The laboratory smelled faintly of parchment and salt. Wards shimmered along the walls, diffusing the Well's light into something softer, safer—or so Lord-Magister Vandryl Darkrune hoped.
At the center of the chamber stood a white-marble basin, its edge carved with sigils of his own design. Gold-filled runes caught the lamplight in patient gleams, each stroke precise and deliberate. The basin was his; he trusted nothing provided by palace artificers—too many curious hands, too many eyes eager to please a queen.
"Ready?" he asked.
Aydris Starscribe nodded, her pale hair bound neatly back, the faint violet markings on her hands pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. She stepped into the containment circle, the air thick with quiet expectancy.
As she extended her hand over the surface, the runes flared to life, following her motion in liquid arcs. The water stirred beneath her, not with turbulence but with grace—rising and falling like breath.
"Good," Vandryl murmured. "Now hold it there. Let it… listen."
Aydris closed her eyes. The water began to hum, faint at first, then clearer—the sound of something waking.
He watched every shift of light, every ripple, quill forgotten in his hand. "Do you feel different, being this close to the Well?"
"Yes," she said softly. "It's like… being home."
He tilted his head. "Define that."
"Warm. Safe." Her lips curved faintly. "Like when my grandmother hugged me. But there's something else. I feel—" she hesitated, searching for the word, "—stronger. As if any spell I cast wouldn't drain me. As if it would want to help."
"Test it," he said.
She flicked her fingers toward a nearby candle. The wick ignited, flared—then burned white-hot. In seconds the entire candle melted into a neat pool of wax.
Vandryl inhaled sharply. "That was an ordinary focus?"
"Yes."
"Not anymore," he murmured.
The glow around her hand deepened, the marble runes echoing her motion. "It's… aware," she whispered.
"The water or the Weave?"
A single pulse shivered through the basin—bright and sure.
Her eyes widened. "Both."
The water leveled out, its glow softening into a gentle resonance—a low, melodic note that lingered in the air like a purr.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The golden runes dimmed, the candle smoke curled toward the ceiling, and silence returned.
Vandryl finally smiled—small, almost reverent. "So it listens. Truly listens."
Aydris nodded, her gaze still fixed on the marble basin. "Then we'll have to be careful what we teach it."
The Magister said nothing, but he thought of Azshara's invitation—her glittering curiosity, her palace full of mirrors and secrets.
He adjusted the wards by instinct, adding another layer. Just in case.