I sighed, shifting in my seat. I knew why I was here. It wasn’t merit. It wasn’t because I had achieved something extraordinary. No, my presence at this exam was the direct result of my uncle’s bribe—his impatience. The thought sat sour in my stomach. Walker examinations were held at specific intervals for a reason. To gauge readiness. To ensure competence. And here I was, shoved into an early trial because Rodrick had decided I was prepared.
Across from me, Cordelia sat, her expression as unreadable as ever. She was the very picture of composure, hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture immaculate despite the carriage’s constant jostling. Her third eye—set perfectly in the center of her forehead—remained closed, as it so often did.
That was another mystery.
“It lets me see mana,” she said, answering the question I hadn’t even spoken aloud. Her voice was monotone, unbothered.
I tensed slightly, my lips pressing together. Right.
“You keep thinking too loudly,” she continued. “You need to practice not doing that.”
I exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Gah. Sorry… I’m just used to my thoughts being my own.”
At this, Cordelia actually shook her head. “Psykers, Espers, Empaths, Dreamweavers—all of them prey on thoughts. Your thoughts. You’ll need to find a way to stop them from slipping out so easily.”
That caught my attention. “Slipping out?”
“Yes,” she said, matter-of-fact. “You don’t have natural defenses. You broadcast everything, like an open book with highlighted passages. You don’t even notice it, do you?”
I scowled. “And you do?”
“I’m not invading,” she clarified. “I don’t need to. Your thoughts are residual noise—loud, but not directed at me specifically. The problem is, others will be able to break in if you don’t learn to quiet them.”
That sent an unpleasant shiver down my spine.
“Great,” I muttered. “Another skill I apparently need to master.”
Cordelia tilted her head slightly, considering. “It’s less about mastery, more about awareness. Most people develop passive defenses naturally, but yours are… underdeveloped.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She ignored my sarcasm. “To start, you need to learn how to layer thoughts—multiple streams at once. That way, even if someone does try to read you, they’ll only get fragments, distortions. Not the whole picture.”
I blinked at her, lost for a moment. “I’m sorry. You want me to what?”
“Multi-processing,” she explained, as if discussing the weather. “It’s a skill every Awakened has, but it’s not really taught. The easiest way to start is to think of three different colors at the same time. Try Red, Green, and Black. Keep them distinct, but interlace them together in your mind.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
“This is ridiculous,” I said flatly.
“Try it.”
With a reluctant sigh, I closed my eyes. Red. Green. Black. Three colors. Simple. Except the moment I focused on Red, Green blurred. When I tried to sharpen Green, Black slipped away. When I pulled Black back into focus, Red bled out entirely.
Frustration built. My fingers twitched against my knee.
“It’s not natural,” I bit out.
“It will be,” Cordelia countered. “Keep going.”
I did. Again and again. I chased the colors like grasping at wisps of ink in water, trying to separate them while holding them all in my mind at once. It felt impossible. Unnatural.
And yet—
Something clicked.
Not fully, not completely. But for the briefest second, I held all three in perfect focus. A fragile moment of clarity before it shattered apart.
My eyes snapped open.
Cordelia’s third eye had opened. Just slightly. Not fully. But enough.
She smiled—small, barely perceptible, but there. “Good. Do it again. This time, form an image. Something that matters to you.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the image Cordelia had instructed me to form—something personal, something integral. The first thing that came to mind was my family. Their faces, their presence, the warmth of their existence woven together in a single frozen moment.
A locket, old but polished, heavy in my palm. I flicked it open. Inside, my mother stood poised as ever, my father grinning beside her, my siblings arranged like an intricate puzzle, each piece irreplaceable. They were my anchor, my foundation, the people who made me me.
And that was the problem.
Cordelia’s voice cut through the projection like a blade. “Absolutely not.”
I opened my eyes, scowling. “It’s my family. It’s important to me.”
“It’s a beacon,” she countered, unimpressed. “A roadmap to your mind. A well-defined structure, a fixed point. The moment someone finds an entry into your thoughts, they will take that locket, pry it open, and follow every single thread it contains. Your mother. Your father. Your siblings. Weak points, all of them.” Her third eye closed, but her stare was as cutting as if she’d opened it just to glare at my mistake more clearly. “Sentimentality is not protection. Try again.”
I exhaled sharply through my nose. Fine. Something chaotic, something without a clear structure…
I shut my eyes again and let the locket shatter.
In its place, cards. Hundreds of them. Falling like leaves in a storm, flipping midair, reshuffling, never holding still long enough to be grasped. Some landed and scattered, others merged into elaborate formations before dissolving again. The suits changed at random. Numbers were meaningless. The rules shifted moment to moment. There was no pattern. No sense. Just motion, just deception, just an ungraspable, ever-changing cascade of pieces that should form something—but never quite did.
I opened my eyes.
Cordelia tilted her head slightly, considering. She gave a small nod. Not full approval, but enough. “That will do… for now.”
The emphasis was clear. This wasn’t mastery. It was barely competence. But it was enough to move forward.
I leaned back against my seat, smirking slightly despite myself. “Guess that means I pass.”
Cordelia sighed, resting her chin on her hand. “Barely.”
The exercise was a distraction from the monotony of the wheels. The constant, rhythmic grinding of iron-rimmed wheels over uneven stone was ceaseless, a dull, repetitive percussion against my ears. I focused on it for a moment, tried to let the noise become something else—something predictable, controllable. It was…
"Your thoughts are bleeding again."
I scowled. Already?
"Yes. Already," Cordelia responded, her voice as flat as ever, but tinged with something almost resembling exasperation. "Worse, your mana makes your thoughts very… uniquely easy to hear. They carry.”
I gritted my teeth and forced my mind back into the cascade. The deluge of cards formed again in my thoughts—thousands of them, shifting, falling, dancing through a void of infinite movement. No rules. No order. No seams to pry open. Just endless motion, impossible to pin down.
Cordelia observed me with that unnerving stillness she always had. Then, a small nod. Approval.
I exhaled sharply and let the projection fade. The cards dissolved into the recesses of my mind like mist dispersing in the wind, leaving only silence in their wake.
"Why is that so exhausting?" I grumbled, rubbing my temples.
"Because you are closing off your inner sphere," she answered plainly. "You are forcing your mana and miasma to withdraw inward, sealing them inside. Your body does not like that. It is the opposite of what it has evolved to do."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I frowned, crossing my arms. "My inner sphere?"
Cordelia sighed, as if having to explain something that should have been obvious. "Mana and miasma exist to flow outward, to interact, to affect the world. When you suppress them, when you force them inward and hold them there, it creates friction. Resistance. Your body fights against it. That is why it is exhausting."
I tapped my fingers against my knee, mulling it over. So this wasn’t just a mental exercise—it was a battle of will against my own essence. No wonder it felt like trying to hold my breath underwater while my lungs screamed for air.
"You’ll get used to it," Cordelia continued. "Or you’ll collapse. Either way, the lesson sticks."
I rolled my eyes. So reassuring.
"Why did you choose playing cards?" Cordelia’s voice remained its usual monotone, but there was a trace of curiosity behind it. "They aren’t inherently random. They don’t hold as much personal significance to you as, say, your father. Yet, you keep using them. And every time, the cascade changes—wildly different showings each time. Why?"
I tilted my head, considering my answer. "My Machina."
She raised an eyebrow.
"It’s already public information that I have one. Its dormant form is a playing card. It takes the form of a knight made of playing cards. Why not use hundreds of playing cards to represent the idea of a barrier? It’s flexible, unpredictable, and overwhelming—like a flood. Plus," I gave a slight smirk, "technically, cards are paper. I could manipulate them if I wanted to."
That made Cordelia pause. Her third eye twitched slightly, as if she were seeing some new angle, a new possibility she hadn’t considered before. "You realize, in theory, this means we could have you play poker. Given time, you'd eventually be able to read the cards in people’s hands through your Arte."
I barked out a short laugh. "Yeah… no. Ask my father how that would work out. Any Arte use from my family in a casino is heavily investigated. We are truly blessed, thanks to him."
Cordelia gave the barest hint of a smile—just a twitch at the corner of her lips. "A shame. You could’ve been rich."
"I’d rather not end up banned from every gambling establishment before I even start." I stretched out my arms. "Besides, knowing my luck? I’d be good at reading the cards, but someone would just pull a gun instead."
"Possibly," Cordelia mused, folding her hands in her lap. "Though that would be a good test of your reflexes."
I sighed. The worst part? She wasn’t even joking.
***
The Walker Association building made my uncle’s estate look like a quaint country home in comparison. It wasn’t just grandiose—it was an entire district, sprawling over an entire city block with towering walls that seemed to hum with raw energy. From within, the sounds of explosions, gunfire, and the crackling fury of lightning bolts echoed through the structure. Nearly every form of controlled chaos imaginable was taking place behind those walls.
I gulped. I was ready.
Cordelia stood beside me, her sharp eyes already boring into me, about to chastise me for whatever thoughts I had yet to voice. Before she could, however, a man by the entrance caught my attention.
Tall. Lanky. Disjointed.
He stood well over seven feet tall, his limbs elongated and unnaturally thin, yet he carried himself with an unsettling weightlessness, as if he floated just slightly above the ground. His skin was impossibly pale, nearly translucent in the light, and as the sunlight struck him, his form seemed to shift—reflecting the colors of the sky like a living mirage.
His eyes—if they could even be called that—shimmered like fractured glass, revealing glimpses of twilight, dawn, and the endless horizon within them.
“Sir Alexander, I presume?” His voice was oddly musical, each syllable dancing between high and low notes. “My name is Nathan Vill Dance. I am here upon the request of your Uncle and Mother to offer you an express investigation—to ensure you are eligible to become a Walker before your advancement.”
His gaze swept over me like a forensic scalpel, something inhuman lurking beneath his ethereal presence.
“However, I must say—your inner self is rather…empty for someone brimming with that much miasma.” His head tilted slightly, his reflective skin shifting into the soft hues of the clouds. “And yet, your mana supply is low. A unique problem.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
His words weren’t spoken with judgment or pity, but with something else entirely—curiosity.
“Step inside,” Nathan gestured with long, delicate fingers. “Along with your potential Adjutant.” His eyes flickered toward Cordelia before settling once more on me. “I must inform you, however—Miss Fractal will not be permitted to accompany you. Spirit Beasts have their own trials to undertake.”
A small chirp of protest sounded from my shoulder.
Me. Stay. Here. Good. Meanie?
Fractal had been silent until now, but at those words, she clung to my shoulder with her tiny claws, her shimmering feathers bristling in distress.
I sighed. “She really would prefer to stay with me, sir. Is there any possibility for that accommodation?”
Nathan shook his head, utterly unmoved, his posture rigid with familiarity—he had obviously had this conversation many times before.
“No,” he replied, firm but not unkind. “Spirit Beasts undergo separate evaluations. A Walker walks alone—and a Spirit Beast…” He gave a faint, knowing smile. “Normally, we say they prowl in their partner’s shadow. But in your case… let’s say your Spirit Beast soars overhead instead.”
At the word prowl, Fractal stiffened. Her haze-like mask of ethereal smoke shifted, curling in ways that made it clear she did not like that phrase one bit.
I chuckled softly.
You. Meanie. No. Stay.
“Fractal,” I murmured, placing a hand on her tiny, shimmering form. “Stay with him. I need to do this.”
She huffed, her tail feathers flashing in protest—a stubborn swirl of yellow, purple, blue, and cyan.
You. Owe. Me.
“I know,” I whispered. “I always do.”
Reluctantly, Fractal unlatched from my shoulder and fluttered toward Nathan, perching on his outstretched hand. He held her with the same eerie weightlessness that marked his entire existence, as though gravity barely recognized him.
I turned back to the entrance, exhaling slowly.
Time to step into the unknown.
I’ll stay here with Fractal. You focus on the advancement. Best-case scenario? They grant you another Skillcube, your license, and your first mission. Worst case? You progress outside the Association.
Cordelia’s voice echoed in my mind, her telepathy as gentle, monotone, and punctual as ever. She never wasted words, and while her lack of inflection made it difficult to tell, I could sense the calm certainty behind them.
Her presence with Fractal settled some of my unease. She probably already knew that.
Nathan led me away, his weightless steps barely making a sound against the pristine floor. We passed through a set of reinforced doors that slid shut behind me with an air-tight hiss.
The room I was taken to was completely barren—no windows, no decorations, no visible exit beyond the one I had entered through. A single table stood in the center, flanked by two deeply cushioned chairs, their plush fabric out of place in an otherwise sterile environment. If not for those seats, the space might have felt like a high-end interrogation room—instead, it had the distinct atmosphere of a waiting stage before a performance begins.
I sat, sinking into the chair’s impossibly soft embrace, feeling momentarily weightless. Clouds under my skin.
Nathan remained standing for a moment longer, his reflective skin shifting under the room’s artificial lighting, before he finally settled into the chair across from me. The moment he did, his entire presence changed.
Gone was the mildly amused, slightly ethereal man who met me outside. The moment he spoke, his voice took on a measured weight—as though every word carried significance.
"Alright. Let’s get this started."
His fingers laced together on the table, his fractured-glass eyes locking onto me with quiet intensity.
"Since you have a telepathic bond with a Spirit Beast, and your potential Adjutant is already a registered Psyker within the Association, you may feel... cut off here."
His gaze flickered to the walls, then back to me.
"The room is lined with mercury—a natural disruptor of telepathic communication. Any outside mental links will be distorted. Legally, I am required to inform you of the following:
- You are free to leave this room at any time, should you choose.
- This evaluation is only partially considered in your final judgment.
- If any question I ask would result in you incriminating yourself, you are within your rights to invoke your Seventh Right as a Citizen of Marr.
- Legally, this is not an interrogation. The Walker Association accepts applicants from all walks of life."
His voice, though still rehearsed, had shifted into something far more firm and authoritative—his earlier, almost casual demeanor stripped away. For the first time, I sensed the weight of what he was, beneath his outward appearance. Not just an examiner, but something other.
Not quite human. Not entirely fey.
A watcher. A recorder. A judge.
Nathan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back as though settling into a role.
“First question.” He cracked a small, almost exasperated smile, as if already weary of the bureaucratic nature of his job.
“This one is for record-keeping and must be logged, despite the fact that I already know the answer.”
His pen hovered over the thick, crisp parchment laid out before him.
"What is your name?"
I resisted the urge to sigh.
"Really?"
"Alexander Duarte," I answered, unimpressed.
Nathan hummed, jotting the response down before immediately moving to the next inquiry.
“Mana Affinities. If any changes occur, report them immediately.”
I blinked. That’s possible?
"...Dimension primary. Crystal secondary. Nature third."
Nathan’s pen glided over the parchment, his expression giving nothing away.
“Awakened Arte and Current Arte?”
I stiffened. Knew this one was coming.
"Paper Manipulation," I said carefully. "By the Dryad’s words, hiding Bibliokinesis."
Nathan’s pen stopped mid-stroke.
His expression didn’t falter, but there was a notable pause—a moment where his eyes flickered between the shifting text on the page and my own gaze, as though calculating something.
Then, without a word, he resumed writing.
"Interesting Arte, Alexander."
His tone was neither complimentary nor dismissive—simply factual, though there was something else in his voice.
A layer of consideration.
A trace of recognition.
"This will require an additional licensing process," Nathan continued, "which will also grant you access to additional Gates."
He finally glanced back up at me, his expression calm, yet serious.
"After we conclude this evaluation, you will be asked to demonstrate your Arte. Once that is complete, your certification will be officially updated within the system."
Nathan’s measured, methodical approach was different from the others I’d dealt with before. He wasn’t just processing my answers—he was assessing everything about me.
Not just my words.
My responses. My hesitation. My understanding of what I was.
This was not just a formality.
This was a test.