The air in Aethelgard, usually so crisp with the faint tang of channeled Aether, felt heavy and suffocating to me. Every day since that near-incident in the plaza – that fleeting, almost imperceptible shimmer of Aether that had drawn a young Weaver's suspicious gaze – the city's vibrant hum vibrated with a menacing undertone. I moved through my duties as a scribe like a ghost, my quill scratching mechanically across parchment, my eyes darting, my ears straining for any sign of suspicion. The memory of that Weaver's narrowed gaze, that flicker of doubt, was a cold knot in my stomach, a constant reminder of how thin the veil of my normalcy had become. I was a tightly wound string, stretched to its breaking point, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
My small room, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, had become another cage. I couldn't relax, couldn't truly breathe. The whispers, the internal hum of the elements, had intensified since the plaza incident. They weren't just random surges anymore; they felt like a constant, low-frequency vibration, a restless energy beneath my skin, always threatening to break free. I'd wake in the dead of night, heart pounding, convinced I'd felt the floorboards beneath me shift, or seen a faint, unnatural glow from my own hands in the darkness. I'd press my palms together, trying to physically contain the energy, as if I could squeeze it back into the depths of my being. It was a futile effort. The power was there, undeniable, and it was growing, making my own skin feel like a thin, fragile membrane.
I yearned for the simple, ignorant life I'd led just a few cycles ago. The dull routine of my scribe work, the quiet evenings with my family, the easy banter with my friends – all seemed like a distant, unattainable dream, a freedom I had unknowingly squandered. Now, every interaction was a performance, every movement calculated to avoid drawing attention. I felt like a fraud, a ticking time bomb in a city built on a lie I embodied. My very existence was a transgression, and Aethelgard, once a symbol of security and order, had become the walls of my personal confinement.