The corridors felt different after those three meetings.
Not louder. Not quieter.
Just… watching.
John felt it in the way shadows clung a little too long to the edges of the lantern-lit hallways. Doris felt it in the faint vibrations
that brushed her fingertips whenever she rested her hand against a wall. Dorothy felt it in her staff—old runes twitching awake like arthritic bones sensing weather.
Brian felt it most.
He whimpered softly as the group walked, his small fist gripping a fold of Doris's robe. Each whimper carried the tremble of a child
overwhelmed by too many invisible currents.
Flint felt it too, though he pretended otherwise. He chewed nervously on a strip of dried fruit, glancing sharply at every corner.
"I'm just saying," he muttered, "every time we pass a statue, it looks like it's judging me."
"That's because it is," Dorothy said without missing a step.
"What—seriously?"
"Probably," Dorothy said. "This place was designed by people who thought surveillance was a form of affection."
Halvar led them down a spiral corridor with windows overlooking different parts of the Academy grounds. Some windows opened to
archways or training fields, others to narrow gardens suspended between towers.
But this… this was different.
John slowed.
The corridor shifted subtly, as if the angles weren't quite right. The floor sloped gently downward, though the architecture made it appear straight. The lantern glows dimmed, but not because of lack of light—because
the light bent oddly.
Doris gasped softly.
Halvar paused, glancing backward. "Something wrong?"
"What is this place?" John asked, scanning the walls.
"The Deep Weave Wing," Halvar said. "Old foundation halls. Most of the Academy sits on top of structures built centuries before the Empire unified magic laws."
Flint shivered. "It feels like the walls are breathing."
"That's the Weave," Dorothy murmured. "Magic stitched into stone so old it remembers when it was molten."
Halvar nodded. "It is safe. Mostly. Just… do not step out of line. Stay in my path."
Doris held Brian tighter. "Why are we going this way?"
"Shortcut," Halvar said. "Also the regular stairs are blocked by first-years attempting to summon force shields. I prefer not to witness that disaster twice."
"Shortcut," Flint repeated flatly. "Through the haunted wing."
"It's not haunted," Halvar said.
A lantern flickered.
A faint whisper drifted down the hall.
"…lo…wer…"
Halvar inhaled sharply. "…mostly."
Flint stopped walking. "We're going to die here."
Dorothy thwacked him lightly with her staff. "No, we're not. Wards are stable. The whispers are old memories trapped in resonance fractures. Don't answer them."
"Wait—what happens if I answer—"
"Don't."
Flint shut his mouth.
As they descended deeper, the corridor widened into a half-circle chamber with an intricately patterned floor: swirls and lines
forming spirals that nearly hypnotized.
John stepped toward one, frowning. "Is that… writing?"
"Not for you," Dorothy said.
"It's for someone?" Flint whispered.
"It's for space mages," Doris answered quietly. "The old kind. The ones my ancestors trained."
John looked at her sharply. Doris rarely spoke openly about the Voidborn before the revelations. Even now, there was pain in her voice—faint, buried, but real.
Doris traced one spiral with her free hand.
The stone glowed faintly.
John froze. "Doris—!"
"I'm not activating anything," she said softly. "It recognizes me. Just… saying hello."
Dorothy nodded slowly. "They built these halls for resonance. For those who could navigate dimensional bends. You're reacting instinctively."
Halvar stepped closer, intrigued. "What does it feel like?"
Doris hesitated. "Like… pressure behind my eyes. Like something ancient is leaning close, trying to remember me."
"And does it?" Flint whispered.
"No," Doris said softly. "But it remembers people like me."
Brian stirred, his small hand stretching toward the glowing spiral.
The stone pulsed.
Dorothy moved quickly. "Don't let him touch it."
Doris drew him back gently. "Easy, love…"
Brian's fingers closed on empty air.
The glow faded.
Halvar exhaled. "That could've been… unpredictable."
"Why is this place still active?" John asked sharply. "If it's dangerous—"
"It's not dangerous," Halvar said. "It's… foundational. Ancient Weave structures are hard to dismantle. And harder still to recreate."
Dorothy murmured, "And some refuse to die."
Flint shook his head. "You're all describing this place like a very old, very opinionated grandmother."
"Not inaccurate," Dorothy said.
They continued on. The corridor emerged into a small octagonal hall with tall stone pillars carved in spirals. It might have been beautiful if not for the air—heavy, still, as if holding its breath.
At the center, two students knelt on the floor, chalking a circle around a rusted metal object.
John's stomach tightened.
A chalk ring.
A thing inside it.
Halvar stiffened. "Why are they here?"
The older of the two students scrambled to his feet. "Master Rector! Apologies—we were instructed by Professor Rennic to relocate—"
"I don't care what Rennic instructed," Halvar snapped. "You do not run containment drills in the Deep Weave Wing!"
The younger student trembled. "S-sorry, sir—he said this object was dormant—"
"That object," Halvar said coldly, "has been dormant for a hundred years and will remain so unless you children poke it with idiotic
curiosity."
John stepped protectively in front of Doris.
"What is it?" he asked.
Halvar glared at the students, then at the object—barely a fist-sized metal orb, dull, inert, etched with ancient ridges.
"One of the Academy's old mistakes," Halvar said. "A remnant experiment. Something sealed here for good reason."
Doris swallowed. "A Voidborn artifact?"
Halvar hesitated.
"Yes," he said quietly. "From the days when the Academy thought they could learn to manipulate dimensional bends like your ancestors did. It did not go well."
Dorothy added grimly, "Bodies were found three floors away from where they were standing."
Flint clapped both hands over his ears. "Nope. No thank you. Putting that information in a box."
The younger student rose shakily. "We didn't open it, sir. We just inscribed the first ring."
Halvar pinched the bridge of his nose. "Clean it. Slowly. Carefully. Then leave. Tell Professor Rennic to report to me by evening or I'll
lecture him until he wishes he were never born."
Both students scrambled to erase the chalk lines.
The orb sat quietly.
Still.
Watching.
Doris whispered, "It reacts to him."
John stiffened. "To Brian?"
"Yes," Doris said. "I feel it. Like it's… humming quietly. Curious."
Halvar swore. "We are leaving. Now."
Brian whimpered.
The orb vibrated once.
A faint metallic chime echoed.
Halvar grabbed John's arm to push him forward. "Move!"
But before they reached the exit, Brian's whimper became a soft cry—too small to echo, but too resonant not to be heard by the stone.
The orb answered.
Tnng.
A low, harmonic vibration pulsed from it.
The chalk dust around it lifted in a faint breeze that wasn't wind.
Dorothy swung her staff, runes brightening. "Back! Everyone back!"
Halvar shouted an incantation—sharp, clipped syllables that snapped like cold sparks.
A ward flared around the orb.
The orb pulsed.
The hum grew louder.
Doris clutched Brian close. "It's reacting to him—"
"I KNOW," John snarled, stepping in front of her.
Halvar shouted, "Dorothy! Anti-resonance shield!"
Dorothy slammed her staff into the floor.
A rippling field unfurled—thin, shimmering, like a curtain made of moonlight.
The hum collided with the shield and split into harmless static.
The orb dimmed.
The room fell silent.
Brian sniffled once.
Then yawned.
Halvar exhaled shakily. "We are moving. Now."
They didn't argue.
The moment they stepped out of the Deep Weave Wing, light felt real again. Air tasted normal. The world no longer seemed tilted.
Flint rubbed his arms. "I don't ever want to go down there again."
"You won't," Halvar said. "Not until you're older."
"I'll be ninety before I go near it," Flint muttered.
John turned sharply to Dorothy. "What was that thing?"
"A sealed anchor remnant," Dorothy said. "A failed attempt to replicate what Voidborn did naturally. It stored resonance. It hungers for
patterns."
"And Brian has a pattern," Doris whispered. "One it recognizes."
Dorothy nodded grimly. "Yes. It sensed him. But it didn't activate. That's good news."
John clenched his jaw. "And the bad?"
Dorothy sighed. "That was a dormant relic. A harmless one. There are worse things in these halls. If that reacted to him…"
Halvar finished the thought quietly.
"…then the Academy will feel him long before he ever learns to walk."
Doris looked down at Brian.
He had fallen asleep again, peaceful and unaware.
John touched her shoulder. "We'll protect him."
Doris nodded.
But her eyes shimmered with fear.
Not fear of danger.
Fear of inevitability.
They returned to their suite near midday. John bolted the door behind them, even though the wards made that gesture symbolic at best.
Flint collapsed onto a chair. "We met a headmistress, a priest, a spymaster, and a haunted metal ball."
"Orb," Dorothy corrected.
"Haunted orb," Flint insisted. "And you know what I learned today?"
John sighed. "What?"
"That this place is way too big, way too magical, and way too full of things that know way too much."
Dorothy nodded. "Correct."
Doris sank onto the bed, Brian cradled close. She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
"He's overwhelmed," she whispered.
"Of course he is," Dorothy murmured. "The walls hum with magic older than kingdoms. He's feeling resonance before he even understands his own hands."
"What do we do?" Doris whispered.
Dorothy sat beside her. "You hold him. You stay calm. You let him settle into the wards instead of fighting them."
"And if he doesn't settle?" John asked.
Dorothy's voice softened. "Then we help him. All of us. The Academy won't let him spiral. Not on purpose."
John narrowed his eyes. "On purpose?"
Dorothy sighed. "Some parts of this place are kinder than others."
Brian stirred.
His tiny fingers curled around the edge of Doris's robe.
A faint warmth radiated from him—gentle, steady, familiar.
Doris closed her eyes.
"He's stabilizing," she whispered. "The wards are easing."
And slowly, the tension in the room loosened.
The child began to adapt.
The walls began to accept.
The world, for a brief heartbeat, held its balance.
But only barely.
Because deep beneath the Academy, in halls older than memory, the faint metallic chime of the dormant orb echoed again—soft, hungry,
curious.
As if it had learned the rhythm of a new heartbeat.
As if it were waiting.