Ryneth watched the investigators from across the hall, debating whether to approach.
The Arcanum's main gallery had emptied, leaving only the soft thud of closing ledgers and the low hum of rain against the high windows.
The air smelled of old parchment and lamp oil, a quiet weight pressing on the ribs of the great stone chamber.
He drew a slow, careful breath, straightened his collar, and stepped forward. The echo of his boots sounded far too loud in the silence.
Three figures stood near the central lectern, dark coats stark against the pale marble. They spoke in measured tones, the kind that left no room for interruption.
He hesitated — then forced his feet to move.
"Pardon me, sirs," he began carefully. "I'm Ryneth Calder, assistant transcriber. I worked under Master Leslie for a short while before… before all this. I thought perhaps I might be of some use."
The lead investigator turned — a tall, narrow-faced man with hair tied back and the silver insignia of the Crown's Directorate stitched on his collar. His eyes were sharp and colorless, weighing Ryneth as if measuring a document rather than a person.
His expression was patient, but guarded.
"Of use, you say?" he repeated. "And in what capacity would a transcriber assist an investigation like this?"
Ryneth's palms felt slightly damp, but he held his ground.
"I copied many of her works — ancient Vesric records, mostly theoretical material. If her condition had any relation to what she studied, I might recognize a passage or symbol that—"
The man raised a gloved hand slightly.
"Before that, Calder — tell me. Do you know what the study of Reach is?"
The question caught him off guard. He blinked.
"Only the basics, sir. What everyone learns. The Reach is... the way the world responds to attention. Some people feel it through motion, others through thought or prayer. It's not power — more like... perception."
A brief silence followed. The woman with a scar running from her ear to her jaw regarded him closely, while the third investigator scribbled something in a small leather-bound notebook.
The lead investigator gave a small nod. "Good. That saves us time."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, deliberate tone that seemed to hush even the sound of rain outside.
"What the public calls the Reach, the Directorate classifies as Perceptive Resonance — the study of awareness itself. To Reach is to bring one's perception into alignment with the subtler patterns of existence. The body, the mind, vows, even crafted tools — all can act as conduits. The method doesn't matter. The depth of perception does."
Ryneth felt a faint chill crawl up his spine. He had read essays about the Reach before, but the way this man spoke of it — calm, clinical, almost reverent — made it sound more like anatomy than philosophy.
"The ones who can actively engage with it," the man continued, "we call Resonants. They form the smallest fraction of our population, yet their influence is vast. Every order, every academy, every military house — they all have Resonants of some degree."
Ryneth nodded slowly, unsure if he should reply.
"The Directorate maintains five ranks," the man went on, his tone now as precise as a lecture. "Measured not by strength, but by coherence — how steadily one can maintain resonance without collapse."
He lifted a gloved finger. "The lowest are the Touched — those who can sense the world's subtle reply, but not command it."
"The next, the Echoed Ones, can project that response outward — a craftsman's tools obeying his rhythm, or a duelist anticipating strikes before they land."
He moved another finger. "Above them are the Harmonized — rare individuals whose perception and environment move in tandem. Their presence alone alters small aspects of reality — sound, motion, balance."
"The fourth are the Veiled — not because they hide, but because the world bends subtly around them, concealing its reaction from plain sight. Few ever reach this level."
"And the highest," he said quietly, lowering his hand, "are the Transcendent. Those whose awareness blurs the line between mind and world."
His voice grew almost soft. "There have never been any confirmed records of such beings — though the oldest texts of the Arcanum hint at them. The Church calls them gods."
Ryneth swallowed, pulse ticking faintly in his throat. "And Master Leslie?"
The woman with the scar answered this time,"She was Echoed — one of the Arcanum's best. Whatever happened fractured that alignment. Her perception began feeding back on itself. That's what we call Glassmind Syndrome."
The name landed with quiet weight. Ryneth felt it settle in his chest like cold water.
He had seen Leslie only days ago, leaning over a lamp-lit desk, ink smudged on her sleeve, muttering lines of Vesric under her breath.
She had been sharp-minded, steady — almost serene in her work. The idea of that same mind turning against itself felt... wrong.
"What causes it?" he asked before he could stop himself.
The scarred woman and the man exchanged a glance — something brief, unreadable.
"That," the man said, "is what we're here to determine."
He took a half step closer. "File your observations, Calder. Leave interpretation to those trained for it. The Reach rewards awareness—"
his gaze lingered for a heartbeat,
"—and punishes curiosity."
The warning hung between them like smoke.
As they turned away, their boots struck the marble in unison, the sound fading down the corridor.
The echo of the Directorate's boots faded into silence, leaving the great hall hollow once more.
For a while, Ryneth stood still, listening to the soft creak of timber and the faint hum of flickering lamps.
He wasn't sure what lingered longer — the investigator's words, or the way they had looked at him, as if they'd already measured how deep his curiosity ran.
His gaze drifted to the far end of the gallery, where a small cordon of rope and wax seals barred off a cluster of desks.
Leslie's workspace lay among them, unmistakable even under the morning light streaming from high windows — orderly, meticulous, every sheet aligned at precise angles.
He hesitated at the threshold.
There was no guard posted, though the Directorate's seal glinted faintly on the wax, stamped into the surface of her journal.
Technically, entering would be trespassing.
But he told himself he wouldn't touch anything. Just… look.
The rope gave a soft creak as he slipped beneath it.
The smell here was different — less of ink and more of dust and herbs, the faint sweetness of vellum mixed with dried binding glue.
Stacks of parchment rested in neat bundles, labeled in Leslie's even, angular script. Most were Vesric transcriptions — riddled with annotations that wound between the lines like narrow vines.
Ryneth trailed a finger an inch above one of the pages, tracing the symbols without contact. The handwriting was sharp, almost carved, but something about the last few entries looked hurried — strokes breaking mid-curve, pressure uneven.
He frowned, leaning closer.
There were fragments of translations he recognized — references to perception, alignment, reflection. But others… no, they weren't Vesric at all.
They seemed to form echoes of the language, mirrored or refracted, like someone writing through a pane of glass.
Leslie had been experimenting, then.
Trying to rewrite the structure of Vesric itself.
He glanced around — the hall remained empty — and pulled one of her loose notes closer to the light.
The ink shimmered faintly, not wet but alive, as though light caught on oil. It was faint enough to dismiss, yet his breath caught anyway.
A line scrawled in the margin caught his eye:
> "If thought can change the pattern, then what happens when thought looks at itself?"
Ryneth read it twice, his pulse quickening without reason.
He didn't understand the full meaning — but the phrasing reminded him of what the investigator had said about feedback.
He placed the note carefully back and straightened, his reflection glimmering faintly in the polished glass of the desk's lamp.
For a heartbeat, he thought it moved — just a flicker, a shimmer behind his eyes — but when he blinked, it was gone.
The hall remained silent, save for the faint murmur of distant footsteps along other corridors.
He exhaled, stepped back from the desk, and slipped the rope closed again, his heart steadying by slow degrees.
Whatever Leslie had been working on, it hadn't been simple translation.
And whatever she'd seen, the words had looked back.