Chapter 16: An Unwanted Summons

He stared at his charcoal sketch, and a smile touched Elara’s lips. It was almost perfect. The patterns of energy flow, the precise angles of the counter-frequencies, he had them all. His mind raced. He had worked through the ‘inversion of flow’ and it was not just a theory anymore. He saw it. He breathed it. A master pickpocket, that was what he was. He was not breaking the lock, but he was convincing it to open itself for him. This was not in the Grimoire. Not explicitly. The Grimoire told him how to reverse spells, but it did not explain why the spells were made this way, or the philosophy behind them, and he liked to understand everything, on a fundamental level, because otherwise he would never be truly satisfied.

He paused, and the charcoal was still in his hand. His vision swam with lines and patterns, perfectly formed and interlocking. He understood the nuances now. The subtle dance of positive and negative pressure, the precise timing needed to turn a perfectly stable structure into one that was perfectly, functionally reversed. He saw the chamber not as a solid prison, but as a vast, complex mechanism of interlocked Aetheric pathways. He felt its core, humming with infinite power, but also with an infinite desire to maintain its exact, preserved state. And this desire was the key, and he would use its own nature against it.

A cold surge of certainty washed over him. This Prime Weaver archive was not just a collection of ancient texts. It was more than that. He thought about the vastness of knowledge that might be stored behind that seal. Imagine the secrets of the Prime Weavers, and the true origins of the ‘Aetherial Lattice’. Perhaps even a path back to his own world. He felt again that familiar surge of elation. It was the intellectual thrill that came from knowing he was on the cusp of something truly monumental.

This archive, with its ‘Aetheric Mandala’ seal, held not just knowledge, because it also held a direct pathway to ‘Aetheric Apotheosis’. The phrase echoed in his mind, though he had not consciously thought it before. It was a concept, a feeling and a goal. He felt it now. It was a transformation, a complete mastery of the Aether. It was becoming one with the Lattice, not just using it, but embodying it. He knew it in his core. And his ultimate goal of becoming Loremaster, the most powerful mage in this Conclave, now seemed like a mere stepping stone, a trivial achievement compared to the power that lay within the archive. He was not just aiming for Loremaster. He was aiming for something far, far beyond, and he was aiming for godhood. And he would achieve it.

He was so deeply immersed in his flow, in the sheer intellectual ecstasy of his breakthrough, that it took a moment for the new Aetheric signature to register. It was distinct, sharp, and very urgent. The ‘Aetheric Signature’ of a Conclave messenger. It was like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap. It buzzed with purpose, an almost impatient hum that grated against his perfectly ordered ‘Labyrinth of Stillness’. He frowned. An interference, and an unwelcome one.

He pulled back his Aetheric consciousness, bringing it swiftly from the infinite complexity of the ‘Aetheric Mandala’ to the cramped reality of his sleeping alcove. He blinked his violet eyes. The soft, morning light was already streaming in through the small opening. It felt harsh, almost too bright, after the depths of his internal vision. The parchment on the table lay exposed, covered with his frantic, inspired sketches. The stone bird, still silently humming with his ‘Aetheric signature’, rested beside it, a testament to his earlier success. And then there was the Weave-Binder’s Grimoire, hidden under his thin sleeping mat, but its faint ‘Veil-Shroud’ signature was still perceptible to him.

A wave of irritation washed over him. He felt it deep in his chest. Just when he was on the cusp of true understanding, of unlocking paths to power he hadn't even dared to dream of before. He had glimpsed apotheosis, and now he was being called away for what would undoubtedly be some menial task. His corporate instincts flared. This was low-level management trying to pull him into their petty concerns when he was designing an entirely new corporate structure. He did not like it one bit.

The messenger’s signature was getting closer. It was moving too fast, too directly, almost as if it had a specific target in mind. His alcove. Of course, it was his alcove. Everyone knew Loremaster Arion had taken him under his wing. Everyone knew he was different. The Loremaster probably felt his breakthrough, he thought, but why it came as a summons? Instead of Loremaster Arion coming himself? This was new.

He quickly assessed the situation. He had to conceal his work. These sketches, raw and unfinished as they were, contained revolutionary concepts. No one in the Conclave, not even Arion, would understand them fully right now. They would see fragments of forbidden knowledge, hints of power structures far beyond their comprehension, and interpretations of principles that contradicted their established doctrines. The ‘inversion of flow’ was a subtle technique, too easily misinterpreted as outright destruction if seen superficially. And the idea of using the Conclave's power source, the ‘Discordant-Prison’, in such a… *calculated* way… well, that was an acquisition strategy, not an act of benevolence.

They would be wary. They would be afraid. They might even try to stop him. He could not permit that. Not now, when the path to godhood was opening before him.

His movements were swift, efficient. He picked up the shard of charcoal, placing it carefully in the small pouch he kept tied to his sleeping mat. The parchment, filled with its intricate diagrams and hastily scribbled notes, he rolled tightly. He then tucked it inside the same pouch, deep inside, where it would be safe and out of sight. The pouch itself, he then pushed under a loose stone in the floor of his alcove. It was an old trick, but a good one. He had found it the first week he had transmigrated, and he used it to hide all his treasures. Even through the stone, he perceived its faint ‘Stillness-Core’ as it harmonized with the natural earth. He knew it would be difficult for another Aether Weaver to find it for now.

The stone bird, still warm and vibrating with his Aether, he clutched in his hand. He then wrapped his delicate fingers around it, letting its warmth seep into his palm. He needed to keep it close. It was proof of concept, and a physical anchor to his work. He could not leave it here. It looked like a child’s toy, nothing more. He could easily explain it away if anyone asked.

He looked at his sleeping mat. He was glad he had taken the Grimoire, because it was under the mat, and he could not reach it now. It was probably still sending a faint ‘Veil-Shroud’ signature out, meant to make it seem unremarkable, but Kaelen could feel its deep, ancient thrum. He paused for a fraction of a second, his Aetheric senses reaching out, confirming that its faint ‘Veil-Shroud’ signature was still active, still concealing it. Yes, it was fine. He would retrieve it later. All of his work was safe.

The messenger’s Aetheric signature was now right outside the alcove, and it pulsed with an impatient, almost demanding rhythm. It was a young initiate, he perceived. His emotions were clear: a mixture of nervous excitement and the deep-seated desire to please Loremaster Arion. A simple thought, but pure. Kaelen understood then it was a direct summons, without any explanation. Arion was rarely so direct. Something important was happening.

He stood up from his sleeping mat. He smoothed Elara’s simple tunic, then took a breath. He ran a hand through Elara’s long, dark hair, tidying it as best he could. He schooled his features into a neutral, slightly confused expression, the kind of expression a newly awakened initiate might have, pulled from her sleep. It was subtle, but effective. He thought about what kind of information he might reveal, and what he would hold back. He decided that he would only reveal things that he could explain away, and only if it served his purpose.

He walked to the entrance of the alcove. He pushed aside the ancient tapestry that concealed the entrance. The light from the hallway was brighter now, and too intrusive. He saw the young initiate standing there, fidgeting slightly. The initiate was a few years older than Elara, with close-cropped brown hair and earnest, anxious eyes. He wore the standard cream-colored tunic, just like Elara, but his was perhaps a little too stiffly starched, a little too perfectly neat. Kaelen perceived the initiate’s eager Aetheric signature: excited and nervous. It was almost comical.

“Elara,” the initiate said, and his voice was a little shaky, “Loremaster Arion asks for you.”

Kaelen feigned a slight yawn, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. He kept the stone bird hidden in the other. He wanted to project the innocent, sleepy initiate who had been meditating, not the calculating mind that had just cracked secrets of spacetime. “Oh?” he said, making his voice higher and softer, more like Elara’s natural tone. “Now? Is something wrong?” He tilted his head slightly, a gesture he had seen Lyra use, conveying youthful concern. He was acting well.

The initiate nodded vigorously, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yes, now! I mean, no, nothing is wrong, Loremaster Arion simply wishes to speak with you. Immediately.” His Aetheric signature pulsed with a stronger ‘Authority-Flow’ now, a borrowed sense of importance from being a messenger for the Loremaster.

Kaelen suppressed a sigh. He had to play along. He would feign ignorance, appear eager to learn, and gather as much information as possible without revealing his true intentions, or what he had been working on. This was a dance he knew well, a corporate negotiation where the stakes were higher than the average quarterly profits.

“Of course,” he said, a hint of polite inquiry in his voice. “Lead the way, please.”

The initiate turned, already hurrying down the hallway, clearly eager to complete his task. His movements were quick, almost hurried. Kaelen followed, letting his gaze drift across the familiar stone walls. He was looking at the faint ‘Footstep-Echoes’ from other initiates, the ‘Passage-Whispers’ that lingered in the air from movements earlier in the morning.

He extended his Aetheric senses, then pushed his awareness further, expanding his ‘Labyrinth of Stillness’ as he walked. He felt the Loremaster’s Aetheric signature beginning to sharpen into focus. It was a familiar, deep hum, like a distant, powerful river, a ‘Loremaster-Rest’ but with something new, something subtly off. He probed gently, carefully, not wanting to alert Arion to his scrutiny.

He felt it. A tremor. It was not a violent tremor, not like the ‘Agony-Spike’ from the ‘Discordant-Prison’. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, an internal tremor within Arion’s otherwise steady ‘Loremaster-Rest’ signature. It was like a perfectly tuned instrument experiencing a single, almost imperceptible discordant note that sent a shiver through its entire structure. It was not chaos, because it was too ordered for that. It was something deeper, more profound.

Kaelen felt a prickle of unease, then excitement. Arion had a deep and stable ‘Aetheric Bedrock’. He had a profound internal stillness. For something to cause even this subtle tremor, it had to be something very significant given Arion’s immense internal discipline.

He wondered what it could be. Had Arion sensed something more about his burgeoning understanding? Had he somehow glimpsed Kaelen’s thoughts, even from a distance? Or was it something else entirely? Some new threat? Some unexpected event within the Conclave?

He continued to follow the messenger, down familiar halls, past other alcoves, and further towards the Loremaster’s private study. The air grew heavier as they approached, thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint, sweet aroma of herbs. The Loremaster’s study. A sanctuary, and a prison. A place of knowledge, and a place of control. All those things at once. Kaelen liked it because it mirrored his own complicated existence.

He passed a guard on duty outside the Loremaster's study. The guard's Aetheric signature was a clear 'Guard-Vigilance', a practiced awareness, but beneath it, Kaelen detected a faint 'Boredom-Drift'. The guard was attentive, but clearly nothing truly unusual had happened up to this point. So it was not an immediate crisis, not one that would have affected the guard's routine more.

The messenger stopped at the heavy wooden door, then knocked once. The sound was surprisingly loud in the quiet hallway. Kaelen positioned himself just behind the messenger. He made sure to be unassuming.

“Enter,” Arion’s deep, resonant voice said from within. The voice was calm, steady, controlled. Kaelen felt the subtle tremor again, within that controlled calm. It was fascinating. Arion was a master of his own Aether, of his own self. Yet, Kaelen had found a crack, a discord, however faint.

The messenger pushed the heavy wooden door open, revealing the Loremaster’s study. It was as Kaelen remembered it: countless books, scrolls, the large wooden table covered with maps, the unlit fireplace, and the scent of old paper.

Loremaster Arion sat behind his large wooden table, just as always. His dark robes seemed to absorb the light around him, and his face was obscured by shadows. His staff, with its glowing crystal tip, rested against the table edge. He looked up as they entered. His dark eyes seemed to hold the weight of millennia. Kaelen felt the sheer authority radiating from him, the immense ‘Master-Calm’ and ‘Authority-Flow’ of his Aetheric signature. And within that powerful current, Kaelen felt the tremor again, distinct now that he was closer. It was undeniable. It was not Kaelen’s imagination.

The messenger bowed low, then quickly retreated, leaving Kaelen alone with Arion. The heavy door swung shut behind him. Kaelen faced Loremaster Arion. His internal analysis was already spinning, trying to discern the cause of the Loremaster’s subtle disquiet. It was something important, something that affected Arion himself.

Kaelen felt a flicker of something close to triumph. He stood there, outwardly calm and respectful, but his mind was already calculating. He looked at Arion, waiting patiently for the Loremaster to speak. He maintained Elara’s composed, slightly innocent expression. What could it be? What could shake such a powerful, controlled being? Kaelen knew he would soon find out. And he knew that whatever it was, he would use it to his advantage. It was, of course, his way. His only goal was power.