Lyra's office smelled faintly of ink, metal, and old stone.
Arata stood just inside the doorway, hands in his pockets, posture loose but guarded. Lyra didn't look up immediately. She was annotating a slate, stylus moving in quick, irritated strokes.
"Sit" she said without glancing up. "What happened?"
Arata did.
She finished the line she was working on, set the stylus aside, and finally met his eyes. "You couldn't channel this morning?"
"No," Arata said, a grin appeared on his face. "Nothing happened."
"That's not the same as failure," Lyra replied. "But we'll get to that later."
She leaned back slightly. "Have you ever read Larry Carpenter?"
Arata blinked. "The wizard books?"
"Yes. Wizards. Witches. Mana. Towers. All of that."
He shook his head. "Didn't really have time. Between an abusive father and early army employment, fantasy novels weren't exactly encouraged."
Lyra paused.
"…Right," she said, more quietly. Then she cleared her throat. "Alright. I'll summarise."
She stood and walked toward the window, hands clasped behind her back.
"In those stories," she continued, "magic works because people have mana hearts. Internal engines that generate power. Spells are just instructions on how to spend it."
She turned back to him. "That is not how this world works."
Arata waited.
"The universe already has energy," Lyra said. "Everywhere. All the time. That's resonance. It's the background hum of reality, the Vein's are just where it's loud enough for humans to hear"
She tapped the floor lightly with her boot. "For the first two to three months, the Academy doesn't teach power. It teaches interaction. How to hear resonance. How to align with it. How not to get crushed by it accidentally."
"That part I get," Arata said. "We breathe. We sync. We match rhythm."
"Yes," Lyra nodded. "That's learning to touch the current without drowning."
She turned back to her desk and pulled up a schematic—simple, abstract.
"Dragon blood changes one thing," she said. "It doesn't create energy. It doesn't replace resonance. It acts like a mana heart."
Arata frowned slightly. "A converter."
"Exactly," Lyra said. "A conduit. A valve. It lets you draw from resonance and shape it without tearing yourself apart."
She pointed to the schematic. "But the blood doesn't decide how you shape it."
Arata's eyes narrowed. "That's the concept."
"Yes," Lyra said. "Your bloodline's understanding of the world. Flint understands redirection. Sierra understands intent. Wanuy understands acceptance."
She looked directly at Arata now. "Those concepts function like spell books. Not instructions—but interpretations. Ways of saying, this is how I believe reality should respond."
Arata leaned back slightly. "And I didn't get a response."
"No," Lyra agreed. "Because you didn't present the world with something it recognises as a request, or a spell to be exact."
"What does that mean?"
She hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
"You didn't ask," she said. "You evaluated. You observed. You tested."
Arata was silent.
Lyra folded her arms. "The world doesn't respond to analysis. It responds to conviction. Even flawed conviction."
"So I'm missing belief?"
"No," she corrected. "You're missing definition."
He looked at his hands. "I've bent space. Broken containment. Interrupted resonance. I've done things none of them have."
"Yes," Lyra said softly. "But none of those required you to understand what you are in relation to the world. Only that you didn't accept its terms."
She stepped closer. "The others reached inward and said, this is what I am. You reached inward and asked, what happens if I don't participate."
Arata let out a quiet breath. "That's… not helpful."
"It's not supposed to be," Lyra said. "It's accurate."
She straightened. "Your training arc doesn't start with channeling. It starts with comprehension."
"Of what?"
Lyra met his gaze.
"Madness," she said. "Deviation. Contradiction. Whatever word you want to use."
She paused. "Until you understand what your blood believes the world is, it won't answer you."
Arata stood.
"So until then," he said, "I'm powerless."
Lyra shook her head. "No. Until then, you're undefined."
That was worse.
She softened her tone slightly. "Arata, you didn't fail today. You jumped station too early, you were just not ready.""
He considered that.
Then nodded once. "Alright."
Lyra returned to her desk. Go. Train your body. Listen. Watch."
"And the blood?"
She didn't look up. "It'll speak when you stop interrogating it."
Arata turned toward the door. "Thank you... Oh dear Professor of mine."
"That reminds me..." Lyra said as she pointed at the chair. "I needed to tell you something."
She tapped her pad. "The Academy's bringing in an independent researcher to review the resonance phenomenon.He is not military. Neither internal. He insisted on speaking to you personally."
He turned slightly. "A researcher?"
Her tone softened, cautious. "He used to teach here — before the Magisters decided his work was too… theological."
Lyra watched his reaction carefully.
"A theologian?" Arata asked. "That's who they send when something doesn't fit the maths?"
"Don't underestimate him," she said. "Farworth isn't interested in faith. He's interested in meaning. That just happens to make the Magisters uncomfortable."
Arata leaned back in the chair. "Let me guess. He thinks resonance isn't just energy."
Lyra's mouth twitched. "He thinks it's language."
That got his attention.
"He argues that resonance doesn't respond to force or structure," she continued, "but to interpretation. That what we call bloodline concepts are really… negotiated truths. Agreements between mind, blood, and world."
Arata was quiet for a moment. "So he believes the Vein listens."
He remembered what Drawin had said, "The Academy Listens."
"Yes," Lyra said. "And that scares people who prefer systems that don't."
"When?"
"This evening," she replied. "Off-record. No observers. The Academy officially calls it a consultation."
"And unofficially?"
She met his gaze. "A risk."
Arata smiled faintly. "Story of my life."
Lyra sighed. "Be careful with him. Farworth doesn't probe with instruments. He probes with questions."
Arata stood. "That's fine. I've been interrogated by worse."
She hesitated, then added, "He was dismissed for claiming that some bloodlines don't channel resonance."
"Finally, I get to meet the fabled Arata. The anomaly outside of the Flame's system." A man entered Lyra's office.
He was tall and lean, wrapped in a coat the colour of old stone. No insignia marked his shoulders. No ornament softened the lines of him. Yet his presence filled the room—not with authority, but with gravity.
"Lyra," he said quietly, inclining his head. "You look tired."
"I've had better weeks," Lyra replied dryly.
His gaze shifted.
It settled on Arata.
Not on his posture. Not on the sword at his side. But on something beneath—something quieter.
Those dark eyes seemed to listen.
"So," Professor Farworth said at last, voice soft but certain, "you're the one who made the Veins sing."
Arata frowned. "That's one way to put it."
Farworth's mouth curved, just slightly. "It's the correct one."
Lyra stiffened. "You said this meeting was informal."
"It is," Farworth replied. "Which is why I'm being honest."
He stepped closer to Arata, stopping at a respectful distance. "You didn't amplify resonance. You didn't disrupt it. You didn't channel it."
Arata felt the faintest pressure in his chest it was as if the man had named something without touching it.
"You like talking in riddles professor." Arata said. His jaw tightened. "You know about Flora."
Farworth nodded. "I know about the blade. I know about the chamber. And I know," he added gently, "that she wasn't screaming."
Silence fell.
"She sang," Farworth said. "That detail never makes it into reports. It frightens the wrong people."
Lyra crossed her arms. "You're assuming a lot."
"No," Farworth said calmly. "I'm remembering."
Arata looked at him sharply. "Remembering what?"
Farworth's eyes didn't leave his. "The last time this happened."
Lyra inhaled sharply. "You said there hadn't been another case."
"Not one that survived classification," Farworth replied.