The chime of the apartment's wakefulness ward was a soft, melodic tone that didn't so much startle Leo from sleep as it gently escorted him out of it. He lay still for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of the magically-grown building settling around him. The faint hum of the warding runes etched into the hallway, the distant rush of water through enchanted pipes; this was the soundtrack of his mornings.
His studio was a single, oblong room. The walls, made of smoothed whitewood, were bare save for a single shelf holding a handful of practical books on library science and city bylaws. A small cooking nook held a basic Heat-Plate, and his bed folded back into the wall with a simple command word, a spell so common it was cheaper than building a physical frame. A faded Glimmer-Globe, its light a tired yellow, hovered in the center of the ceiling. He'd been meaning to get the mana-crystal replaced for months, but the cost always seemed to find a better use, like the monthly Mana-Tax that kept the city's public heating runes active and the sky-lights glowing.
He was twenty-seven. His parents, retired and comfortably ensconced in a sunny coastal town, sent him monthly letters filled with gentle, worried questions about his future. His Aunt Lydia, who lived across the city, was more direct, her scrying-calls often ending with, "A man needs a purpose, Leo, not just a job!" He had a purpose. It was just a quiet one.
In the small polishing-spell that served as his mirror, his reflection was unremarkable. Hair the color of dark sand, already threatening to recede if he didn't watch his stress levels. Eyes a flat, placid brown that held no particular fire or ambition. He looked exactly like what he was: a junior librarian with a modest salary, a small life, and no grand designs.
His walk to the Grand Meridian Library was a study in magical mundanity. The pavement beneath his worn shoes radiated a gentle, persistent warmth, a city-wide comfort spell paid for by his taxes. A street-sweeper guided a silent, enchanted broom that consumed dust and debris with a soft whirr. A young woman on a balcony coaxed a line of sun-blossoms to bloom with a whispered spell, their petals unfurling in unison. This was the Weave. It wasn't wondrous; it was infrastructure. It was the gravity of his world, invisible and essential.
He bought a steamed bun from a vendor who used a minor preservation charm to keep them fresh all morning. As he ate, he passed the district's combat academy. Through the wrought-iron gates, he saw recruits, some no older than teenagers, practicing in the courtyard. Most were learning standard offensive cantrips, bolts of force and light.
But one student moved differently.
It was a young woman with her hair tied back in a practical braid. She wasn't casting spells at a target; she was channeling raw, shimmering mana into the practice blade in her hands. The air around her hummed with contained power as she moved through a fluid, aggressive kata, the mana-blade leaving faint afterimages in the air. A Spell-Blade. It was a rare, difficult specialization. Dangerous. Most mages preferred to keep their distance from the Voidbeasts.
A memory, sharp and clear, surfaced. Elara. His childhood friend, her small jaw set with a determination that dwarfed his own. She'd declared at twelve that she would become a Spell-Blade, to make sure no other kids ended up like her, alone. He watched the student for a moment longer, a familiar, complicated feeling settling in his chest, a mix of pride for Elara's path and a quiet relief that it wasn't his own.
He finally reached the library. The sight of its old, real stone facade, a relic from a time before cultivated architecture, always calmed him. Here, the chaotic buzz of the city's magic faded into a reverent hush. This was his sanctuary. His ordered world.
He climbed the steps, ready to lose himself in the silence of the stacks.
But as he reached for the great brass door handle, a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his temples. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache and a strange, metallic taste at the back of his throat. He blinked, shaking his head.
For a split second, the solid oak of the door had seemed to… shimmer. Like heat haze on a summer road.
He dismissed it. Just a long night. Just the strange conversation with that old man playing on his mind.
Pushing the door open, he stepped into the comforting gloom of the library, completely unaware that the world he knew had just developed its first, hairline fracture, and it was running directly through him.