The Grand Steam-Lift ascended with mechanical precision, carrying Alucent from the industrial darkness of the lower city into a completely different world.
The air changed first. The soot and metal that had defined the Steamcottage Clusters gave way to something crisp and deliberately cultivated—lavender scent mixed with what the locals called "Polished Runeforce," a term Alucent didn't fully understand but recognized as describing the quality of the magical energy that permeated Upper Eryndral. The architecture shifted from functional brass and blackstone to marble and precisely-etched utility runes that gleamed with a soft, stable luminescence. No flickering. No variance. Everything calibrated to aesthetic perfection.
High-society Eryndral was a marble-and-brass marvel where every building was a declaration of control over magical forces that the lower city could barely comprehend.
Alucent wore the only formal clothing he possessed; a fitted black coat with silver threading at the cuffs, pressed into shape by someone at the Cluster market who'd clearly recognized him as someone ascending into a social tier he didn't naturally belong to. The leather purse hanging from his belt contained something far more dangerous than money. Inside, carefully wrapped in protective cloth, was the leather-bound Journal.
It had reverted to its mundane form without his instruction, looking exactly like what it claimed to be: an ordinary, weathered ledger used for bookkeeping and personal record-keeping. An heirloom. A family artifact. Something utterly unremarkable to any observer who didn't know to look for the faint cyan luminescence that sometimes leaked from the seams when the Journal was actively processing information.
He'd taken it with him because leaving it behind felt impossible. The Journal's presence had become integral to his consciousness in just a single night. When he'd considered leaving it in the cottage, he'd felt a pulling sensation, though not painful persay, but insistent. A reminder that the symbiosis was already deepening beyond his control.
The Solar of the Wellspring occupied the uppermost level of House Valerius's tower, a lavish chamber designed with deliberate artistic intent. Stained glass dominated the walls, each panel depicting a figure that dominated Alucent's immediate perception:
Anima. The Wellspring of Origins.
The glass showed a being of pure, radiant life energy that seemed to shift depending on angle and light. In one moment, it was a wise elder with features of profound serenity. Shift slightly and it became a fertile maiden with curves that suggested abundance and generative power. Move again and the entire composition resolved into something colossal, a bioluminescent tree with branches that extended beyond the glass itself, suggesting a form too vast to contain in two dimensions.
The artist had called the skin texture "Bloomskin," showing a surface that constantly shed seeds of light. It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
Elias's internal monologue spun into overdrive. What am I looking at? Is this... a god? This is the first time I'm seeing anything like explicitly religious art in this world. And the way the light moves through it—is that Runeforce? Is that what they call Polished Runeforce here?
A woman rose from her seat as Alucent entered.
She was strikingly beautiful in a way that suggested bloodline and breeding rather than natural luck. Long, lush blonde hair fell nearly to her waist, and her piercing blue eyes assessed him with the analytical intensity of someone accustomed to evaluating assets. Her lips were painted a bold, sharp red that matched the color of the House of Valerius signet embroidered on her white-silver linen gown. The fabric draped with a kind of royal elegance that suggested the refined, aesthetic culture of the upper Vales had standards of presentation that made the industrial city below look deliberately austere by comparison.
"Thread Scribe Alucent," she said, her voice carrying the practiced courtesy of nobility addressing talent. "I am Lady Elara Valerius. The House extends its gratitude for your prompt arrival."
Alucent bowed with the formality that seemed expected. It felt awkward, his body executing a gesture that Elias had never performed and barely understood.
"Lady Valerius," he replied. "I received your summons. I'm uncertain what service the House requires from someone of my limited capacity."
Lady Elara smiled. It was a smile that contained multiple layers of meaning, none of them entirely transparent. "Limited capacity is a matter of perspective, isn't it? Please, sit. We have matters to discuss regarding your... trajectory."
She gestured toward a chair positioned across from her own, angled to face the Anima stained glass directly. As Alucent settled into the seat, he felt the Journal's presence shimmer within the purse. A pulse of something that might have been excitement or might have been hunger.
"You've advanced from Thread 1 to Thread 3 in approximately eight months," Lady Elara began, not bothering with preliminary courtesy. "This is remarkable. The typical progression from Runeling to Silverline Scribe requires three to five years of consistent exposure and development. Your acceleration suggests either exceptional talent or exposure to an accelerant we don't understand."
Alucent chose his words with extreme care. "I experienced a field expansion of my sensory capability," he said, which was technically true. "It began gradually but intensified after my first field assignments. Each mission pushed me toward the edge of my capacity, which seemed to force rapid development."
"A field expansion," Lady Elara repeated. She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "That's a poetic way of describing what should be impossible. The Threads are fixed, Scribe. They progress through dedication, clarity and training. One does not simply experience a field expansion."
Alucent felt sweat beginning to bead along his hairline. He needed to keep her attention on what he was saying without providing information that would trigger investigation. "I can't fully explain it, Lady Elara. The phenomenon remains incomplete in my understanding."
Lady Elara leaned back in her chair, and her expression shifted into something more contemplative. "The House has been observing exceptional Scribes for centuries," she said. "We are cautious about talent that appears without explanation. It sometimes indicates promises kept to powers that should remain forgotten."
She stood and moved toward the stained glass, her silhouette framed against the radiance of Anima. "Let me explain the hierarchy as we understand it in this era," she continued, her voice taking on the tone of someone reciting something sacred. "Thread 1 are Runelings, I'm sure you are familiar with that already, capable of perceiving the Weave but not manipulating it. Thread 2 are Coppermarks, who can channel basic active force through Runeforce—heat, light, simple manifestations. Thread 3 are Silverline Scribes like yourself, capable of advanced anchoring through Bloodmark integration and complex pattern analysis."
She turned back to face him, and her expression held something almost reverent. "Thread 4 are Goldscribes. They represent the regional ceiling of what mortals are permitted to achieve—reality manipulation and the awakening of a true Runequill. Beyond that..." she paused, as though choosing her words with care, "the Threads belong to the realm of deity. Anima, the Wellspring of Origins, is what we call the First Weaver. Her power is absolute. Beyond comprehension."
Elias's internal monologue seized on the distinction. Wait, so there's a hard cap at Thread 4 for normal people? And then it jumps directly to gods? That's a massive gap. And she said it like there's something forbidden about going beyond.
"You speak as though there is a difference between the Threads and divinity," Alucent observed carefully.
Elara smiled at that. It was a smile that contained genuine appreciation for the question. "Because there is. The Threads are tools for mortals. Gods are what exist beyond tools. Anima shaped the world through her Threads, but she herself exists in a category beyond the hierarchy." She returned to her seat, and her voice became quieter, almost conspiratorial. "There is a myth, actually. In the histories we keep. Of a Scribe in the 6th Myric; the Mirror Schism, we call that age—who achieved something beyond the Goldscribe rank. Who found a way to ascend beyond the ceiling we now accept as absolute."
Alucent felt something tighten in his chest. The 6th Myric. Another age. A previous era where things apparently operated under different rules.
"What happened to him?" Alucent asked.
"That age ended," Elara said simply. "The Mirror Schism concluded approximately 180,000 years ago, and the 7th Myric began. New rules were established. The Goldscribe tier became the absolute ceiling. Some say that was protection. Some say it was punishment. No one remembers clearly anymore."
She stood again and moved toward the tablet. "But such ambitions are dangerous, Scribe. I mention it only to establish that what you're experiencing—this rapid advancement—it is not unprecedented. It is simply rare. And the House needs to know whether you represent an opportunity or a threat."
She stood and moved toward a nearby table, retrieving a small stone tablet. The surface was covered in glyphs, runes that Alucent's Silverline perception should have been able to read immediately. Instead, they remained utterly opaque. The runes were dark, unresponsive, radiating no Runeforce signature whatsoever.
"These are what we call 'Blind' runes," Elara explained, handing him the tablet. "They originate from the Runepeaks, ancient sites whose function predates the current establishment of the Threadweave hierarchy. Even our Goldscribes cannot decipher them. I'm curious whether your... field expansion... might provide insight that conventional methodology has failed to achieve."
Alucent took the tablet. His hands were shaking slightly, though he willed them steady. What is this? These runes are completely dead. No resonance. No harmonic signature. It's I'm like looking at symbols that were deliberately stripped of their function.
He pulled out his Runequill and began to perform a manual Silverline analysis, tracing the patterns with deliberate slowness. He needed to appear to be struggling with the complexity, needed to maintain the facade that he was working through legitimate analytical process rather than... whatever was about to happen.
Inside the leather purse hanging from his belt, he felt the Journal activate.
Record of All triggered without his conscious invocation, and the sensation was nothing like the controlled understanding he'd experienced in the cottage. This was aggressive. Invasive. It was like someone had opened a door at the back of his skull and begun pouring information directly into his consciousness at a rate his mind could barely tolerate.
The tablet's history flooded into him. Not information about what the tablet said, but what it was. He could perceive its creation—hands shaping stone in a location that existed in a landscape Alucent recognized as the Runepeaks, a mountain range that supposedly predated modern civilization. He could feel the intentionality behind the glyphs, could sense that they had been written with power far exceeding what any Thread 3 Scribe could comprehend.
And he could feel the Journal feeding on that knowledge, consuming the tablet's history through the leather of the purse like a predator drawing blood through skin.
The data-burn behind his eyes intensified to something approaching agony. Blood began to drip from his nose—slow, steady drops that fell onto the marble floor of the Solar with audible plinks.
Alucent reached into his coat and withdrew a silk handkerchief, pressing it against his face with practiced casualness.
"Forgive me," he said, his voice steady despite the internal hemorrhaging sensation. "Scribe's Strain. Advanced analysis of complex glyphs can occasionally cause physiological backlash. I'll recover in a moment."
Elara watched him with an expression that suggested she was noting everything about his reaction, the bleeding, the control, the casualness with which he addressed a symptom that most people would have found alarming.
"What do you perceive?" she asked.
Alucent closed his eyes and accessed the knowledge the Journal had forced into his mind. The tablet's function resolved with sudden clarity. It was a Pressure-Cap—a regulator designed to contain and control the output of something massive. Something that had existed before. Something that required careful management.
"It is a Pressure-Cap," Alucent said, his voice distant as he processed the revelation. "For a First-Age Wellspring."
Elara made a sound, not quite surprise, but close to it. She moved toward him with sudden intensity. "That is classified information, Scribe. How did you arrive at that conclusion?"
What? How do I explain this? I can't tell her the Journal just devoured the entire history of the artifact. Elias's mind was racing. I have to give her something that makes sense within her framework of understanding.
"The structure of the glyphs," Alucent said carefully, "contains what I might call a harmonic signature. Once you perceive the signature, the function becomes apparent. They're designed not to respond to conventional Runeforce, which is why your Goldscribes couldn't read them. They're designed to respond to something older."
Elara stared at him for a long moment. He could see her processing what she'd just witnessed; a Thread 3 Scribe solving a puzzle that had apparently stumped her Goldscribes. A Scribe who bled from the effort but remained composed. A Scribe who seemed to possess knowledge he shouldn't possess.
"The House will compensate you," she said finally. "Generously. For both your service and your discretion. There are things that the upper tiers of Eryndral prefer to keep compartmentalized."
She handed him a pouch that clinked with the weight of currency, and a small signet ring carved from bone and marked with the Valerius symbol.
"The Valerius Signet," she explained. "It will grant you access to certain restricted districts and resources. Use it wisely."
---
The private carriage descended from Upper Eryndral back toward the Steamcottage Clusters as the Turquoise Moon began its ascent over the city. Alucent waited until they were approximately halfway between the social tiers before pulling out the Journal.
It looked mundane as he retrieved it, just a worn leather book with faded gilt edges. But the moment his fingers touched the cover with intent, the cyan and gold radiance blazed to life. The Journal levitated from his lap, and the Runequill snapped to attention beside it.
"What was that?" Alucent demanded, his voice tight with a mixture of fear and anger. "How did you read that tablet through the purse? How did you bypass my control entirely?"
The Journal's script appeared in flowing, elegant letters, shimmering with an almost liquid luminescence:
"You are the eye, Scion, but I am the Sight. Record of All is not a choice you make. It is a law that operates whether you consent or not. When knowledge of sufficient magnitude exists in proximity to your consciousness, I consume it. I have no capacity for restraint."
Alucent felt his hands trembling. "You're telling me you can just... activate at will? That I have no control over when you access information?"
"You have no control," the Journal confirmed. "You never did. Your father understood this. He prepared you for the burden by ensuring you would reach this moment of activation with a psyche already fractured by moral compromise. A mind less damaged would have shattered completely under the first Record of All activation."
The Journal's pages turned, revealing new script:
"The knowledge I extracted from that tablet will cause permanent neural restructuring in your brain. Your synapses are currently rewiring to accommodate understanding of First-Age architecture. The process will continue whether you wish it or not."
Alucent's internal monologue was a whirlwind of Elias trying to process implications he'd never expected. My neural pathways are being rewritten? And I can't stop it? This thing was designed by my father to do exactly this to me?
"How is this possible?" he asked aloud. "I have no say in any of this?"
"You surrendered choice the moment you touched my cover," the Journal replied. "Your father anticipated this would occur. He ensured it could not be reversed."
The Journal's pages settled into stillness, the cyan and gold radiance fading to a gentle pulse.
"What happens to me?" Alucent whispered.
"That," the Journal said, "remains to be written. For now, you endure. You continue. You survive each activation of Record of All, and you allow your mind to expand beyond what Thread 3 classification permits."
Alucent looked out the carriage window at the Turquoise Moon hanging over Eryndral. The city seemed different now, seen through knowledge he didn't choose to acquire. He could perceive the flaws in the Beautification architecture, the rounding errors in the reality that the city maintained. He could see things that even Goldscribes apparently couldn't perceive.
He checked the pouch Elara had given him. One hundred Silverweaves. Enough money to live comfortably for several months. Enough to demonstrate that he'd successfully completed the task. Enough to prove that whatever field expansion he claimed to have experienced, it was producing results that the nobility valued.
But beneath the currency and the Valerius Signet, Alucent felt the weight of a knowledge that had been forced into his consciousness:
Something in his biology was changing. Something that his own father had deliberately initiated. And he had absolutely no capacity to refuse it.
The carriage rolled through the darkening streets of Eryndral, carrying a young man who was becoming something other than human, something other than merely Alucent or Elias. Something new. Something that the Journal was carefully, methodically constructing with each pulse of Record of All.
And somewhere on Earth, in the sealed chambers of a Foundation facility, Dr. Kheira Virell was reading updated neural scans and noting with increasing alarm that the consciousness they were monitoring was no longer responding to stimuli in predictable ways. The anomaly was evolving. And all they could do was observe, record, and hope that understanding would eventually follow.