BESS' POV
It's nearing midnight again, and my apartment is dim except for the lamplight spilling over a familiar mess of documents.
The same photo lies at the center of it all. I've looked at it so many times the paper edges have begun to fray.
Steve, smiling awkwardly next to a robot that looks like it was cobbled togeth-er from scrap and stubbornness. Darren Hill in the background, watching with far too much intensity for a third-grade science fair judge.
And then, just behind them.
A man in shadow. Barely visible. Face turned away, half-cropped by the edge of the frame.
The first time I saw the photo, I'd assumed it was Steve's father. But now I'm not so sure.
Steve said his father was still alive then, but this man doesn't fit the descrip-tion. The posture's wrong. The build is different. And there's something about the way he's standing, too still, like he isn't part of the fair at all.
Like he's watching something he doesn't want to be seen watching.
I lean in closer, adjusting the brightness on the scanned copy. Still no clear de-tail. But there's a blot of something near his hand. Maybe a badge? A mark?
I make a note:
Unidentified man. March 2004. Surveillance?
The word makes my skin prickle.
I should sleep. But instead, I open a clean sheet in my notebook and write:
"What if Steve was being watched before he even knew what he was?"
****
The courthouse halls are emptier than usual this morning. The kind of quiet that makes every footstep echo longer than it should.
I meet Steve in the back conference room. He's early, which surprises me. He's holding a coffee cup but not drinking from it. Just watching the surface ripple.
I place the photo on the table again. Slide it toward him. This time, I point to the shadowy figure.
"Do you know who that is?"
He leans closer. Squints. Then frowns.
"I… I don't know. It's not my dad."
"You're sure?"
He nods slowly. "He was there, yeah. But he wasn't standing like that. He was with me, behind the judges. We even had a photo together afterward. This guy…" He hesitates. "I don't remember him."
"You think he was watching you?"
"I mean, it was a public event. But—maybe? He doesn't look like a parent."
"Or a teacher," I add.
Steve shifts. "Do you think someone was following me? Even back then?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But I think Darren Hill remembered you. And maybe whoever that man is, he did too."
Steve leans back in his chair. "All this time I thought I was just a kid with a knack for circuits."
"Maybe you were," I say. "But maybe someone saw more. Something they didn't want you to see in yourself."
****
Later that evening, I return home, only to find a plain envelope slipped under my door.
No address. No stamp. No name.
Inside: a photo. Grainy. Blurred.
Same science fair. Different angle.
Steve is talking to Darren Hill. The shadowy man is in the background again—but closer now. Still turned away. But this time, a symbol is visible on the side of his coat. Partially obscured. A curved pattern, circular. Etched like a brand.
My pulse skips.
I've seen this before.
On my door. A couple of weeks ago. Glowing faintly. Flickering once, then gone.
I grip the photo tighter, breath slowing.
Whoever this man is, he's not from here.
And someone has been trying to make sure I find him.
****
XAREN'S POV
Night has fallen deep over Elaris. The stars above shimmer like they're holding their breath.
I keep to the outer paths of the Sanctum, those less traveled, not warded as tightly by Triad guards. My boots barely make a sound against the moss-covered stone, but my thoughts are louder than ever.
The Seer's silence weighs on me. So does the memory of the conversation I overheard: the Triads suspect someone crossed. Not who, but someone. And they'll do whatever it takes to identify that ripple.
If they find out it was me…
I stop beneath an arch of living vines, fingers grazing the leaves. Beyond it, the grove opens to the Spiritroot Lake, still and glowing faintly beneath the stars.
This was where my father once brought me as a boy. Taught me how to listen to the quiet between the world's pulses.
"The veil isn't a wall," he'd said. "It's a breath held between truths. Step wrong, and the world forgets how to exhale."
Back then, I didn't understand. I'm starting to now.
I sit near the water's edge and unroll the stolen scroll again, Darren Hill's re-dacted dossier. Resonance experiments. Unmonitored research. And a passing reference to "Echo patterns presenting beyond threshold."
Echo patterns. Me?
Or someone else?
There's too little here. Too much missing. As if someone knew how to hide the parts that mattered most.
I stare at the water until my reflection steadies. And I wonder, not for the first time, if the prophecy wasn't about guiding me… but using me.
****
At dusk, I find myself outside Nella's ward.
She's waiting for me. Like always.
"You're walking circles again," she says, folding her arms.
"I'm unraveling."
"Good. You can't be used if you're untangled."
She leads me inside. Her rooms are scattered with glass charms and suspended orbs of light. Their glows are soft, slow. Restful.
"I need to ask you something," I say. "Did Father ever talk to you about the prophecy?"
Nella turns, searching my face. "Only once."
"What did he say?"
"That there were too many versions of it. Too many hands rewriting it."
"Did he believe in it?"
She pauses. "He believed something needed to change. But not because of a prophecy. Because the old rules were breaking people."
I let that settle. Then I whisper, "He told me I'd know when to cross. That the signs would be clear, but that was when I was little. I didn't understand what he meant."
"Were they?"
"They were planted."
She exhales, her expression dimming. "Then someone feared what Darren Hill was building more than they feared imbalance."