Months passed.
The sting of the Celestial Weave didn't vanish; it just faded. It became like a scar you stop hiding and simply learn to live with. Life slipped back into its old, familiar rhythm, leaving me as I was before. Just me. Maybe a little quieter. A little more guarded.
At school, the hierarchy had shifted, but some things remained stubborn. Ruvane still tried to mess with me now and then, though his timing was getting worse. Just the other day, he was marching straight toward me—chest out, ready to start something—until Yinoh rounded the corner. Ruvane changed direction so fast it was almost graceful, stumbling over his own feet to be anywhere else.
I'd spent half the afternoon laughing about it, but when I told Yinoh, he just blinked at me, completely unaware of the gravity his new Arkan carried. He didn't see himself as a deterrent; he was just Yinoh.
By the time the laughter wore off, I was already standing in front of our gate. Another long day, the same quiet return. The sun was dipping low, casting long, orange shadows over the porch that seemed to pull at my feet.
I pushed the door open to the familiar clatter of ceramic. Dad was setting the plates, the steam from the table filling the room with the scent of roasted salt and herbs.
"Perfect timing," he said, not even looking up from the spread. "Sit down. Food's hot."
I didn't need to be told twice.
For a while, the only sounds were clinking spoons and the hum of the kitchen fan. Then Dad stopped mid-bite, spoon hovering halfway to his mouth.
"You free tomorrow after school?" he asked.
I blinked. "Yeah, I think so. Why?"
He smirked slightly. "I want to bring you to my lab."
I stopped mid-chew. "Huh? Why?"
"I've got something cool to show you."
Cool stuff? That was the magic phrase.
"No further questions, your honor." I resumed eating with more enthusiasm.
Dad smiled and continued eating.
----------
The Next Day
After school, Yinoh tossed me a soccer ball in the hallway.
"Hashy! You playing or what?"
"Can't. Dad's bringing me to his lab," I said, catching the ball.
"Oooh, new inventions?"
"Maybe. A robot version of me, probably."
Yinoh snorted. "Tell me if it tries to replace you—so I can keep bullying it."
I threw the ball back at him. "Psh. You can't even beat me without using your magic."
"Talking big now, huh?" Yinoh smirked.
I smirked right back, gave him a wave, and headed out. For some reason, I felt oddly excited walking home.
As I arrived home, I quickly took a shower, and I came down dressed neatly—a collared shirt, clean pants, and even cologne.
Dad looked up from the couch and snorted. "Why so dressed up?"
"We're going to see something cool," I said proudly. "Cool stuff deserves respect."
He rolled his eyes, smiling. "Sure, sure. Let's go."
We drove into the heart of Upper Iris, where chrome towers pierced the clouds, and drones drifted overhead like silent sentries. In this world of steel and light, my dad wasn't just a scientist—he was the scientist.
The public called him the Champion of Advancement, though you'd never guess it from his faded polo shirts or the way he dodged the spotlight. His work focused on the impossible: curing the incurable and augmenting the human frame. But he lived by a single, ironclad rule: anonymity. No stages, no awards, no broadcasts. To the world, he was simply the Artificer, a faceless legend.
Even the Ardent Sigil—the city's highest honor—couldn't tempt him out of the shadows. "Fame warps the work," he'd always say.
Aside from his colleagues, only two people in the world knew the truth: me and Yinoh. He'd made us swear secrecy years ago. It's why, during family day at school, I told everyone he was a factory hand—a lie that felt heavier with every passing year.
To the citizens of Upper Iris, he was a god of industry. To me, he was just Thiago—the man who burned the breakfast toast, tinkered with gadgets at 3:00 AM, and carried a silence so heavy no one dared disturb it.
We finally reached his lab, a fortress of glass tucked away beneath one of the institute's towering spires.
With a flick of the switch, the room came alive—bright light flooding a space that was at once meticulous and alive with quiet motion. Rows of tools were neatly arranged on polished tables, their precision almost intimidating. Above, in a loft-like gallery, prototypes of his past inventions stood on display like trophies of a restless mind.
But what struck me most wasn't the machines themselves—it was the company. Not human colleagues, but sleek AI automatons roamed the lab with practiced efficiency, tidying, organizing, and even assisting him in delicate tasks.
"Whoa…" I whispered, unable to hide my awe.
I had been here before, years ago, when I was still a child. Back then, this place could hardly be called a laboratory—it was little more than a cluttered workshop, wires spilling over the floor, half-built projects abandoned in corners. Now, standing here, it felt like stepping into the heart of innovation itself.
"Take a seat," he said, pointing to a reclining chair.
I flopped down, eyes scanning every gadget in sight. "You hiring interns, Dad?"
He chuckled. "Not yet. Maybe when my knees start clicking."
After rummaging through a drawer, he finally pulled out a small metallic chip—sleek, no larger than a fingernail, pulsing faintly with blue light.
He walked over, holding it between two careful fingers.
"So… where's the cool stuff?" I asked.
"Here." Dad lifted his hand, revealing the microchip as though it was a rare gem.
I squinted. "That? That's the cool stuff?"
"You'll understand later. For now, lie on your stomach."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
I hesitated, pushing myself up on my elbows. "Do I have to be scared?"
His eyes softened. "Do you trust me?"
"…Right. I forgot you're a scientist."
Groaning, I flopped onto my stomach. "This is undignified."
He chuckled. "You'll be fine."
As I rested my cheek against the padded headrest, I heard him adjust the tools.
A soft hum buzzed in the air, vibrating against my skin. Then, a sharp, sudden click echoed as the chip latched into place at the base of my nape.
"Alright… just breathe normally. This won't take long."
I wanted to ask more what he was doing exactly.
But for some reason… I chose to remain silent.
And the hum was starting to lull me into stillness.
A pulse ran through my back. Cold, electric—not painful, but sharp.
And then—
My vision faded.
Into black.
Darkness.
Weightless.
But not empty.
I floated in a space without shape, time, or sound.
Then…
A gentle voice.
"Hasphien… son…"
That voice again. My breath hitched. Mom.
She stood before me—flickering at the edges like a broken hologram dipped in liquid light. Her eyes, kind and hauntingly distant, shimmered as if viewed through moving water. She wasn't looking at me; she was watching the flowers blooming in her garden, her fingers brushing petals that weren't really there.
I stepped forward, but the ground refused to meet my feet.
"You've always had it…" she whispered, her voice echoing from a place far deeper than the void.
"Had what?" I asked. "I—I don't have anything. I wasn't chosen."
Her smile didn't falter. "Threads… are only one path. You were not meant to follow theirs."
"I don't understand…"
She gently raised her hand, pointing behind me.
I turned.
There—floating in the black—was a faint image.
A swirling mass of silver threads, knotted in a complex spiral.
Each line blinked like a living circuit.
It called to me, but I couldn't reach it.
"It's blurry… why can't I see it clearly?"
My mother's voice grew softer, distorted—like a cracked speaker skipping over important words.
"Because the thread… your father… to protect you… too early if—"
"What?" I took a step forward. "What thread? What do you mean?!"
"… you must remember… not all gifts are given. Some are buried…"
Her face glitched—stuttering, flickering between moments.
I reached for her.
"Mom, wait—what am I supposed to—"
Her form started to break, shattering into streaks of white particles.
"-MA… will show you… but don't trust…"
"Don't trust what?!" I yelled.
The world collapsed inward.
I shot upright with a gasp.
Cold sweat slicked my skin, my pulse stumbling over itself as the room swam into view. The lights above hummed—too white, too clean, too wrong.
"You're awake."
Dad's voice drifted in, calm in a way that felt rehearsed. He stood beside me, tablet in hand, tapping like this was any other day.
"W-What… happened?" I managed to ask, my voice cracking as I struggled to find my bearings.
"First, wipe your drool. You were out for a few minutes," he said with a soft laugh. He kept his expression light and easy, a practiced mask to keep my panic at bay. "See? I told you it wouldn't hurt."
I tried sitting up. My body obeyed, mostly—but there was a heaviness in my chest, a weight like something inside me had been nudged, rearranged, rewritten without my consent.
"How long was I out?"
"An hour at most," he said, tapping a few keys on a nearby console without looking up. "Vitals are steady. System response is stable."
"An hour?" I repeated, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "A 'few minutes,' you said. And what exactly is 'System response'?"
His fingers froze for a fraction of a second.
A tiny pause—there, then gone.
Then the smile again, perfectly placed.
"Right. That."
He angled the tablet so I could see.
[ S-1 Modular Health Monitor: ONLINE. ]
[ Sync Complete. ]
[ Status: Passive Monitoring. ]
"This," he said, tapping the screen, "...is something I've been working on. It tracks your internal patterns. Helps detect irregularities early."
"Health monitor?" I echoed.
He nodded. "People in Upper Iris develop latent conditions all the time. This one's been… tailored. To pick up anything unusual that might surface in you."
"…So, it's for tracking?"
"Exactly," he answered—too fast to be natural.
His smile stayed put, but his eyes flickered.
Just once.
Like he was bracing for a question I didn't ask.
I leaned back against the stiff pillow, staring at the ceiling as Mom's voice pulled itself from the remnants of the dream.
You've always had it…
Not all gifts are given… some are buried…
That vision—her silhouette framed by silver light—still clung to me.
And the threads. Those silver, circuit-like veins of energy.
I could feel them now.
A heartbeat within a heartbeat.
"Everything okay?" Dad asked softly.
"…Yeah," I lied. "Just tired."
Relief loosened the tension in his shoulders. "Let's get you home."
I didn't tell him that Mom had been appearing in my dreams for weeks.
Or that each time, it felt less like a dream and more like a warning.
Not yet.
Back home, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the room quiet except for the ticking of the old wall clock.
Yinoh had texted me earlier:
YINOH: Yo, you alive?
I replied hours later:
HASPHIEN: Yeah. Wanna chill at the park?
A few seconds later, his reply popped up:
YINOH: Okay, but you have to buy vanilla ice cream as payment for today's request.
I smiled and set my phone down on the bed. My head was crowded with questions, but I wasn't ready to tell anyone yet. Maybe sitting with Yinoh would help ease my mind.
I stood up and slipped on my jacket. The moment the zipper caught, I swore I heard something—click.
Not from the clock. Not from outside.
Like a system booting up.