Idle Routines, Subtle Calibrations

The sun hung low over Arcton, casting long shadows across the cracked streets and steel walls of the lower district. The light was warmer than Donte expected. Softer. He and Vespera had just stepped out from the white-stone doors of the Ascension Office, their sealed parchments still tucked away beneath worn coats, the weight of the day lingering behind their eyes.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

The city hadn't changed. Not really. The gears still turned, the trams still hissed along their tracks, and workers still shouted half-hearted greetings across alleys. But something had shifted. Donte felt it in the way the air brushed his skin. As if the world saw him differently now—and expected more.

Vespera rolled her shoulders and exhaled. "You want to head back now?"

Donte shook his head. "Not yet."

She grinned faintly. "Good. Me neither."

They walked with no real destination in mind—just forward. Past rust-covered storefronts and alleyways veined with exposed wire. The low hum of generators filled the gaps between footsteps. Arcton's lower sector pulsed with energy, but none of it felt alive. Machines outlasted people here. That was just the way of things.

"I still feel… weird," Vespera murmured, watching her boots as they scuffed against the uneven ground. "Like something's breathing in the back of my mind."

Donte nodded once. "You'll get used to it."

Vespera gave him a look, brow arched. "That fast?"

"I didn't say I had."

That earned him a crooked half-smile.

Eventually, their wandering brought them to the edge of the industrial market sector—the maze of workshops, smithies, and mechanical yards. It was quieter here, more focused. The kind of place where voices were drowned out by sparks and metal, and time was measured in the hiss of welders and the slow crank of presses.

Donte's eyes naturally drifted toward a familiar corner. A wide, reinforced building sat tucked behind a stack of alloy crates and a rusted-out crane. A faded sign above the door read: HALLOCK FABRICATIONS.

Markus's place.

He didn't go in. Not yet. But just seeing it made something in his chest loosen—like the city had shape again. A point of stability.

He glanced to his right.

Across the plaza sat another building—larger, older, but far more fortified. It rose from steel foundations like a bunker disguised as an office. Thick armored windows. Automated turrets retracted into the corners of its roof. A tall symbol embossed over the door caught his eye: three vertical slashes forming a sharp triangle, surrounded by an orbit of circling glyphs.

It looked like a guild hall—but nothing like the ones he'd heard mentioned in passing.

"What is that place?" he asked aloud.

Vespera followed his gaze. "No clue. I think it's one of the high-clearance facilities. Government-aligned. They don't talk about it much."

Donte narrowed his eyes. The place didn't radiate danger—but it felt… tightly coiled. Like the people inside were waiting for something.

He didn't press further.

Instead, they veered down a narrow path that led to a quiet overlook—an abandoned scaffold once used for lifting cargo onto airships that no longer landed here. The view from the ledge was unexpectedly open. You could see the jagged edges of Arcton's skyline and, further still, the thread-thin glimmer of skyships weaving through the clouds.

Vespera sat first, legs dangling over the edge. Donte joined her, resting his arms on his knees.

For a while, they just sat in silence.

Then she broke it.

"You think the others are still trying to make sense of their class summaries?" she asked, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

Donte arched a brow. "Most of them probably haven't even figured out how to read their tokens properly."

Vespera chuckled and leaned back on the bench, letting her eyes drift toward the setting sun. "I don't know about you, but mine said a lot without saying much. Like the Church wanted to tell me I'd been blessed without telling me what I could do with it."

Donte made a low noise of agreement. "Sounds about right."

They sat in silence again. But now it was companionable. Easier.

The brass identification tokens they'd been issued still sat warm in their coat pockets—etched with Magic Script, imbued with their newly registered Spirit Matrix alignments. Vague. Sanitized. The official record of their power… even if neither of them understood the full extent of what that power meant yet.

Donte reached into his pocket and ran a thumb over the surface of the token. The characters shimmered briefly, shifting into a soft violet hue beneath his touch.

Not even the Church had known what to make of his class.

That was probably for the best.

Vespera went quiet again. She didn't push.

Minutes passed. Donte let his gaze drift skyward. One of the ships passed overhead, far enough to be no more than a blinking dot of motion. Part of him wanted to be up there—not for the view, but to see what parts made it fly.

Eventually, Vespera stood and dusted her hands. "We should get back before curfew."

Donte rose beside her. "Tomorrow," he said. "I'm going to Markus's workshop."

She gave a small nod. "That's good. You'll learn fast with him."

He hesitated. "Want to come?"

Vespera's eyes widened slightly—then softened. "No. I think I'll be doing my own thing for a while."

Donte didn't ask. He just nodded.

As they made their way back through the winding streets of Arcton, the day waned into the mechanical stillness of early evening. The lights of the city sparked to life one by one, each casting long shadows over steel walls and silent alleys.

Tomorrow, things would shift again.

Tonight, Donte closed the door to his room, sat cross-legged by his bed, and pulled the brass token from his coat pocket.

The thing was smooth, warm—too heavy for its size. The Magic Script etched along its face shimmered faintly in the low light, his name and class designation flickering just beneath the surface.

"Runic Tinker," it read. Though the Church hadn't reacted much during the registration, he could tell—whoever had logged it hadn't understood what it meant. The script was vague, the registry entry even vaguer. No details. No guidance. Just… a label.

He turned the token over in his palm, watching it catch the glow of the streetlamps outside his window.

Most people would be figuring out what kind of mage or marksman they'd become. What weapon to wield. What path to chase.

But his path didn't exist yet. He'd have to make it.

One piece at a time.