The first year of the war did not feel like war.
Not in Paaran Disen.
The city still gleamed under the curated sky, its white-glass towers reaching upward like frozen prayers. The weather-regulators kept the air at a crisp, perpetual spring, and the chora trees lined the avenues, their trefoil leaves exhaling a sense of peace that felt increasingly like a lie. Systems held. The standing flows of the One Power—the invisible grid that powered the jo-cars, the lighting, and the automated cleaners—functioned with that quiet, effortless perfection it had always known.
To most, this was reassuring. To Aren, it was practised. Too practised.
"They've increased the refresh rate on the projection arrays," Aren muttered, squinting at a shimmering fountain in the Plaza of Serenity. "They're trying to hide the micro-fractures in the stone. The standing flows are fluctuating by point-zero-three percent. No one notices because the dampeners are turned up to maximum."
"It's called maintenance, Aren," Seraya replied, her voice distracted as she adjusted her apprentice robes. "Most people call it 'living in paradise.' You call it a structural failure waiting to happen."
"I call it reality," Aren countered.
________________________________________________________________________________________
They had been taken into one of the Hall's working workshops—not as full contributors, not yet, but as apprentices under those who actually designed and maintained functional constructs. It was different from classes. Less theory, more consequence. If something failed here, it mattered.
Aren liked that.
Seraya thrived in it.
"You're compensating again," she said, leaning over his shoulder as he adjusted a layered weave inside a compact device.
"I'm stabilising," Aren replied without looking up.
"You're over-stabilising. It's inefficient."
"It won't fail."
"It won't improve," she countered, her silver-grey eyes meeting his. "There's a difference between a structure that holds and a structure that lives."
Aren paused, his weaves flickering. He looked at the matrix, then nudged the Earth-threads, loosening the tension and allowing the Fire-weaves to pulse with a natural rhythm. The device suddenly hummed with a cleaner, more resonant tone.
"…fine," he admitted. "That is better."
"I know," she said, already moving back to her own station, where a half-finished automaton stood like a skeletal sentinel.
Aren glanced at her. "You could at least pretend to hesitate."
"That would be dishonest."
"That would be polite."
Seraya gave him a brief look. "You'll survive."
"I might not," Aren muttered. "That seems to be a recurring theme lately."
___________________________________________________________________________________
The workshop had changed over the past months.
Subtly.
Materials requests increased. Priorities shifted. Devices once designed for convenience were being reworked for durability. For efficiency. For conditions that weren't being openly discussed—but were clearly anticipated.
No one called it fear.
But it was there.
News of the outer regions reached them in fragments.
A disturbance here. A failed structure there. Isolated incidents, all explained, all contained.
And yet—
They were increasing.
One afternoon, while recalibrating a resonance matrix, Aren noticed the shift before a single word was uttered. The workshop didn't stop, but the air tightened.
A senior Aes Sedai, a woman named Elara whose face was a mask of practised neutrality, entered. She didn't shout. She whispered to the workshop lead. But the stillness that followed was brittle. It was the sound of a glass world cracking.
"What is it?" Aren asked, his voice low, his tools hovering over the matrix.
Seraya didn't look up immediately. She finished stabilising her weave with a steady hand, though the light of it flickered just once. "Another assault," she said finally.
"Where?"
"The outer lattice systems. It was massive, Aren. The city of Devaille is… gone. The report says the Shadow used something... a weave that doesn't just destroy. It burns the thread of the target out of the Pattern itself. They're calling it Balefire. The ground where Devaille stood is split for hundreds of miles. People who were there yesterday... It's as if they were never born".
She looked at him, her eyes shadowed with a clinical horror. " The ground there is split for hundreds of miles, and the thread of the city itself has been burned out of time."
Aren't tools clattered onto the metal table. "That's a violation of the Law of Prime. You can't just... undo the past. The Pattern would collapse."
Seraya leaned in, her voice a sharp whisper as she explained the mechanics of the newly discovered weave—a violation of the Pattern itself that could undo the past.
He exhaled slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. "And they're still saying everything is under control? After that?"
Seraya met his gaze, her expression hardening. "They want to avoid large-scale panic. They believe they can preserve the harmony of our society by keeping the rot out of sight."
Aren raised an eyebrow, a sceptical twist to his mouth.
"For now," she added, the words hanging like a threat.
To delay the inevitable panic, the Hall announced a grand exhibition soon after. It wasn't officially a distraction, but everyone understood the subtext. The training grounds were transformed into a sprawling theatre of light and sound. Projection arrays painted the sky with artificial stars, and platforms were raised for demonstrations that celebrated the height of their civilisation.
Normalcy, curated and polished until it gleamed.
Aren stood at the edge of the arena, his eyes tracking the vibrant, oblivious crowd. "This is excessive," he muttered.
"It's effective," Seraya countered, standing beside him in her formal apprentice robes.
"That's not the same thing."
"It is when people need to believe it."
Aren glanced at her, noting the way she watched the spectators. "You're getting cynical, Seraya."
"I'm getting observant."
"I think that was my role!"
"You were slow," she said with a faint, fleeting smirk.
"I'll improve," Aren replied, leaning into the familiar comfort of their banter to push back the weight of Devaille.
Aren moved through the matches with steady focus—not exceptional, not dominant, but controlled. Around his body, the faint, shimmering hum of a ter'angreal acted as his skin; a protective field of the One Power designed to absorb kinetic energy, ensuring this trial remained a sophisticated display of skill rather than a bloody encounter.
He adapted. Learned. Adjusted.
It was enough. Until it wasn't.
At sixteen, Aren was the youngest in the hall. While the others had arrived at the institute as young adults, Aren had been brought in years early, having manifested the spark at an age that startled even the most senior Aes Sedai. But today, the spark didn't grant him victory.
His final match placed him against an opponent who had five years and a lifetime of reach on him.
Aren opened in the High Form of the Stork, his practice blade held ready, his mind seeking the total stillness of The Void. As the older student lunged, Aren transitioned smoothly into The Boar's Descent, trying to use his lower centre of gravity to upend the larger man's momentum.
The opponent was faster. He parried with a crisp Kingfisher's Precision, the blades clacking in the silent hall. Aren spun away, his feet finding the grace of the Stalking Feline, trying to find an opening. He saw a flicker of hesitation and committed to the Triple Strike of the Storm, three rapid stabs aimed at the chest protector.
His opponent didn't even flinch. He flowed into The Drifting Leaf, swaying out of the way of the strikes as if he were made of air, before countering with a devastatingly precise Hammer to the Anvil.
The force of the blow rattled Aren's teeth even through the protective shield. His sword was knocked wide. Before he could recover with The Separation of Silk, the older student's blade was at Aren's throat.
Aren lost. Cleanly.
The shimmering field around Aren dissipated with a soft chime.
"You improved," his opponent said, lowering the blade and offering a respectful nod.
"That is a very polite way of saying I lost," Aren replied, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stepped out of the Void.
"It is accurate."
Aren considered the gap between them—the sheer speed of that final counter. He looked at his shaking hands, then back at the man who had just dismantled his defence. He nodded. "I'll take it."
Later, as the participants gathered, the crowd shifted with a subtle, wordless gravity. Aren followed the collective gaze and saw him: Lews Therin Telamon.
There was no grand display, yet the room seemed to align around his presence. Aren's father had once called the man "better than most," but seeing the Dragon in the flesh made that feel like a staggering understatement. Lews Therin moved through the ranks of students with a quiet, direct intensity. When he stopped before Aren, the air grew still.
"You adapted well, Aren Velaris," Lews Therin said. "Your father would be proud."
Aren straightened, though he didn't hide his frustration. "Not well enough."
"Not yet," Lews Therin corrected gently.
"It will change," Aren countered, his confidence returning.
Lews Therin smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes. "Yes, I suppose it will." He gestured to an attendant, who stepped forward with a sheathed blade. "This is awarded for discipline, and for the runner-up. Alas, not victory."
Aren accepted the gift. It felt alive in his hands—balanced and refined.
"The Aetherion Edge," Lews Therin explained. "Power-forged. It is a blade that responds to intent rather than mere physical strength."
Aren looked at the weapon, then back at the man. "This seems excessive for a runner-up, don't you think?"
"It is precise," Lews Therin replied.
Aren nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'll try not to embarrass you... Uncle."
That earned the faintest hint of a smile.
Away from their quiet exchange, the atmosphere grew sharp. Sammael, the reigning world champion, was holding court. Having placed his title on the line in the senior exhibition, he was the embodiment of the sport's highest peak.
Aren watched as Sammael demonstrated his craft. His movements were a study in ruthless economy—striking with a cold, surgical efficiency that made even the most complex forms look effortless. Where Lews Therin radiated a centred calm, Sammael moved with a predatory, unyielding precision that left no room for error.
The champion remained undefeated, a living wall of steel that Aren would one day have to scale.
"…I'm not reaching that level," Aren said.
Seraya crossed her arms. "Not today."
"I appreciate the honesty."
"You'll improve."
"That sounds suspiciously encouraging."
"Don't get used to it."
Seraya's own event followed—a sharp departure from the kinetic violence of the sword. In the Age of Legends, the mastery of Biological and Mechanical Constructs was considered one of the highest forms of the Art. While others presented elegant sculptures or hovering transport platforms, Seraya had brought something that felt unsettlingly alive.
Her construct stood at the centre of the platform—a mechanical automaton of gleaming, brushed silver. It was articulated through thousands of microscopic gears and layered weaves of Earth and Fire, woven into its very casing to provide independent response and tactical adaptation.
"You built that?" Aren asked, leaning in. The automaton's head, a smooth ovoid with crystalline sensors, tilted toward him.
"Yes."
"…Why does it look like it's judging me?"
"It is," Seraya replied without blinking. "It's measuring your posture. It finds your centre of gravity… lacking."
Aren nodded slowly, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "I respect that."
The Trial of Innovation was the next innovation.
The demonstration began with a series of challenges. Other participants showcased marvels: a young woman from the Collam Daan presented a swarm of miniature drones that moved in perfect, musical harmony, weaving light into solid shapes. A senior researcher displayed a gardening construct capable of sensing the emotional health of the plants it tended. They were masterpieces of utility and grace.
But Seraya was simply better.
When her automaton moved, it didn't just follow a script; it interacted. When a proctor threw a weighted sphere at it, the machine didn't just catch it—it redirected the momentum, spun, and placed the sphere back on the proctor's desk with a flourish that felt distinctly mocking. Its movements were fluid, precise, and hauntingly human. It responded to the room's temperature, the shifting light, and the subtle pressure of the One Power in the air.
Seraya didn't react to the gasps of the crowd. She simply watched her creation, her eyes reflecting the glowing threads of the Power she used to monitor its core.
When it ended, the result was undisputed.
"You won," Aren said as she stepped down from the dais, the silver automaton following her with a rhythmic, metallic clicking.
"Yes."
"That was… impressive. Even for you."
"I know."
Aren exhaled, shaking his head. "You're going to be unbearable about this."
"I already am."
The exhibition ended as it had begun—with absolute control and the shimmering veneer of a utopia. But Aren noticed the things the public missed. He saw the way the Aes Sedai of the Hall of Servants exchanged glances that were far too heavy for a student's victory. He saw the way the senior researchers looked at the sky, not for the sun, but for something they feared might be looking back.
He had learned this from his father—the ability to read the silence between words. His father, he suspected, could see the rot in a structure long before the first crack appeared.
As they left the training grounds, Aren glanced back once more. Paaran Disen, the crown jewel of the world, still glowed with its impossible architecture and hovering streaks of light. The city held.
But beneath the polish, the world had begun to move.
"This doesn't last," he said quietly, his hand resting on the hilt of the Aetherion Edge.
Seraya didn't ask what he meant. She didn't offer a platitude about the strength of the Great Portals or the wisdom of the Council.
"No," she said, her voice like ice.
For the first time since the news of the Collapse had begun to trickle in from the edges of civilisation, Aren felt the weight of it. Not fear, but inevitability. The world had not broken yet, but the tension was screaming.
The crowd was guided out—not through a chaotic rush, but through quiet, firm redirections by Peacekeepers and attendants. The order was perfect. The structure was sound. And yet, to Aren's eyes, it felt like the final, choreographed bows of a play that had already ended.
"All attendees, proceed to the central forum. Full Hall assembly has been called."
Aren slowed mid-step, turning slightly toward Seraya. "That's not routine. They don't call full assemblies without notice."
Seraya didn't answer immediately. She was watching the movement of people instead—the way Aes Sedai were no longer scattered, the way instructors who normally ignored each other were now walking in the same direction without hesitation.
"No," she said finally, quieter than usual. "They don't."
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
The exhibition ended with the shimmering veneer of peace, but the transition was abrupt.
"All attendees, proceed to the central forum. Full Hall assembly has been called."
The announcement was a cold splash of water. Full assemblies were rare; they were for the passing of new Laws of Power or the naming of a high seat.
Thousands settled into the curved tiers of the great chamber. Aren and Seraya sat in the apprentice section, near the front. The silence was heavy.
Then Mierin Eronaile—the woman the world knew as one of the most brilliant researchers of the Collam Daan—stepped forward.
She looked radiant. She wore a gown of shimmering white that seemed to catch every light in the room. But there was a coldness in her beauty today. A certainty that felt like a whetted edge.
"I am not here to present research," she said, her voice amplified by the Hall's resonance-weaves. "I am here because the Age of Legends is a dying garden, and you are all too afraid to pull the weeds."
Lews Therin moved to the centre, his face darkening. "Speak clearly, Mierin. This is not the place for metaphors."
"The Bore is not a wound, Lews Therin," she countered, her gaze sweeping the room. "It is a doorway. For a century, we have whispered about 'The Collapse.' We have watched our society rot and called it a temporary setback. But I have touched the power that lies beyond the Breach. It is not divided into saidin and saidar. It does not require the weary struggle of the Five Powers. It is a unified strength."
A murmur—half horror, half fascination—ripped through the tiers. Aren felt a vibration in his bones. It wasn't the clean, soaring hum of the One Power. It was a dark, oily thrum that made his skin crawl.
"You speak of the True Power," a Councillor shouted. "It is chaos! It is destruction!"
"It is only destruction to those who are too weak to hold it," Mierin said. She looked at the younger Aes Sedai—the ones who had grown up in the shadow of the Collapse. "How many of you feel the limits of your strength? How many of you see the world ending and realise the Council has no answers? I offer you the zenith of our existence."
The air in the chamber began to thicken. Shadows seemed to stretch, independent of the light.
"Mierin Eronaile," Lews Therin's voice was like thunder. "You will stand down. Now."
"Mierin belonged to your world of limitations," she whispered, her eyes suddenly burning with a light that was not light. Dark flecks—saa—seemed to drift across her pupils for a heartbeat. "You may call me Lanfear. Daughter of the Night."
"Hold her!"
A hundred weaves of Air and Spirit lashed out. The power in the room was enough to level a mountain.
It did nothing.
Lanfear didn't travel. She didn't use a Gateway. The space around her simply folded into a void of absolute shadow. For a heartbeat, the Hall of Servants was plunged into a darkness so total that it felt as if the world had ceased to exist.
Then, she was gone.
The silence that followed was the loudest thing Aren had ever heard. He looked around the room. He saw the horror on the faces of the elders. But he also saw the look on the faces of some of the younger researchers—the hunger. The curiosity.
"She didn't just leave," Seraya said, her voice trembling for the first time. "She showed them the way out."
Aren looked down at his hands. He was still holding the Aetherion Edge. The sword was glowing with a faint, steady light, a pale blue defiance against the lingering shadows of the room.
"This is the end of the pretending," Aren said quietly.
"No," Seraya replied, her eyes fixed on the empty platform. "This is the start of the war. Not the one in the news. The real one."
Aren looked up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the Hall, where the white stone was now marred by a faint, scorched mark where Lanfear had stood. The utopia was gone. The architecture of their lives was no longer about beauty.
And in the quiet, brittle aftermath, Aren realised that the "First Year" had been a dream.
This time, the Hall didn't just change—it broke.