped back, slipping into her professional mask. Officer Caelis preparing for duty. The transformation was always startling—how completely she could hide everything soft behind discipline and authority.
"I'll see you tonight," she said.
They both left.
*******
The Worker's Quarter at dawn was always busy.
Arin took a different route today—instinct or paranoia, he couldn't tell anymore. Through narrower streets where fog clung thick and damp. Past shuttered workshops where craftsmen were just beginning their day. The smell of forge-fire and baking bread mixed with the ever-present metallic tang of resonance conduits running beneath the streets.
He passed Ysen's shrine.
The candles were freshly lit—Mrs. Dalen's grandchildren had been by already. The carved idol watched him with stone eyes that seemed simultaneously judgmental and sympathetic. Honest Deeds, Fair Balance, Quiet Duty. The old ideals.
He kept walking.
The streets widened as he approached the junction between Worker's Quarter and the lower Archives district. More people here—early merchants setting up stalls, laborers heading toward construction sites, a few bleary-eyed students making their way to morning lectures.
Normal people. Living normal lives. None of them glowing from the inside. None of them one wrong move away from Council observation.
Arin envied them with an intensity that felt physical.
He turned down a side street, drawn by a smell that was achingly familiar: honey and yeast and warmth. Hessa's bakery. He'd been coming here since he was a child, back when coin was scarce and Hessa would slip him day-old rolls with a conspirator's wink.
The bakery was small—just a single room with a large oven dominating the back wall and a wooden counter worn smooth by decades of transactions. Hessa herself stood behind that counter, flour dusting her dark brown arms, grey-streaked hair pulled back in a practical bun. She was round where Lira was sharp, with laugh lines around her mouth and eyes that missed nothing despite claiming failing vision.
Those eyes landed on Arin the moment he stepped through the door.
Her expression was warm.
"Arin," she said, voice carrying the musical lilt of someone from Caelum's southern districts. "You look like death warmed over, boy. Been having nightmares?"
Close enough.
"Just tired," Arin said, forcing a smile. "Long days at the Archives."
"Mm." Hessa's skepticism was palpable. "What can I get you?"
"Honey rolls. Three."
She moved with practiced efficiency, wrapping the rolls in thin paper. But instead of three, she added a fourth. When Arin reached for coin, she waved him off.
"No payment today."
"Hessa—"
"You need sweetness in your life." She pressed the package into his hands, her callused fingers warm against his. "Whatever's weighing on you—and don't tell me it's nothing, I've known you since you were knee-high—sugar helps. Maybe not solve all your problems. But helps."
Her hand patted his twice. Gentle. Maternal.
"Hard times pass," Hessa said quietly. "They always do. Sometimes they pass through you first, leaving scars. But they pass."
Arin's throat tightened. "Thank you."
"Go on now. Don't be late for your duties." She shooed him toward the door with flour-dusty hands. "And Arin? Whatever trouble you're in—because you're in trouble, boy, I can see it plain as day—remember you've got people. Don't try to carry everything alone."
He left before his composure cracked entirely.
The honey rolls sat heavy in his satchel. He wouldn't eat them—couldn't stomach sweetness right now—but carrying them felt like carrying Hessa's kindness. A small weight. A reminder that somewhere in this city, someone cared without knowing why they should.
*******
The Archives didn't feel different today.
Same pale stone pillars spiraling toward vaulted ceilings. Same floating tablets drifting through the air like luminous fish. Same hushed atmosphere where even footsteps sounded apologetic. Same apprentices clustering in small groups, comparing notes, discussing assignments with the casual confidence of people whose biggest worry was academic performance.
Arin moved through them like a ghost.
Mael spotted him first—brightening immediately, that genuine smile that always made Arin's day brighten a little.
"There you are!" Mael crossed the entrance hall quickly. "I was starting to think you'd decided to skip. Which would be very unlike you. Very concerning."
"Just took a longer route," Arin said.
Mael's green eyes studied his face with uncomfortable perception. "You look tired."
"Same thing I've been told all morning, but I'm fine."
"That's what people say when they're not fine." But Mael didn't push. Instead, he fell into step beside Arin as they headed toward the day's assignment. "Instructor Thale posted the schedules. We're on Resonance Mapping today."
Arin's stomach dropped. "Mapping?"
"Don't worry—it's mostly theoretical. We're just documenting historical patterns." Mael glanced at him. "Unless that's somehow more stressful?"
"No. That's fine."
Resonance Mapping meant working directly with active patterns. Meant touching the Weave deliberately. Meant precisely the kind of exposure that could trigger responses he couldn't hide.
Just keep the stabilizer working, Arin thought. Just hold for a few more hours.
They reached the Mapping Chamber—a circular room lined with crystalline panels that displayed flowing patterns of light. Historical resonance signatures preserved in permanent record. Each panel showed different eras, different styles, different intensities.
Beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.
Instructor Thale stood at the chamber's center, surrounded by a cluster of apprentices. His grey hair caught the light from the panels, making him look almost ethereal. When he spotted Arin, something flickered across his expression—too quick to identify.
Ronan stood at his own station, ostensibly focused on his assigned panels. But his attention kept drifting toward Arin with the persistence of someone cataloging evidence.
Their eyes met once.
Ronan's expression was complex—not hostile exactly, but not neutral either. Something calculating lurked behind those violet eyes. Something that looked uncomfortably like knowing.
He held Arin's gaze for two seconds. Three. Then deliberately opened his personal journal—the leather-bound notebook all advanced apprentices kept—and wrote something.
Arin looked away first, heart hammering.
He suspects something. He's watching. Building a case.
But a case toward what conclusion? That Arin was cheating somehow? That he'd found forbidden texts? That he was dangerous?
The not-knowing was its own kind of torture. Worse than certainty. Because certainty could be planned for, adapted to, survived.
Suspicion just hung there. Waiting.
The morning stretched on. Arin worked mechanically, documenting patterns with the minimum attention required. His hands stayed steady. His notes remained legible. He asked no questions, drew no attention, performed adequately.
By midday, his head throbbed. The stabilizer had gone from warm to hot—uncomfortable enough that he worried others might notice if they got too close. He'd started unconsciously maintaining distance.
When the day's bell finally chimed, Arin almost sagged with relief.
Mael appeared at his elbow immediately. "You look worse now than you did this morning, which I didn't think was possible."
"Thanks for that."
"I speak truth." Mael grinned. "Come on. Yesterday, I promised you lunch and some entertainment. Both are happening whether you like it or not."
"Mael, I should probably—"
"No." Mael's tone turned surprisingly firm. "Whatever you're dealing with—and you're dealing with something, don't deny it—you need a break. An hour. Maybe two. Just being normal for a bit."
Normal. That mythical state Arin was desperately working toward.
"Fine," he said. Because he didn't have the heart to refuse.
They collected their things and left the Archives together, stepping into afternoon light that felt almost aggressive after the chamber's dimness.
"So where are we going?" Arin asked.
Mael's grin returned—bright, genuine, and untainted. "The Copper Thread. It's this place near the craftsmen's district. Half tavern, half workshop. People drink, people work, people pretend they're doing both simultaneously. Very Worker's Quarter. You'll love it."
"And the someone you want me to meet?"
"Sylvie works there. She's... well, you'll see. Trust me."
Arin didn't have energy to argue. So he followed Mael through afternoon streets that were busier now—merchants calling their wares, resonance-carts rumbling past, the constant hum of a city conducting its daily business.
Normal sounds. Normal sights.
For one afternoon, maybe he could pretend he was part of that normalcy.
*******
The Copper Thread occupied a corner building where two districts met—Worker's Quarter bleeding into the craftsmen's zone, creating a kind of hybrid space where neither set of rules quite applied.
The exterior was unremarkable: weathered stone, a copper sign—where a spooling thread was illustrated—hanging above the door (hence the name), windows fogged from interior warmth.
Half the space was dedicated to traditional tavern layout—wooden tables, mismatched chairs, a bar along one wall stocked with bottles in varying states of depletion. The other half looked like workshop spillover: benches cluttered with tools, half-finished projects, apprentice craftsmen bent over delicate work while nursing drinks.
The two halves bled together seamlessly. Someone would work for an hour, then grab a drink and socialize. Someone else would drink for an hour, then pick up tools and create. The whole place hummed with easy productivity.
It was chaotic and comfortable in equal measure.
Mael navigated through the crowd with practiced ease, leading Arin toward the bar where a young woman was wiping down the counter with methodical precision.
She was striking rather than beautiful—sharp cheekbones, skin the color of polished cedar, thick black hair pulled into a high ponytail that somehow looked both severe and elegant. Her eyes were dark amber, almost gold when light hit them right. She moved with the controlled grace of someone trained in something—combat or dance, Arin couldn't tell which.
When she spotted Mael, her entire face transformed. The professional mask dropped, replaced by warmth that made her look years younger.
"Finally," she said, voice carrying a slight rasp like someone who'd spent too many nights in loud rooms. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Never." Mael leaned against the bar. "I merely had to drag my friend here out of the Archives' clutches. Meet Arin. Arin, this is Sylvie."
Sylvie's gold-amber eyes turned toward Arin, and she smiled—genuinely, without the assessing weight Arin had been bracing for.
"The infamous Arin," she said. "Mael talks about you constantly. I was starting to think you were a fictional character he'd invented."
"Unfortunately real," Arin replied.
"Well, that's disappointing. I had this whole elaborate theory about Mael's imaginary friend." She was already pouring drinks—some kind of amber liquid that smelled like honey and fire. "Welcome to the Copper Thread. First drink's on the house for anyone who can tolerate Mael's company for extended periods."
"Hey," Mael protested, though he was grinning.
"I speak only truth." She slid glasses across the counter. "Fair warning—this stuff tastes like someone dissolved honey in liquid regret. But it's cheap and it gets you where you need to go."
Arin accepted the glass. "Sounds perfect."
"A man of refined tastes." Sylvie turned to Mael. "Your usual table's open. I'll bring food in a bit. We've got fresh bread today, which is basically a miracle given our baker showed up drunk yesterday and somehow still managed to make something edible."
"The Copper Thread experience," Mael said.
"Exactly." She waved them off. "Go. Sit. Be merry. I have other customers to marginally disappoint."
They claimed a table near the workshop side of the room—close enough to watch craftsmen work but far enough for conversation privacy. The noise level was perfect: loud enough for anonymity, quiet enough for actual talking.
Arin sank into his chair and took a sip of the drink. It was exactly as advertised—sweet, burning, vaguely regrettable. Also somehow exactly what he needed.
"So," Mael said, wrapping his hands around his glass. "Verdict?"
"On Sylvie or the drink?"
"Both."
"The drink is terrible. Sylvie seems great."
Mael's smile could have lit the room. "She is, isn't she?"
"How long have you two been together?"
"Four months. Give or take." Mael's expression turned softer. "I wanted you to meet her earlier, but scheduling was a nightmare. Your Archives hours, my Archives hours, her shifts here... we kept missing each other."
"She's good for you," Arin said honestly. "I can tell."
"Yeah." Mael leaned forward slightly. "She's training to be a metalworker. Apprenticed to one of the master smiths in the craftsmen's district. She works here to pay for materials and housing, but what she really loves is making these tiny mechanical sculptures. Birds that flap wings when you wind them. Fish that swim through air. Gorgeous stuff."
The enthusiasm in his voice was infectious. For the first time all day, Arin felt the weight on his chest ease slightly.
"You should see his face when he talks about my work," Sylvie said, appearing with wooden boards loaded with food—bread, cheese, sliced meat, pickled vegetables. "Like I've invented fire instead of just making toys that move."
"They're not toys," Mael protested. "They're art."
"They're toys." But she was smiling. She slid into the seat beside Mael, her hand finding his shoulder naturally. "Expensive toys that take forever to make, but still toys."
"Functional art," Mael corrected.
"You're both wrong," Arin said. "They're clearly magical artifacts."
Sylvie laughed—sharp and genuine. "I like him. He's got good instincts." She turned to Arin. "So Mael tells me you work at the Archives too. What's your specialty? Please tell me it's something more interesting than historical resonance documentation, because that's what he does and it's mind-numbingly boring."
"It's not boring," Mael said.
"It absolutely is."
"It's... detailed," Arin offered diplomatically.
"Diplomatic," Sylvie said approvingly. "Also evasive. Which means your work is probably boring too but you're too polite to admit it." She grabbed a piece of bread. "Fair enough. We can't all make tiny mechanical birds for a living."
"How did you get into metalworking?" Arin asked.
"Accidentally." Sylvie tore the bread in half. "My family ran a forge in the lower districts. Nothing fancy—practical stuff. Tools, hinges, nails. I was supposed to help with bookkeeping because I was 'good with numbers.'" She made air quotes. "Hated every minute of it. But I liked watching my father work the metal. So one day I just... started trying. Burned myself approximately fifty times. Lost feeling in three fingers for a week. Nearly set the workshop on fire twice."
"Once," Mael corrected.
"Twice. You weren't there for the second time." She grinned. "But I got better. Found out I had a knack for the delicate stuff. Small mechanisms. Precise joints. Things that required patience instead of just brute strength." She held up her hands—showing the crooked pinky, the scattered scars. "These are my credentials."
"Battle scars," Arin said.
"Stupidity scars, mostly. But they look impressive." She took a bite of bread. "What about you? How'd you end up at the Archives? You don't have that lifelong scholar look Mael's got."
"Stumbled into it," Arin said, which was true enough. "Needed work. Turns out I was decent at resonance documentation."
"The Archive's trap," Sylvie said. "They tell you it's temporary, then suddenly five years have passed and you're arguing about proper filing systems for theoretical resonance patterns from two centuries ago."
"That only happened once," Mael protested.
"It happened three times last month."
They fell into easy banter—Sylvie teasing Mael, Mael defending himself with mock outrage, Arin offering occasional commentary that made them both laugh. The conversation wandered through harmless territory: bad apprentice horror stories, terrible tavern food, the ongoing debate about whether the craftsmen's district or the Worker's Quarter had better street food.
For an hour, maybe two, Arin let himself just... exist. Not as an Anchor. Not as someone hiding. Just as Mael's friend, sitting in a slightly rundown tavern, drinking questionable alcohol and eating decent food while listening to his friend's girlfriend tell increasingly absurd stories about forge accidents.
"—and then the hammer just flew out of my hand," Sylvie was saying, gesturing dramatically. "Straight through the window. My master looked at me and said, 'That's coming out of your wages.' The hammer cost more than I made in a month."
"Did you ever get it back?" Arin asked.
"Oh yeah. Turned out it landed in someone's garden three buildings over. They returned it. Very polite about the whole thing." She shrugged. "Could've been worse."
"How?" Mael asked.
"Could've hit someone."
"Fair point."
Eventually, Sylvie had to return to work—other customers needed drinks, and the afternoon crowd was picking up. She stood, squeezing Mael's shoulder.
"You two stay as long as you want. And Arin?" She smiled. "Come back sometime. It's nice having proof Mael has actual friends and isn't just making them up."
"I'll try," Arin said.
She left with a wave, disappearing into the crowd with practiced ease.
Mael watched her go, then turned back to Arin with an almost embarrassed expression. "Sorry if she was a bit much."
"She wasn't. She's great."
"Yeah?" Mael looked pleased. "I wasn't sure how you two would get along. She can be pretty intense."
"She's perfect for you," Arin said honestly. "I'm glad you have her."
Mael's smile softened. "Me too."
They finished their food in comfortable silence. The Copper Thread's noise washed over them—conversations, laughter, the clang of tools from the workshop side. Normal sounds. Normal life.
For one afternoon, Arin had almost managed to forget everything else.
Almost.
*******
The sun was lower when they finally left, casting long shadows across streets that had quieted as the city transitioned between shifts.
Mael walked beside him, more relaxed than Arin had seen him in weeks.
"Thanks for coming," Mael said. "I know you didn't really want to."
"I needed it," Arin admitted. "More than I realized."
"Good." Mael bumped his shoulder gently. "You're always welcome there. Both of you—you and Sylvie seemed to get along well."
"She's easy to talk to."
"That's what I love about her. No pretense. What you see is what you get." Mael glanced at him. "You should come back. Bring Lira next time. Sylvie keeps asking when she'll meet her."
The casual assumption of next time made Arin's chest tight. As though the future was certain. As though weeks from now, he'd still be here, free, able to have drinks with friends in rundown taverns.
"Maybe," Arin said.
They reached the junction where their paths diverged—Mael toward the residential district, Arin toward the elevated walkways leading to Bram's greenhouse.
"See you tomorrow?" Mael asked.
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
Arin smiled and waved as his friend disappeared into evening traffic.
The stabilizer pulsed hot against his chest.
But for one afternoon, he'd managed to forget it was there.
That counted for something.