The wind continued to play with the silk curtains, lifting their shimmering folds and making them dance around the two of them.

  Dean Ford, seated across from Kael, slowly raised a glass of wine to his lips.

  “Yes… indeed,” he said after a calm sip. “It seems you’ve made quite an impression. And in very little time.”

  Kael lifted one shoulder slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

  “I didn’t do much, I swear. I just stayed true to myself.”

  “Precisely,” Ford replied. “That is exactly why you left a mark.”

  He set his glass down with deliberate ease, fixing his gaze directly into Kael’s.

  “You didn’t answer. You reacted. And that makes all the difference.”

  Kael frowned lightly.

  “I’m not sure I get the nuance.”

  Ford straightened in his seat, fingers interlaced.

  “To answer is to obey an external logic.

  To react is to let speak the part of you that refuses the order imposed on it.”

  He paused, watching the twilight light dance over the river below.

  “An answer seeks to please, or to justify itself. It is measured, calculated.

  A reaction, however, is raw. Instinctive.”

  Kael remained silent, intrigued.

  Ford continued, his voice low and steady:

  “That is why the Trials are always fair. They don’t ask questions. They force you to react.

  And in your case… let’s say your reaction was as sincere as it was violent.”

  Kael let out an ironic breath.

  “So hitting a noble here counts as honesty?”

  The Dean gave a short, deep laugh.

  “Let’s say it’s a sign of authenticity. And believe me—it’s worth far more than docility.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “You may not yet understand what you are, Kael, but the Institute is already starting to suspect it.”

  Kael held his gaze now, more serious.

  “And what do you think I am?”

  Ford smiled softly.

  “Someone who still has the luxury of ignoring his own nature. But not for much longer.”

  Kael stayed quiet for a moment, watching the old man stare out toward the river.

  A question slipped from him almost without thought:

  “Dean Ford… may I ask… who exactly are you?”

  The old man turned toward him, mildly surprised.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I… don’t. I arrived today, and no one’s bothered explaining anything to me.”

  Ford allowed a faint smile.

  “Then let’s start with the basics.”

  He gestured broadly to the terrace.

  “This place is the Trame Institute. And I am its Dean. I oversee everything that happens here: the Trials, the training, the discipline… and occasionally the foolishness of certain Trame Bearers who think too highly of themselves.”

  Kael gave a half-smile.

  “So, in short, you’re the chief of the nest.”

  Ford nodded, amused.

  “In a way. Though it’s a nest where every fledgling already pretends they know how to fly”

  He continued, more serious now:

  “You arrived late, Kael. Three months late in the Trial cycle.”

  “Yeah, I was told that,” Kael replied.

  “You’ll need to make up for that lost time. One week. That’s all you have.”

  “One week?” Kael repeated, stunned. “To make up for three months?”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “To learn not to die too quickly,” Ford corrected calmly.

  Kael ran a hand through his hair, thoughtful.

  “Lovely program.”

  Then, remembering yesterday’s icy reception, he added:

  “By the way, there was a woman at the front desk. She made fun of me because of that delay.”

  Ford let out a frank, unexpected laugh—deep, vibrant, almost joyful.

  “Ah! You must be talking about Vernia!”

  He raised a hand as though apologizing in advance.

  “Yes, she has a temper. Let’s say… she forgot what diplomacy is a long time ago.”

  Kael smiled.

  “I noticed.”

  “But she’s efficient,” Ford went on. “No one handles registrations or Trame Bearers’ nervous breakdowns better than she does. You’ll eventually grow fond of her. Or at least fear her appropriately.”

  Kael lifted a brow.

  “That’s reassuring.”

  Ford gave a slight bow, amused.

  “Believe me, around here, fear is often an excellent teacher.”

  A silence settled. Only the silk curtains rustled in the evening light.

  Kael hesitated before speaking again.

  “Dean Ford… may I ask you another question?”

  “Of course. Questions are the only proof that the mind is still breathing.”

  “I… didn’t really understand all that talk about Trames. Everyone here seems to know them by heart, but to me… it’s like speaking a foreign language.”

  Ford nodded slowly.

  He set down his glass and interlaced his fingers, as if weaving something unseen.

  “There are several kinds of Trames. But for you, only two are necessary to understand the world as it stands.”

  He rose slowly, walked toward the balustrade, eyes fixed on the sky where the first stars were appearing.

  “The first,” he resumed, “are those of the Unyielding. Their Trame is stable—like a thread that does not bend. They face something external—the mountain, the wind, the sea—and if their will stands firm, the world acknowledges them and affirms their existence.”

  Kael listened, fascinated despite himself.

  “And then there are the others,” Ford continued. “Those whom the Immaterial turns inward. We call them the Fragmented. Their Trial does not happen outside, but within their own fractures. They don’t fight a force—they fight a memory. A disturbance. And depending on how they react to that break, their Trame splits: Remanence or Dissonance.”

  He turned toward Kael, the torchlight carving shadows along his scarred face.

  “Remanence is the desire to hold the bond together. To preserve despite the pain. These individuals try to stitch back what’s collapsing, even if it tears them apart.”

  Kael nodded slowly, absorbed.

  “And Dissonance?”

  Ford drew a short breath, choosing his words.

  “Dissonance is not simple refusal. It is a lucid rupture. A rejection of the disturbance, yes… but for the sake of transformation.”

  He paused, eyes fixed on the golden mist floating above the river.

  “These individuals refuse to be shaped by their wound. So they twist it, reforge it, until it becomes a weapon. They do not try to flee their fracture—they turn it into a passage.”

  Kael remained silent, eyes lost in the flicker of the torches.

  “So… they’re the strongest?”

  “No,” Ford said gravely. “The most aware. And sometimes, that is far worse.”

  He continued, lower now, as if thinking aloud:

  “The Trial does not merely reveal the Trame. It shapes it. Those who come out of it are changed. Their bodies, their movements, even their eyes are never quite the same.”

  He turned his gaze toward Kael.

  “In the Unyielding, the world anchors itself into their veins: some become hard as stone, others breathe the wind or reflect the light.”

  “And the Fragmented?” Kael asked, curious despite himself.

  “In them, the transformation is more intimate. Invisible, sometimes… but deeper. They carry the mark of their fracture, even when they hide it. Their eyes, their voice, sometimes even their shadows betray what they have lost.”

  A shiver ran through Kael.

  “You talk as if the Trial destroys as much as it reveals.”

  Ford nodded slowly.

  “Often, that’s exactly what it does. Truth has a price.”

  Kael leaned forward.

  “But honestly, what’s the point of all this? I face my fears and my problems—but what does it lead to? I’m healed and that’s it?”

  The Dean raised an eyebrow, perplexed.

  “You really don’t know?”

  “After a Fragmented bearer succeeds in the Trial, he changes mentally—as we’ve discussed—but not only that. He manifests his inner disturbance in the world. He manipulates it. That is why Remanence and Dissonance are crucial for you.”

  This time Kael raised an eyebrow—not in confusion, but as if he had just heard nonsense.

  He snorted with laughter.

  “Manifesting your personal issues? You couldn’t find a better joke?”

  The Dean looked him straight in the eyes.

  There was no trace of humor in them.

  Kael stopped at once.

  “No, you really don’t look like you’re joking.”

  “Let me finish,” the Dean said sharply.

  Kael lowered his eyes, ashamed for interrupting the one man who was actually explaining what he didn’t know.

  Ford continued:

  “A Trame Bearer can make his disturbance interact with the material world by channeling it with élan. For now, you are still at the latent stage—unable to feel or manipulate your Elan. So I understand that all this sounds like gibberish to you. But for the others with whom you’ll share this week… everything has been clear to them since childhood.”

  “What’s the real trigger?”

  Ford stared at him for a moment, as if weighing the sincerity behind the question.

  Then he stood, walked toward the balustrade, and spoke in a lower, almost meditative voice:

  “Every being carries a unique frequency within them. As long as it remains silent, the Elan sleeps. But when the mind, the body, and the inner disturbance collide in the same instant… that frequency breaks open. That is the Trial.”

  Kael frowned.

  “You mean—an accident?”

  “Not always,” the dean replied.

  A silence.

  “And once it happens?” Kael asked.

  “Then your Trame is carved into you,” Ford said. “You cannot go back.”

  “Those who fail disappear. Those who succeed… are changed forever.”

  Kael said nothing, breath caught.

  The dean continued:

  “The Unyielding become the expression of the world itself—they bend matter, stabilize it, command it.”

  “The Fragmented, on the other hand, shape the unseen. They manipulate emotions, reflections, bonds, absences. They make reality move with their disturbance.”

  He paused, then added more darkly:

  “And sometimes… the world moves too violently, and swallows them whole.”

  Kael turned his gaze toward the river, where the last glimmers of twilight were fading.

  “So if I understand correctly,” he said in a bitter tone, “passing the Trial just means learning how to survive yourself.”

  Ford gave him a half-sad smile.

  “That is a poetic way to put it. Yes, Kael.”

  He stepped closer and laid a firm hand on Kael’s shoulder.

  “But remember this: the true danger is not in the Trial. It begins after—when the world demands that you live with what you have become.”

  The wind snapped the silk curtains.

  Kael remained silent, his gaze drifting far into the distance.