Interlude: Echoes in Blue

The room was quiet.

Not silent—never silent, not in a place like this—but quiet enough for her thoughts to breathe. Outside, the city murmured in its low, mechanical hum: steam vents, distant chatter, the occasional whine of a passing skimmer. Within the orphanage, walls creaked softly with age, wood groaning in the way old buildings always did—like they, too, were tired.

Vespera sat on the edge of her bed, legs drawn up, bare feet resting lightly on the worn wood floor. Her arms draped over her knees, loose, relaxed in shape but not in tension. Her fingers still trembled—refusing, no matter how much she told them to be still.

Her coat hung from the back of the chair, slouched and half-folded. Boots lay just beyond it, dusted faintly white from the stone floors of the Church. The rest of her room was untouched. Familiar, grounded.

And yet—everything felt different.

She exhaled, a long breath curling from somewhere low in her chest.

The moment the golden script beneath her feet had ignited back at the Church, she'd felt it. Not a jolt. Not some blinding surge of light or divine thunder. It had come quietly. Like slipping beneath still water.

Warm.

Heavy.

Calm.

In that world—wherever it was—she'd stood alone beside an endless lake, flat and silent, reflecting a sky without stars. Her thoughts had rippled across it, casting color and motion across the surface. Every flicker of emotion shaped the world around her.

At the edges of that mirrored dream, three threads had hung in the air—barely visible, but impossible to ignore. They tugged at her chest, each one resonating with something buried deep in her bones.

She'd approached.

One thread vibrated like glass about to shatter. Loud, wild, chaotic. Another buzzed with something heavy and unbending, like iron locked in chains.

Neither fit.

But the third?

The third shimmered like moonlight brushing water—fluid, quiet, unassuming. But underneath that softness was tension. Strength coiled like silk thread on a blade's edge.

She had touched it.

And then—

She didn't remember the class name clearly. It had whispered itself into her mind like breath against a window—present, fleeting, already fading. Elegant, though. Sharp, but subtle.

What lingered wasn't the name.

It was the feeling.

The shift in her chest.

The echo of a new rhythm behind her heartbeat.

Two skills. She didn't know how she knew that—but she did.

She could feel them now, just beneath the skin. Dormant, but ready.

The first one was simple—silent, invisible, sure. It lived in her fingers, extending out like sonar every time she thought too hard about sound. Earlier that night, she'd thought she heard footsteps on the stairs. But when she listened, there was nothing. No creaks. No breath. Just the feeling—vibrations in the walls, the floor, the bones of the building itself. As if her awareness had bled outward.

Not sound.

Not sight.

Something in between.

The second was harder to pin down. It rested in her breath. In her voice. Not just a sound, but the space between sounds. As if she could twist a whisper into something else—hide it, sharpen it, maybe even turn it into something lethal.

Dangerous, if she let it be.

But it was hers.

A cool breeze brushed the edge of her curtain. City lights flickered on the glass—pale gold, silver-white, soft teal. The reflections danced like riverlight across the floorboards.

Vespera's gaze drifted toward the far side of the building.

Toward Donte's room.

They hadn't spoken since returning from the Church. Not really. Not with meaning. She'd seen him enter alone. Seen the way his shoulders moved. The way he didn't look back.

He'd been different since the alley—colder, more focused, like someone who'd seen the end of the road and decided to keep walking anyway.

But now?

Now, there was something else. Something beneath his skin.

At the Church, while others stumbled or wept, Donte had stood still. Not dazed. Not broken. Just… sharp. Like a blade that had already chosen its first cut.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin there.

She didn't know what class he'd chosen. Didn't ask.

Somehow, she knew he wouldn't tell her—not honestly. And if he did, he'd bury the truth beneath silence or smiles that didn't reach his eyes.

He was changing.

Maybe had already changed.

And maybe… that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

But she wouldn't be left behind.

Not now. Not ever.

A quiet breath escaped her lips. The kind that wasn't quite a sigh—but close.

She whispered her class name to the air, voice low, steady.

Claiming it.

Not to remember.

To own it.

She didn't need the Church. Didn't need Elitha. Didn't even need Donte—not in the way most people thought.

But if he ran?

She'd follow.

Even if the road turned dark. Even if it twisted through fire and blood and ruin.

She'd carve her own way alongside his.

"Even if I have to chase him through hell," she murmured.

Her eyes stayed open, fixed on the shadows dancing along the wall.

"I'll keep up."