Chapter 10 — The First Test
The forest smelled like wet stone and old leaves, deceptively calm. Puck prowled beside me, tail flicking with nervous energy, ears twitching at every snap of a twig. Valerius was tense as always, wings partially unfurled, rapier in hand. I clutched the bookmark in my coat, the paper warm against my chest, Shard thrumming faintly in sync with my heartbeat.
"Why does it always smell like doom when we move five steps?" Puck muttered.
"Because it is doom," I replied, though my voice was quieter than I intended.
I'd been practicing margins since Marrow's lesson—observing threads, feeling gaps, leaving subtle traces behind me that the Curator wouldn't notice. The theory was one thing; applying it was another entirely.
And I was about to find out how dangerous "another entirely" could be.
A rustling sound made me freeze. Puck hissed low. Valerius tightened her grip on her rapier, eyes scanning. I followed the threads in my mind, faint pulses I could almost see through the Shard's guidance. Something approached—a presence out of rhythm with the forest. Threads bending subtly, almost hidden.
"Something's coming," I murmured.
Valerius nodded. "You see it?"
"I… feel it," I said, shifting my stance slightly. The Shard vibrated, telling me where the anomaly's influence intersected with the threads. Small, subtle, but definitely off.
Puck growled, low and menacing. "Off enough that I want to bite it."
And then it appeared: a figure. Tall, thin, almost elegant, with features that seemed ordinary until you noticed they were too smooth, too perfect. Eyes that didn't reflect the forest, just black mirrors. A Curator agent, no doubt.
"Arthur Vane," it said, voice soft, like velvet sliding over a knife. "The anomaly. I've been… observing."
I swallowed. The threads pulsed violently—warnings. The agent wasn't just aware of us; it was attuned to the fabric of the story itself. Every movement, every heartbeat, could be read and responded to.
"Valerius, flank," I muttered, shifting into the margin I'd been practicing—the subtle space between expected movements.
Valerius barely flinched, moving to the left. Puck darted right, low to the ground. I stepped forward, careful, leaving faint traces that would confuse the agent if it tried to follow my exact path. Margins. Spaces. The gaps Marrow had taught me to claim.
The agent tilted its head, eyes flicking along the threads of our movements. Then it smiled. "Clever. But predictable."
Predictable. That word hit me like a brick. The agent had seen through some of my margins already. But not all. I shifted, bent slightly, and moved along a thread I'd left mostly unclaimed—faint, almost invisible. The Shard hummed, a pulse of encouragement, guiding me through the next gap.
"Arthur, stop thinking," Valerius whispered. "Move with the moment."
I did. Each step, each slight adjustment, each breath was a margin claimed. The agent mirrored me, moving along dominant threads, but it couldn't sense the gaps I'd carved. Not yet.
Then it attacked. Not with a weapon, but with reality itself. The world around me warped slightly, subtle distortions meant to unbalance me. Trees bent unnaturally, roots stretched, and the air thickened as if it wanted to crush me.
I felt the Shard flare sharply. React. Adapt. Claim.
I twisted into a margin between threads, leaning into the distortion. It passed through me like a wave, brushing against my shoulder but leaving me untouched. Valerius struck at the agent, but her attack passed through—just like the forest's distortions, the agent wasn't fully present in our reality.
Puck yipped, claws scraping the ground. "Don't touch me, you perfect little nightmare!"
I focused. Every movement was a thread, every hesitation a trap. I bent the margins around me, creating spaces where I could exist unnoticed, and each step further disoriented the agent. Its voice hissed, sharp now: "You twist too much, anomaly. You cannot hide from the Curator."
"Not hide," I muttered. "Exist between."
The words weren't just speech—they were action. Margins weren't passive. They were active. Alive. The Shard hummed in agreement.
I pushed further, leaving faint traces along false threads, luring the agent into expected positions. Then, a single deliberate step along an unseen gap, and the agent stumbled, disoriented by my claimed margins. Valerius seized the opportunity, striking her rapier along the air where the agent's form flickered. A faint echo of movement was the only sign the attack had landed.
The agent reeled back, realizing it had underestimated a single anomaly. And in that moment, I felt something crucial: claiming margins wasn't just defense. It was agency. Choice. Survival.
The agent lunged again, more violently, and the forest warped in response. I danced along the threads, twisting, leaving traces to confuse, dodge, and redirect. The Shard thrummed insistently. I followed its pulse, feeling the invisible gaps. My heart pounded. Sweat burned my eyes.
And then, suddenly, the agent paused. Its mirrored eyes reflected… nothing. The threads I'd claimed expanded subtly, reshaping the space around us. It hissed, backing away, unable to fully interact with the margins I controlled.
"Arthur Vane," it said finally, voice low and seething, "this is not over."
And with that, it vanished. No warp, no shimmer—just gone.
I collapsed onto a fallen log, chest heaving. Valerius exhaled slowly, wings folding. Puck leapt onto my shoulder, muttering something incomprehensible about "ridiculous survival."
I clutched the bookmark in my coat. Warm. Alive. Pulse syncing with mine.
Marrow appeared then, impossibly calm, like he had been watching the whole time. "Well done," he said softly. "The first test is always the hardest. But you've claimed your first margin under threat. Remember this feeling. Every time you do, it grows stronger. Every mistake teaches you how to claim the next."
I nodded, too exhausted to speak. "It's… terrifying."
"Of course," he said, smiling faintly. "Margins are never safe. But they are yours. And for now, that is enough."
The forest returned fully to normal. The air cleared, birds chirped, and the sun shone through leaves in ordinary shafts of light. But I knew better.
The Curator was watching. Agents were everywhere. And each step I took had to be measured, precise, deliberate. The margins were mine to claim—but the world was still dangerous, and mistakes were fatal.
I realized then that Marrow wasn't just teaching me to survive. He was teaching me to exist, to carve reality itself into a shape I could inhabit. And if I failed, no one would save me.
Puck yawned. "I hate training. Can we nap?"
Valerius gave him a look sharp enough to cut steel. "Shut up, Puck."
I laughed weakly. My fingers brushed the bookmark again, feeling its warmth. For the first time, I understood something Marrow had meant: the margin wasn't just a space. It was life.
And life, in the Curator's story, was mine to claim.