The scratching of Proctor Vayne's quill on parchment was the loudest sound in the stark, cold room, a dry, insistent whisper that seemed to etch itself directly onto Lucian's frayed nerves. He sat perched on the edge of the hard wooden stool, feeling like an errant schoolboy summoned before a particularly unforgiving headmaster. Except this was no school, and Proctor Vayne, with his parchment-dry skin and eyes like chips of obsidian, was far more unsettling than any teacher Lucian had ever encountered.
"Let us begin with the Oakhaven incident," Vayne said, his voice a rustle of dry leaves, his gaze still fixed on the massive ledger before him. He didn't ask; he stated. "Describe, in as much detail as you can recall, the sequence of events leading up to, during, and immediately following your… Aetheric discharge."
Lucian swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. How could he begin to describe the maelstrom of that night? The joyous chaos of the festival, the sudden, chilling fear, the desperate surge of emotion that had felt like his very soul tearing itself apart and reknitting in a blaze of impossible light?
"It was the Veilfall Lantern Festival, Proctor," he began, his voice a little unsteady. "Everyone was… happy. Celebrating." He tried to paint a picture of Oakhaven's warmth, its vibrant life, but the words felt hollow, inadequate in this sterile, stone chamber. "Then, the Dread Hound appeared. A small one, but… it was terrifying. It went for a child, Timmy Henderson."
Vayne's quill paused, hovering over the parchment. "The emotional state of the populace. Noted. Your own emotional state, Shaper, prior to the entity's appearance?"
"I was… happy, too," Lucian said, a little surprised by the question. "Enjoying the festival. Like everyone else."
"No premonition? No unusual anxiety? No sense of… impending Aetheric instability?" Vayne's questions were like tiny, precise probes, searching for something specific.
Lucian frowned. "No, sir. Nothing like that. Just… the usual Veilfall feeling. The air a bit thin, you know? A bit… shimmery."
"The 'usual Veilfall feeling'," Vayne repeated, a faint, almost imperceptible dryness in his tone, as if the very concept of such an unquantifiable sensation was an affront to his orderly mind. He made a small, meticulous note. "Continue with the entity's appearance and your subsequent reaction."
Lucian recounted the events as best he could, the words tumbling out, a jumbled mess of fear and confusion. He described the Dread Hound's terrifying leap, his own desperate lunge to protect Timmy, the overwhelming surge of emotion – protectiveness, courage, terror – that had felt like a physical force within him.
"And then the light," he finished, his voice dropping. "It just… happened. From my hand. Red, and yellow, mostly. Bright. So bright."
"Ruby and Topaz Resonances, as previously noted," Vayne murmured, his quill scratching again. "You state these originated from your hand. Did you consciously direct this energy? Did you will it to appear?"
Lucian shook his head. "No, Proctor. It was… it was like a sneeze, almost. Something building up inside me, and then it just… exploded out. I didn't choose the colours, or the force. I didn't choose anything. I just… reacted."
"A purely instinctual discharge, then," Vayne mused, tapping his quill against his chin. "Fueled by a potent cocktail of primal emotions: fear, aggression, the protective instinct. Common in initial, uncontrolled manifestations. Were there any physical sensations accompanying the discharge? A tingling? Heat? Cold? Pressure?"
Lucian thought back, trying to isolate the physical from the emotional. "Yes. My hand… it tingled. A lot. And it felt hot, then cold. And there was a… a pressure, like something was trying to get out. And the smell… like after a big thunderstorm."
"Ozone. A common byproduct of significant Aetheric displacement in the material plane," Vayne said, nodding slowly, his eyes still on Lucian, but with a distant, analytical focus, as if Lucian were a particularly complex diagram. "Were there any visual distortions? Auras? Ripples in the air prior to the discharge?"
"I… I don't think so," Lucian said, struggling to remember the chaotic moments clearly. "Everything happened so fast."
"And after the discharge?" Vayne pressed. "Any lingering sensations? Weakness? Disorientation? Elation, perhaps?"
"Weakness, yes," Lucian admitted. "My hand kept tingling for a while. I felt… shaky. Drained. And scared. Mostly scared." He hesitated, then added, almost against his will, "But there was… something else too. Just for a second. A kind of… thrill. That it had worked. That the hound was gone." He felt his cheeks flush, ashamed of the admission.
Vayne made another note, his expression unreadable. "The emotional echo. Also common. Now, Shaper, think carefully. Prior to this… significant event in Oakhaven, have you experienced any other unusual phenomena? However minor. Unexplained lights? Strange sensations? Moments of… heightened intuition or perception?"
Lucian's mind immediately went to the incident with the candle flame in his room, the blue flare he had desperately tried to suppress. And then, more recently, the strange thrumming he had sensed in the mountains, the pale blue lines of light in the rock. He hesitated. Should he tell this cold, analytical man about these fleeting, uncertain experiences? Would Vayne dismiss them as mere fancy? Or would they become more data points in his dispassionate assessment?
"There was… a candle," Lucian began haltingly. "A few days after the festival, before Aegis Stonehand arrived. I was upset, frustrated. I was staring at the flame, and… I think it flared blue for a moment. Just for a second. I… I think I might have caused it."
Vayne's quill moved with renewed speed. "A minor, uncontrolled Azure manifestation. Triggered by emotional distress – frustration, in this instance. Interesting. Azure Resonance typically correlates with calm, clarity, or sorrow. Frustration is a more… agitated state. Perhaps a dissonance in your nascent abilities. Any other instances?"
Lucian described the sensation on the cliff pass, the thrumming in the rock, the fleeting vision of pale blue lines. He felt foolish saying it aloud, but Lyra had told him to cultivate that awareness.
Vayne listened intently, his obsidian eyes never leaving Lucian's face. When Lucian had finished, the Proctor sat in silence for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful, almost distant. "You perceived an Aetheric Ley Line," he said finally, his voice devoid of surprise. "A natural conduit of terrestrial Aetheria. The Argent Peaks are riddled with them. Most individuals, even many trained Shapers, lack the sensitivity to perceive them so clearly without augmentation. Your innate Aetheric senses appear to be… unusually acute."
Lucian blinked. A Ley Line? He had read of such things in old, half-forgotten tales, but he had always dismissed them as folklore.
"This acute sensitivity, combined with your potent emotional responses and the vibrant, multi-hued nature of your initial discharge," Vayne continued, his voice still dry and academic, "suggests a rare and potentially… volatile Shaper profile. A Prismatic Resonator, perhaps, though such classifications are often imprecise in the early stages."
Prismatic Resonator. The term sounded grand, impressive, yet Vayne delivered it with the same detached interest he might use to describe a peculiar type of fungus.
"Your charisma, your natural ability to connect with and influence others, as noted in Aegis Stonehand's preliminary report from Oakhaven," Vayne went on, seemingly changing tack, though Lucian suspected it was all connected in the Proctor's intricate mental web, "is also a factor. Charisma, in Shapers, can often be an unconscious manifestation of Aetheric projection. A subtle, persuasive Resonance. Yours appears to be… quite pronounced."
Lucian felt a strange mixture of unease and a perverse sort of pride. His charm, his easy way with people, had always been a part of him, something he'd taken for granted. To hear it described as an "Aetheric projection," another facet of this strange, unwanted power, was unsettling.
Proctor Vayne leaned back slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. He steepled his long, bony fingers. "Your case presents several… interesting variables, Shaper Lucian. The raw power is undeniable. The emotional volatility is a significant concern. The acute sensory perception is a potential asset, if it can be disciplined. The inherent Prismatic tendency… that is a wild card. Such Shapers are often powerful, but notoriously difficult to train, their abilities prone to instability if not meticulously managed."
He picked up his quill again. "We will require further assessments, of course. Tests of your Aetheric capacity, your Resonance affinities, your emotional control under duress. The path ahead of you will be… arduous." He dipped the quill in ink, his attention already returning to his ledger. "For now, this initial processing is concluded. You will be escorted back to your quarters. Await further summons."
The dismissal was abrupt, final. Lucian felt a surge of frustration. He had been questioned, analysed, categorised, but he still understood so little. He had so many questions of his own.
"Proctor Vayne," he began, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "What will happen to me? What kind of training…?"
Vayne looked up, his obsidian eyes cold, impatient. "Patience, Shaper, is a virtue you would do well to cultivate. All will be revealed in due course, according to the established protocols of the Adamant Vigil." He made a small, almost invisible gesture.
The door opened, and the same two impassive Vigilants who had brought him here stepped into the room.
Lucian rose, his shoulders slumping slightly. He had been offered no comfort, no reassurance, no human connection. Only cold, hard facts and the promise of further, equally impersonal, assessments. He was a specimen, a problem to be solved, a variable to be managed.
As he was led back through the silent, torchlit corridors, the Proctor's final words echoed in his mind. Arduous. He had no doubt that was true. But as he thought of the Prismatic Resonator, the wild card, a tiny, defiant spark, the one that had always been a part of Lucian the baker's apprentice, the charmer of Oakhaven, flickered within the Shaper. Perhaps, just perhaps, being a wild card in this place of rigid order wasn't entirely a bad thing. It was a fragile thought, easily extinguished, but for now, he clung to it. It was all he had.