Sixteen cycles had turned. Sixteen slow orbits of seasons defined not by sun or moon, but by the fruiting of deep fungi and the tidal ebb and flow of the Great Root's consciousness within the Umbralwood heartwood.
For the being called Riven, rescued as an infant anomaly, it had been sixteen cycles of meticulous observation, cautious containment, and relentless internal struggle within the ancient, isolating peace of the Mycelian Enclave.
The very air of the Enclave still hummed with a residual tension from the sky-tremor that had passed through hours ago. Not a quake from below, but a low, groaning resonance from the Shattered Sky far above, accompanied by a wave of discordant mana that had left many lower-tier Mycelians unsettled. Wardens could still be seen reinforcing energy junctions near the upper canopy access points, their movements precise and economical.
In a designated cultivation grotto, larger and more functional than his childhood niche but still deliberately isolated, Riven meticulously scraped nutrient paste residue from a propagation tray. He moved with a practised economy of motion. His lean sixteen-cycle-old frame is deceptively calm. The star-scarred marks that webbed his shoulders, arms, and back were darker now, less like faint lines and more like intricate, slightly raised patterns resembling scar tissue formed from solidified starlight or shadow. They pulsed with a faint, complex rhythm hidden beneath the simple weave of his grey tunic. His dark hair, longer now, shadowed eyes that held an unnerving depth, reflected the grotto's soft fungal light with a stillness that felt far older than his years. To a casual observer, he was merely the Enclave's anomaly, quietly performing a mundane task.
But inwardly, the sky-tremor's true resonance still echoed.
'It sang,' Riven thought, the memory a sharp counterpoint to the Warden's scraping tool. Not a groan, not a wave of chaotic mana like others felt. For him, it had been a complex harmonic, high and clear, filled with an aching emptiness and a distinct, compelling pull. His chaotic essence had surged in response, a familiar internal wildfire he'd learned through brutal trial and error over sixteen years to instantly bank, smothering it before it could manifest, showing only impassivity.
'They call it a tremor,' he scoffed internally, 'A disturbance, laughable! They don't listen.'
The shift in the grotto's mana field announced Warden Lorin before they appeared at the entrance. Sixteen years had solidified Lorin's authority, their spore-casing Marks prominent on their neck, glowing with the steady light of a Locus Heart. Their wariness regarding Riven was now a deeply ingrained habit.
"Riven." Lorin's voice was clipped. "Your field remained stable during the sky-resonance event?" It was less a question and more a demand for confirmation.
Riven looked up, his expression neutral. "Completely stable, Warden Lorin."
Lorin's gaze swept over him, searching for any tell-tale shimmer of uncontrolled Essence around his Marks. Finding none, they gave a curt nod. "See that it stays that way. Any instability, however minor, must be reported and contained immediately. The resonance can have unpredictable after-effects." Without further word, Lorin turned and left.
'They fear the sparks,' Riven thought, returning to his task, 'while the fire banks itself within.' He felt the familiar cage of their fear, their containment protocols, pressing in.
Minutes later, Elmsa arrived. Time had deepened the quiet confidence she always possessed. Her mycelial Marks flowed like living silver across her arms and temples, intricate and potent, glowing softly with the unmistakable resonance of a cultivator who had likely stabilized within the Locus Heart tier, perhaps even touching Rooted Domain.
She was no longer just a Tender; she was Riven's primary guide, mentor, warden, the architect of his control techniques, and the only one who seemed to look past the anomaly to the person within, a son, however strange that person might be.
"The sky-song was strong this time," she stated quietly as she entered, her senses immediately assessing his state, far more perceptively than Lorin's.
Riven paused, meeting her steady gaze. With Elmsa, careful omissions often worked better than outright lies. "The resonance was… clearer," he admitted. "More insistent."
"And your control?"
"Held," he said simply.
She nodded slowly, her eyes lingering for a moment on his Marks, perhaps sensing the faint energetic residue of the suppressed surge. 'He contains it,' her thoughts likely ran, a familiar echo in Riven's mind after years of her scrutiny. 'But the pressure grows with each event. How long until containment isn't enough?'
Aloud, she said, "Good. Control is the foundation. But understanding must follow." She changed the subject smoothly. "Finish cleaning those trays, then meet me at Resonance Chamber Three. We focus on shield stability under simulated mana flux today." She turned to leave, adding, "Your focus has improved, but the core instability requires constant reinforcement."
Later, in the stark, obsidian-lined Resonance Chamber, the exercise proved Elmsa's point. Tasked with forming and holding a complex [Tier 3:Essence Weaver] Mana shield, Riven struggled.
His Marks blazed erratically as he drew mana, far more greedily than necessary. The shield flickered into existence – potent, undeniably powerful, easily matching Locus Heart output in raw energy – but it was warped, unstable, and threatening to unravel. He fought for control, sweat dripping, his teeth clenched. He held it, longer than last time, forcing a semblance of symmetry.
Then Elmsa, from the control glyphs, introduced a subtle pulse of discordant mana, simulating an external flux. Riven's concentration wavered for an instant, the memory of the sky song's resonance perhaps brushing his senses. It was enough. His control shattered; the shield didn't just dissipate, it imploded, sending a sharp crackle of chaotic energy harmlessly into the chamber's dampening walls.
He stumbled back, catching his breath, frustration warring with exhaustion. Elmsa was there, offering not criticism, but analysis. "Better grounding initially, Riven. But you tried to fight the flux instead of flowing around it. Your essence seeks resonance; denial causes backlash. We will work on absorption and redirection next cycle."
As they walked back through the Enclave's quiet passages, the controlled failure hanging between them, Elmsa delivered unexpected news. "A Warden patrol returned from the northern border earlier. Near the Sky-Fall Crags."
Riven's head snapped up, his interest instantly piqued.
"They reported significant mana surges coinciding exactly with the sky-tremor," Elmsa continued, watching him closely. "And localized distortions – shimmering air, spatial inconsistencies – near the largest crystal formations there. Elder Rowan is concerned the Crags are acting as a focal point, perhaps amplifying the sky-resonance."
Riven remained silent, but his mind raced. The Crags, a forbidden territory. It was unstable piece of land, closer to the sky, closer to the song.
"Given your unique sensitivity," Elmsa stated carefully, "and now that your baseline control has improved somewhat, Root-Speaker Thorn has sanctioned a limited observation mission. A small team – myself, Wardens Borin and Lyra Minor," she named two experienced Locus Heart level protectors, "and you. Strictly passive observation. Heavily shielded. Your role is only to sense the resonance, report its nature and intensity during any further sky events while near the Crags."
An escorted mission. Outside the heartwood. To the place where the sky bled most intensely into the world. It was a risk, placing him near such a stimulus. But it was also… an opportunity.
Back in the solitude of his grotto, Riven looked at the small collection of items on his shelf – training crystals, reagent samples, data scrolls, and the smooth, worn ironwood charm. He picked up the charm.
Sixteen years, and it was still the only link to a past he couldn't remember but somehow felt like a hollow ache, a flicker of phantom nostalgia. 'They want data,' he thought, turning the charm over. 'Elmsa wants control. Lorin wants safety.' He looked at his own hands, the star-scarred Marks pulsing faintly. 'But I want understanding.'
The sky had sung to him. The Crags amplified that song. Passive observation? Perhaps for the Wardens. For him, it was a chance to finally, truly listen. A dangerous resolve hardened within him. He would go. He would observe. And he would find a way, carefully, subtly, to reach out and touch the resonance that called to his very essence. The contained storm was about to test the strength of its cage.