The White Tower hit Spencer like a wall of light.
Twenty days of gradual approach hadn't prepared him for the reality of walking through the Tower's entrance. The system bible had warned about channeler density — how Thread Sight could overload in areas with too many silver threads — but warnings were abstract. This was agony.
Hundreds of threads blazed in his perception simultaneously. Aes Sedai, Accepted, novices — every woman in the Tower who could touch the Source burning with her own unique silver signature. The threads overlapped, intersected, created interference patterns that made Spencer's eyes water and his head split open like a melon dropped on stone.
He grabbed a pillar and held on.
[WARNING: Thread Sight overload. Channeler density exceeds comfortable processing threshold (ACU 30+ recommended, current ACU: 17). Recommend controlled exposure protocol: limit Thread Sight duration, increase gradually, train ACU through systematic density acclimation.]
"Are you well?"
A servant had stopped, concern on her face. Spencer managed a nod without vomiting.
"Just... overwhelmed. Country boy. Big Tower."
The excuse was weak but serviceable. The servant moved on, and Spencer clung to the pillar while the silver storm raged in his skull.
Forty minutes. That's how long it takes before I can walk again.
This is going to be a problem.
---
Siuan's placement was deliberate.
Spencer's guest quarters sat in the Brown Ajah wing — a quiet corridor lined with doors that opened into rooms full of books and the particular mustiness of old paper. The location put him close to the Tower's library, close to Verin's research spaces, far from the political center where the Amyrlin's offices dominated.
"Brown Ajah suits you," Siuan had said, her sharp eyes measuring him. "They'll document your Talent, ask endless questions, keep you busy with their curiosity. A legitimate presence that raises no concerns."
And while the Browns are studying me, you and Moiraine use me as an intelligence asset.
Everyone has an angle. At least Siuan's is useful.
The quarters themselves were comfortable — better than anything Spencer had slept in since arriving in this world. A real bed with actual blankets. A desk for writing. A window that looked out over Tar Valon's rooftops toward the river.
Spencer sat on the bed and waited for his headache to fade, counting breaths, letting the Thread Sight storm gradually subside.
Three to five days of acclimation. That's what the system suggested. Controlled exposure, building tolerance.
Then I can start hunting.
---
That night, Spencer attempted his first Thread Tracing from inside the Tower.
The distance was greater now — twenty days of travel had put hundreds of miles between him and the Hunt party. But ta'veren threads were strong, impossibly strong, burning through the Pattern with the intensity of narrative inevitability.
Spencer focused on Rand's signature and pushed.
The trace extended south. Through the walls of the Tower, across the rooftops of Tar Valon, over the River Erinin, through forests and farmland and the wild country beyond. Spencer's perception stretched to breaking—
And connected.
[Thread Tracing: Continental range achieved. Target: Rand al'Thor (ta'veren). Distance: ~400 miles. Connection quality: Minimal (alive/direction only). Duration: 15 seconds. Stamina cost: 18.]
Rand was alive. Moving south-southeast. Mat's thread beside him, Perrin's wolf-gold signature nearby. The Hunt was on track.
Spencer released the connection and collapsed backward onto his bed, head pounding, but satisfied.
I can monitor them. Not constantly — the cost is too high — but every few days, I can check.
If something goes catastrophically wrong, I'll know.
The thought was comforting in a way that surprised him. He'd chosen to come to Tar Valon instead of riding with the Hunt. He'd chosen strategy over companionship, the long war over the immediate battle. But knowing he could still sense them — still feel the shape of their journey through the Pattern — made the separation bearable.
Spencer stood at his window, looking at Tar Valon's skyline. The Tower rose white against stars, impossible and ancient, holding secrets that had been buried for three thousand years.
Thirteen Black Ajah in Liandrin's cell. Hiding in plain sight among women who can kill with a thought.
And the only person who can see their corruption is a carpenter with a migraine.
He whispered names into the darkness — every Aes Sedai he could remember from fourteen books, matching faces to threads he would have to scan one by one.
Tomorrow, the hunt begins.
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