Chapter IX: The Lever and The Gear
The week began with an announcement that should have been routine.
Professor Harland, a wiry man with spectacles that always seemed about to fall off his nose, tapped his pointer against the projector screen.
"Surveying," he declared, "is not just about instruments. It's about discipline. It's about precision. And yes, it's about standing out there in the elements until your boots sink into the earth."
The class groaned in unison. Theo slumped so far in his chair he looked half-dead. "Elements? He makes it sound like we're about to scale Everest with a ruler."
A few chuckles rippled through the lecture hall. Nathaniel forced a smile, but his stomach twisted.
Elements. Sunlight.
He stared at the syllabus Harland projected: "Practical Field Exercises — Hyde Park, Week 7."
Even in London, cloud capital of the world, no one could promise the sun would stay hidden.
And if the light touched his scar—if it revealed what lingered beneath—what then?
Theo nudged him, whispering, "Cross, you look like Harland just announced we're digging trenches."
Nathaniel blinked, dragged back. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Mate, you're always tired. One of these days, I'm going to stage an intervention. Replace your coffee stash with sleeping pills."
Nathaniel managed a chuckle. But inside, dread coiled tighter.
That night, back in his flat, the syllabus lay open on his desk. His laptop glowed, cursor blinking at a blank email draft.
To: Father, Mother.
Subject: Advice.
He hesitated. He hadn't reached out in weeks. Every time he thought of the Manor, of the locked rooms and the whispers that trailed the Gravenholt name, his fingers froze.
But the thought of Hyde Park, of sunlight on his skin, forced him forward.
He wrote:
They've scheduled a surveying fieldwork session outdoors. We'll be under open sky. London is grey most days, but... what if it's not? What if the sun comes?
He deleted the last line, rewrote it. I need your counsel. How do I face this without exposing what I carry?
He hovered over "Send."
Finally, he clicked.
The reply came the next evening.
His father's words were measured, clipped, like the man himself:
Fear of the sun is natural for you. But do not let fear make decisions in your place. Remember: curiosity is a shield. You are a Cross. If they ask why you shy from light, let it be because your mind is elsewhere, fixed on study, on invention. Not hiding. Never hiding.
His mother's words followed, softer, but no less piercing:
Nathaniel, the world will always test you. If it is not the sun, it will be something else. Let your questions be stronger than your fear. Look at the instruments, at the lines and numbers. The world believes in science; let them see your hunger for it. That is your veil.
Nathaniel read the message three times.
"Curiosity as a shield," he murmured.
But his scar burned in silent dissent.
When the day of field practice came, the sky was a muted grey, clouds thick as wool. The class gathered in Hyde Park, boots sinking slightly into damp grass. Tripods, total stations, and leveling rods clattered as students carried them across the field.
Theo squinted at the instruments like they were medieval torture devices. "These things look like they belong in an alchemist's lab."
Nathaniel adjusted the tripod legs automatically, his hands moving with practiced precision. He remembered his father's brief lessons—angles, distances, the language of land. Numbers made sense. Machines made sense.
It was the sky that didn't.
Every time the clouds thinned, Nathaniel flinched, waiting for a break of light. His hand drifted unconsciously to his chest, to the scar that throbbed faintly even in shadow.
Theo noticed. "You alright, mate? You're twitchier than a cat in a thunderstorm."
"I'm fine," Nathaniel said quickly. Too quickly.
Theo narrowed his eyes. "You know, if you hate the outdoors this much, you picked the wrong degree."
"Just... not used to it."
Theo shrugged, turning back to the leveling rod. "Fair. But if I collapse of hypothermia out here, I'm haunting you."
Nathaniel almost smiled. Almost.
The hours passed in a blur of angles and coordinates. Groups plotted baselines, sighted crosshairs, called out numbers into the damp air.
For a time, Nathaniel found himself absorbed. The lenses, the turning of screws, the way the crosshairs aligned with distant marks—this was a language he understood.
Measure. Record. Calculate.
Curiosity as a shield.
He clung to it.
Until the clouds broke.
It was sudden—one gust of wind, and the woolen cover thinned. A shaft of sunlight pierced the park like a blade.
It struck the grass. It struck the instruments. And it struck Nathaniel.
His scar ignited. Fire beneath flesh.
He staggered, vision swimming. The rod slipped from his grip, clattering against the tripod. Students turned, startled.
Theo swore. "Cross! What the hell?"
"I—" Nathaniel gasped, forcing breath through clenched teeth. "Just... dizzy."
Theo hurried over, steadying him. "Mate, you've gone pale. You need water?"
Nathaniel nodded weakly, clutching his chest through his jacket. The burn seared, but he forced it down, buried it beneath clenched will.
All around, students muttered, some amused, some concerned. Professor Harland barked, "If you can't stand a bit of sun, Mr. Cross, you'll find surveying a challenge indeed."
The words bit deep. But Nathaniel forced himself upright.
"Fine," he said hoarsely. "I'm fine."
He picked up the rod again, hands trembling, and forced his focus back to the lines, the numbers.
Curiosity as a shield.
He would make them believe.
But as the sunlight lingered, he caught sight of something across the field.
By the trees, just at the edge of vision—Adrian Clarke. Too far to be part of their group. Not holding an instrument. Not speaking to anyone. Just watching.
And beside him, for the briefest instant, the dark-haired girl.
Nathaniel's scar flared hotter.
When he blinked, she was gone.
But Adrian remained.
And Nathaniel knew—this was no accident.
That night, back in his flat, Nathaniel collapsed at his desk, sweat chilling his skin. His scar still throbbed, echoing with phantom sunlight.
He opened his notebook.
But before he could write, before he could even steady his hand, words appeared across the page, jagged and ink-dark though his pen never moved:
The sun will strip you bare.
He slammed the book shut, heart hammering.
Outside, the rain began again, pattering against the window like a thousand whispered questions.
And Nathaniel Cross sat alone, caught between equations and shadows, knowing the world had started testing him in ways no textbook could measure.