Chapter 45 – Broken Projection
The rhythm of footsteps through the fog was an accounting of breaths. The forest had swallowed most of the exam's soft noise; all that remained were the scrape of leaves and the occasional distant birdcall. They had cleared the first node — three stones, a net, and a small shard inside Seryn's chest. Now they advanced toward the second node: control.
There was a certain cold inside him. Not fear; a deliberate calculation. The gray current rode with him, yes, but now carried a splinter of the stones' hidden web. It changed how recordings would see him. That had to be an asset — or at least an annoyance minimized.
Kai pushed through low branches, cutting a path. "What's next?" he asked, voice sharpening against the quiet.
"The control field," Rien said. "Logic, ballast, minor shocks to interrupt rhythm. You have to maintain a steady gait and a calm mind."
Lyra checked her notes. "On the map it's laid around a stony terrace. They've placed tilt traps, micro-elevations to upset feet, and several mana-distorsion points — it's explicitly a stabilization test."
Seryn acknowledged it inside. "And the surveillance will be intense. The same lower web that lingered at the middle ring might try to pull our altered signature into Temple records. Expect watchers."
They walked. Each step was part of the test; not only what you did, but how you looked doing it mattered now. Seryn monitored the shadow his body cast on trunks and undergrowth; he kept the gray glow subdued and threaded inward, refusing sudden flares.
The group moved in a synchronized silence that masked private computations. Kai's temper was steadier — the first node's near miss had tempered him. Rien checked bow tension with a mindful thumb; his eyes cataloged line-of-sight and high ground. Lyra kept her hands near a tiny sigil she'd prepared—ready to throw a personal barrier at a moment's notice.
At the second node they could see other groups ahead and to the ridge: loud teams brashly testing lines, quiet teams slipping through. The contrast taught Seryn more than any manual. He watched which students made noise and which made progress. Quiet competence gathered fewer records than noisy success — a lesson in future visibility.
A cold-clad proctor stood by the entry to the field. His white plate was more duty than kindness. Seryn's internal calculation expected the rise of the man's brow, and he matched it with a tiny increase in outward calm. Where eyes search, appearance shapes the record.
"There is a balance test," the proctor said precisely. "Each of you will cross the terrace alone. Do it without breaking rhythm, and advance. Surcharges may occur—these are part of the assessment. Ready?"
Kai offered a casual snort. "Ready." But Seryn read the line written on the slate: surcharges. This course engineered pressure — a social study dressed as an obstacle.
He stepped onto the platform first. It was built over boulders and carved with sigils meant to disturb footing: brass rings that tilted, channels that guided wind, stones that shifted micro-inches under weight. It was less about the raw pull of power and more about the discipline to correct—over and over.
The first step made the slab tilt. A subtle redistribution underfoot requested core adjustment. Seryn's breath chose the old cadence: four short, two long. The breath pattern was not superstition—it was an algorithm for body and mind he'd learned in his bones. He held it.
The second cadence pushed him across a sigil seam. A wash of directional wind pressed him—sometimes lifting, sometimes pinning. Then, as prescribed, a test surge: a compact arc of mana landed at a distant node and locked the terrace into a micro-magnetic field. It did not seek to break a person; it intentionally altered feedback. It tested return-to-normal speed.
Seryn felt the nudge. It was not a panic. It was a signal. He corrected the balance with measured breaths and micro-adjustments in posture. The shard within him hummed with the extra stimulus, but it did not erupt. He isolated the ripple and refused it audience.
He reached the far side. The proctor noted with the economy of someone used to marking outcomes: "Complete." Normal looks, benign assessments: these were assets. If you could be normal on demand, watchers recorded normal, and normal is often forgettable.
Rien crossed next. The archer's style relied on micro-controllers of body—short steps and resets. Lyra went third: her training demanded fine motor equality and mana balance. Seryn's little outward assist—a tiny, barely perceptible barrier as she moved across—gave her the margin she needed. No one noticed; no record noted.
Then someone else moved beside the terrace: a watcher whose robe fell between church and academy. He wasn't officially posted but carried the careful look of Temple interest. Up close, his face held a measure of curiosity that read like danger.
Seryn kept breathing. He did not stiffen. He'd been trained to present a surface of ease and hide the lines beneath. The watcher approached, and his eyes peeled into Seryn's face.
"Daskal," the man said softly. "We're taking note of mannerisms today. These exams are about more than balance; they're about origin. Are you completing it unaided, or guided?"
The question was precise. The answer could be several kinds at once.
Seryn chose to do what trainees do poorly: he altered his visible rhythm rather than inventing new power. He amplified the clear pattern that already steadied his muscles—creased it into something tactile. He made his breath a little louder, his footing slightly pronounced. Not enough to be theatrical, just enough to make the watcher's instrument return to a descriptive note—curiosity over suspicion.
The watcher's brow shifted for a microsecond. He made a note. The tone had changed from the sharpness of scrutiny to softer interest. That softening was strategic. Control in the shadowed room above depended on the register of records. If the note said curio, the boy's file would be followed with questions, not clamps.
When the man moved on, and they walked to the next sector, Seryn catalogued the small win. It was a quiet thing: to steer attention away from accusations and toward an anecdote.
That night as they walked back across the academy grounds, the tactic nested with other calculations. The control trial measured bodies, yes. But it also offered a look into who would be marked for extra review. Temple curiosity was a resource; misdirecting the tone of that curiosity could either buy space or invite a different kind of watch.
In a high chamber, Valen watched the field through a slow-turning crystal. The slight agitation at the middle node had registered, and now a pale ripple at the control terrace showed as a small, blurry anomaly. Seraphine stood beside him, hand shading part of the crystal, the lines in her face set.
"A fluctuation at the heart of the terrace," she said. "It's being read as noise by Temple sensors, but not all noise is meaningless."
Valen's gaze tightened on a small label: Seryn Daskal — near node. He did not say the word that had started dozens of plots in the past. He only said, "Again."
Seraphine's reply was leveled: "He drew a different note from the watcher. A softer tone." She placed a hand on the crystal. "Down there, the stones are trying to obey two masters."
The two of them understood what Seryn already knew: two asks in the field made a messy compliance. The sliver of web the boy carried had mixed intents. In the wrong hands, an unreadable signal becomes a pretext. In their hands, it became a variable.
Seryn returned to the barracks with a small notebook open. First node: stone's heart. Second node: balance. Third node loomed—unknown. For now, there was a manageable truth: visibility is a unit you can control if you learn to speak it. The records written about you reflect the grammar you hand them.
He wrote one line and set his quill down: Visibility is the first language of control. Rule one: whoever watches, writes the rules. The gray current eased beneath his ribs. He set aside the pen and let the dark cover the room.
Tomorrow the exam would move on, and he would stand in the same thin edge again — ready, this time, to shape how he was seen.