“People who don’t like to be seen.” The words hung in the air, cold despite the warm, humid air of the vault. Lorian’s grip tightened on his phone. “Zoran, what are you talking about? What people?” “Look, I don’t know all the details. Just heard whispers from a few of my contacts. They’re asking about a rich orphan, suddenly showing up, suddenly inheriting a fortune. And these aren’t just curious types, Lorie. These are the kind who make problems disappear.” Zoran’s voice was low, edged with a seriousness Lorian rarely heard. Lorian glanced back at the dark residue on the vault door, then at the empty staircase where Marius had vanished. The metallic shimmer seemed to mock him. “Is it… could it be about the Voron Endowment?” “Probably. What else? Just… be careful. Trust your gut.” The call ended, leaving Lorian in the echoing silence of the subterranean chamber. The Starfall Veins, usually a vibrant network, felt muted down here, almost mournful. He ran a finger over the residue again. It was gritty, slightly oily, and the sheen was unmistakable. *Marius’s glove.* The connection was undeniable. Zoran’s warning, combined with the strange metallic dust and Marius’s convenient explanation, spun a web of discomfort in Lorian’s chest. He pocketed the phone, the metal casing a cold counterpoint to the unease settling in his gut. He spent the rest of the evening in a haze, the images of the residue and Marius’s smooth smile replaying in his mind. Sleep offered no escape; vague shadows and whispered warnings haunted his dreams. By dawn, he felt more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed. He found Ines already waiting in the central courtyard, her figure sharp against the dew-kissed cobblestones. Beyond her, the grounds stretched out, a riot of vibrant flora bisected by winding gravel paths. The luminous currents here were a dizzying spectacle, crisscrossing the air like an invisible, bioluminescent spiderweb, flowing through each leaf, each stone, each drop of morning mist. “Good morning, Kostic,” Ines said, her tone devoid of warmth. “Or is it still morning for you? You look like you’ve been wrestling a ghost.” Lorian rubbed his eyes. “Something like that. Are we doing this now?” “The sooner you master this, the sooner you can actually contribute to the legacy Alaric left, instead of just being a burden.” She turned, beginning to walk towards a secluded section of the grounds, a small stone pavilion nestled amidst ancient, flowering trees. “Your perception is untrained, unfocused. You see a chaotic mess. Our goal is to bring order to that chaos.” As they walked, Ines explained, her voice crisp and authoritative. “The Starfall Veins are not merely light. They are conduits of information, echoes of history, pathways of power. Think of them as a river system. Some are shallow streams, carrying minor details. Others are deep currents, holding profound truths. And some… some are stagnant pools, illusions that will lead you astray.” They stopped in a clearing where the veins intersected with bewildering complexity, weaving through the branches overhead, tracing patterns on the mossy ground. “Your first task: differentiate. What is a true vein? What is a phantom echo? What is merely the natural energy flow of the courtyard? Touch nothing. Simply observe and articulate.” Lorian closed his eyes, then opened them, forcing his sight to sharpen. The world immediately dissolved into a shimmering labyrinth. A thick vein, pulsing with a deep emerald hue, wound around the trunk of an old oak. Another, thin and silver, snaked through a patch of forget-me-nots. But then there were fainter strands, flickering in and out of existence, or seeming to originate from nowhere. His head began to throb. “The emerald vein on the oak – that feels… strong,” he ventured, pointing. “And the silver one by the flowers.” Ines crossed her arms. “And the faint, shimmering tendrils around the birdbath? Are those true, or merely the light refracting off the water droplets?” Lorian focused, straining. The tendrils did seem to ripple with the water, shifting with the breeze. “Phantom… I think. An echo of the water’s movement, not a true vein.” “Exactly. You have the raw perception, Kostic. But it’s like having perfect pitch without ever learning to read music. You hear, but you don’t understand.” She walked closer, her presence a crisp counterpoint to the wild energy of the terrace. “Try to trace one of the silver veins from its origin to its termination. Block out the rest.” This was harder. His eyes kept darting to the brighter, more distracting veins. The effort of isolating a single strand from the swirling chaos was immense, like trying to pluck a specific string from a thousand-stringed harp playing simultaneously. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He felt a familiar weariness, a desire to simply give up. “It’s too much,” he mumbled, rubbing his temples. “My head feels like it’s going to split.” “Indifference, Kostic,” Ines said, her voice sharp. “It’s always your chronic lethargy. You have the gift, but you refuse to apply yourself. Alaric Voron spent his entire life mastering this perception, pushing past the pain. He built this entire legacy, piece by piece, fueled by a drive you clearly lack.” Her words stung. The accusation of slacking, his ever-present shadow, always found a way to wound. He grit his teeth, forcing his eyes open, pushing past the blurred haze. He fixed on a thin, almost invisible golden thread that seemed to run beneath the gravel path. He imagined drawing it out, isolating it from the others. Slowly, agonizingly, the other veins began to recede, their brilliance dimming around the golden thread. He traced it, inch by inch, until it led to a small, unassuming stone at the base of a rose bush. “Here,” he said, his voice strained. “It ends here. This stone.” Ines knelt, inspecting the stone. It looked unremarkable, just a smooth river rock. She pulled at it, and it lifted easily, revealing a small, intricately carved wooden bird beneath, its wings spread as if in flight. Her guarded expression flickered with surprise. “An offering stone. A relic from the garden’s initial consecration, centuries ago. No one knew it was here.” She looked up at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. “You are not completely useless, Kostic.” The grudging compliment, though backhanded, felt strangely potent. A faint blush touched Ines’s cheeks, and for a moment, the bickering fell away, replaced by a quiet hum of shared accomplishment. They continued for another hour, Lorian pushing himself harder than he ever had, Ines offering pointed critiques and rare, terse approvals. He found himself responding to her challenges, a strange desire to impress her battling with his ingrained laziness. The surrounding thicket, once a jumble of light, slowly began to reveal its hidden structure, its deeper currents. His mind was buzzing, his body aching, but a new kind of satisfaction settled within him. “That’s enough for today,” Ines finally declared, calling a halt to the session. Her voice was softer, less sharp. “You made progress.” They found a stone bench beneath a sprawling wisteria vine, its purple blossoms thick with a sweet, heavy scent. The air was warm, the sunlight filtering through the leaves creating dappled patterns on the ground. Lorian leaned back, utterly spent. He watched Ines, who had taken off her severe jacket, revealing a tailored blouse that softened her formidable edges. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly, but a few rebellious strands had escaped, framing her face. “Alaric… he took me in after my parents died, orphans of a lesser endowment family,” Ines said, her voice surprisingly quiet, almost confessional. She looked across the hedge, her gaze distant. “He taught me so much, entrusted me with the archives, with the family’s greatest secrets. He had a plan, Lorian. A grand design to protect these veins, to keep their knowledge from falling into the wrong hands.” She turned to him, her eyes intense, vulnerable. “When he named you, after all this time, I feared… I feared your detachment would be the end of it. That all he built would crumble because his chosen heir couldn’t be bothered to care.” Lorian found himself speechless, caught off guard by her raw honesty. The usual retort, the lazy shrug, died on his tongue. Her anxiety showed clearly, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor. He saw not just the sharp archivist, but a woman burdened by immense loyalty and a profound sense of responsibility. A warmth, unfamiliar and unexpected, bloomed in his chest. Before he could form a reply, before he could acknowledge the unexpected connection that had just sparked between them, a high-pitched whine sliced through the morning tranquility. It grew louder, rapidly approaching. A dark shape, whirring with menacing speed, burst through the canopy of leaves. It was a security drone, one of the newer models patrolling the estate, but this one was moving erratically, its optical sensors glowing an angry, unstable crimson. It swerved violently, locking onto Lorian, then dove. “Down!” Ines yelled, her voice sharp with alarm. She shoved him hard, sending him sprawling to the gravel. The drone’s whirling blades sliced through the air where his head had been an instant before. He rolled, scrambling back, just as the drone banked sharply and came at them again. Ines, still on her feet, planted herself between him and the attacking machine. The drone’s bladed arm swung, a glint of steel. There was a sickening thud, a cry of pain. Ines stumbled back, clutching her leg. Blood bloomed rapidly on her tailored trousers, a dark, spreading stain. “Ines!” Lorian roared. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through his lingering apathy. He saw her face contort, not in fear, but in a fierce resolve to protect him. His sight sharpened, capturing not just the luminous channels, but the whole clearing. The drone, a blur of deadly machinery, suddenly resolved into its constituent parts, its internal workings starkly visible beneath its chassis. And there, pulsing at its core, was a concentrated, brilliant crimson vein, hotter and brighter than any he had seen, the very heart of its power. He snatched up a fist-sized river stone from the path, its smooth surface cool against his palm. His aim, usually mediocre, locked dead on target. He would not fail her. He could not. His arm coiled, then snapped forward, a surge of adrenaline guiding his throw. The stone flew, a blur. It struck the drone with a dull thud, dead center where the crimson vein pulsed. A shower of sparks erupted. The drone shrieked, its whine dying, its blades sputtering to a halt. It plummeted to the ground, a smoking, inert husk. Lorian didn’t even glance at it. He was already on his knees, tearing at the fabric of his shirt to staunch the flow of blood from Ines’s gashed leg, ribs thumping against his chest in a frantic rhythm against the sudden silence.

First Steps, First Dangers