Altharion stepped off the hovering transport and onto the observation deck of Ryvaris' facility. The first thing that struck him wasn't the sheer size of the structure, though it was monumental, easily dwarfing the tallest spires of Eryndor Prime. Nor was it the translucent floors suspended impossibly over chasms filled with faintly glowing strands of energy, which seemed to pulse like the heartbeat of the universe itself. It was the sense of unrestrained potential. The air vibrated faintly, carrying whispers of power too vast and ancient to name.
Ryvaris did not speak at first. He simply walked beside Altharion, each step silent but purposeful, the hem of his coat brushing against the floor in a motion that seemed almost predatory. Shadows bent subtly around him, threads of null energy flickering at the edges of his presence. Altharion felt the pull before he understood it—a subtle tug at the corners of perception, as if the world itself were responding to Ryvaris' calm, deliberate existence.
"You will not understand everything here at first," Ryvaris finally said, his voice low, precise, echoing faintly against the walls of energy glass. "But that is acceptable. Understanding will come with time, with observation, and with survival."
Altharion's gaze swept across the deck. Training arenas hung like platforms suspended in a void, some larger than entire city blocks below, populated with holographic constructs, shifting obstacles, and faintly glimmering strands threading through space. Floating platforms rotated slowly around energy cores, defying gravity, while simulators hovered nearby, projecting arenas of infinite variety. It was a cathedral to power, a place where the ordinary rules of physics were suggestions, not laws.
"I… I don't even know where to start," Altharion muttered, voice quiet but steady. He did not flinch at the impossible verticality, the faint hum of raw energy, or the feeling that the very facility was watching him as he moved.
Ryvaris' dark eyes flicked toward him, unreadable. "Then start with observation. Everything is a lesson if you know how to look. The world here is alive, and it speaks through its threads. You simply need to listen."
Altharion tilted his head, unconsciously noticing how the light caught the edges of a strand near the platform railing. It pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, in response to his gaze. He blinked, and the pulse dimmed, as though ashamed of being seen. Was that… real? he wondered, though he did not dare speak it aloud.
---
The first formal lesson began in a chamber Ryvaris called the Loom Hall, a cavernous space where strands of energy crisscrossed the void like glowing filaments of a spiderweb. The walls were made of translucent energy panels, each flickering faintly with simulated cosmic events—novae, supernova remnants, and distant galaxies rendered in miniature. Gravity shifted subtly, forcing Altharion to adapt even while standing still.
Ryvaris stopped in the center of the hall. "The universe is not chaos," he began. "It is a tapestry, woven by threads you cannot see. Some call them destiny, some power, some illusion. Here, we call them Strands. They bind everything. Space. Time. Matter. Life itself."
Altharion watched, curiosity stirring despite himself. "And… Strandbearers?" he asked cautiously.
Ryvaris' gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained measured. "Those who awaken to the strands, who learn to manipulate them. They are rare. And some… are dangerous."
He paused, stepping closer, letting the shadows stretch across the floor between them. "You… are one of them. But not like any other. You are… an anomaly, broken in ways I cannot yet fully comprehend. That is why I brought you here."
The words struck Altharion more deeply than he expected. An anomaly… broken… He had always felt out of place, different from the other children, but no one had ever phrased it so directly. He swallowed, unsure whether to feel pride or fear.
"Broken threads," Ryvaris continued softly, "are dangerous. But they are also the ones that weave the strongest patterns. If you survive, if you endure, you will understand. And perhaps… change the world."
Altharion's mind swirled with questions, but Ryvaris offered none of the immediate answers he desired. Instead, he gestured toward a floating platform that shimmered faintly with energy.
---
The first exercise was deceptively simple: traverse the chamber. Sounds easy, until the environment began to shift. Platforms rotated and disappeared, strands of energy pulsed with unseen force, and holographic opponents materialized mid-air, each mimicking combat moves that seemed both impossible and familiar.
Altharion took a deep breath. Instinct, not training, guided his movements at first. He leapt from platform to platform, twisting mid-air, grabbing onto energy filaments that hummed under his fingers. Each maneuver was instinctual, precise, and deadly in its efficiency. The holographic constructs lunged, attacked, and vanished, only to reappear in another form, forcing him to adapt in real time.
And then, as he landed on a platform no wider than a knife's edge, he misjudged the balance. His foot slipped, spinning him in mid-air. For a heartbeat, he thought he would fall into the abyss.
But his hands twitched—and threads, faintly glowing, responded. The platform steadied, a pulse of energy stabilizing under him. Altharion landed, breathless, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
Ryvaris observed silently, though a faint pulse of approval passed through his aura. So, the anomaly shows…
---
After the simulation, they sat atop a high platform overlooking the chamber. Altharion's chest heaved with the strain, the thrill, and the exhilaration. The lights of the facility reflected in his dark eyes, mingling with the faint glimmer of strands he did not yet understand.
Ryvaris spoke, voice quiet, almost meditative: "You did not break. Most would have. Most would have fallen or panicked. But you… did not. You adapted. That is not talent alone. That is… anomaly."
Altharion swallowed, feeling the weight of the words. "What… does that mean for me?" he asked, uncertain.
"It means," Ryvaris said, eyes narrowing slightly, "that you do not belong to the world as it is. The strands bend around you, even without your knowledge. You are broken, yes… but that is also your greatest weapon. Perhaps… your greatest curse."
There was a silence between them, filled only by the hum of the Loom Hall, the faint pulse of energy, and Altharion's own racing heartbeat.
Then, a faint smile crossed Ryvaris' lips. "Do not fear it. Not yet. Learn to survive first. Then we will see what this broken thread can truly weave."
Altharion's lips twitched into a small smile of his own, a rare acknowledgment of the connection forming between student and mentor. It was not trust. Not yet. But it was… a beginning.
---
As the sun—or what passed for it through the city's energy shield—set beyond the facility, Altharion stood on the observation deck once more. The Loom Hall stretched below him, a lattice of impossible geometry and faintly glowing strands. Somewhere within, unnoticed, the threads that would one day become GENESIS stirred.
He flexed his fingers. A faint pulse, imperceptible to Ryvaris, flickered along his veins. A spark of something ancient and dangerous. He felt it, sensed it, but did not yet understand.
Ryvaris' shadow fell across the deck. "Broken threads often weave the strongest patterns," he murmured, voice almost lost in the wind. "If you survive, Altharion… you will see what threads a broken boy can create."
Altharion's gaze drifted to the infinite expanse beyond the facility. The stars, the city, the threads of power… and the faint, forbidden pulse within him.
Something had awakened. And nothing would ever be the same again.