Chapter Four: Parallel Pulse
Part Two
Date: Maelis 26, Year 204 PCR
Location: Cantare Stronghold – Upper Resonance Hall
Time: Midday, storm approaching from the west
The steam hadn't fully cleared when Sylie reset the Veilmark plates.
This time, she said nothing. No breath count. No instruction.
She just looked at them.
Four girls. Four mismatched rhythms. Four pieces of something that should've fit by now but didn't.
Liora was adjusting her boots again. Always precise. Always irritated when someone else didn't hit their glyph clean.
Luma was already itching. Pacing in place. Her pulse burned too hot for stillness.
Elari had squatted in the corner and was drawing in the soot with her fingertip—circles within circles, like she didn't know where she was again.
And Nima… was chewing again.
"Did you bring lunch for the rest of your glyph?" Sylie asked without turning.
"No, but she's been trying to eat mine for weeks," Liora muttered.
"You use sugar dust on your scroll pouch. That's not my fault," Nima shot back.
"Who coats parchment in powdered berry spice?!"
"People who want to be happy?"
Luma barked a laugh—too loud, too sharp.
"We're out here training to survive, and Nima's one croissant away from becoming a soup god."
"Better that than a burnout bomb," Liora snapped.
Sylie's pulse surged. Her pendant flared with heat.
"Enough."
It wasn't loud. But it cut.
Even Elari paused mid-circle.
Sylie walked slowly to the middle again, gaze level now.
"You're not broken. You're unaligned."
The room quieted. Even the heatstones dimmed to match her voice.
"You each fight like you're trying to prove something to someone who already forgot you. That's not resonance. That's panic in disguise."
"So what are we supposed to do?" Luma asked, still breathing heavy.
Sylie looked at her—really looked. Her Veilmark was cracked again. Too much friction. Not enough forgiveness.
"You stop performing. And you start listening."
The storm hit the distant hills. A deep pulse rippled under the floorboards.
Sylie turned her head slightly. Legato must've engaged. That hum wasn't natural—it had grief threaded into it. Her own glyph reacted beneath her sleeve.
"What was that?" Liora asked.
"Echo unit," Sylie murmured. "Someone overcast."
Nima's eyes narrowed.
Elari tilted her head and whispered something to the window, almost like asking permission.
"We're not going out there?" Luma asked.
Sylie answered without looking.
"Not yet."
"Then what are we doing here?" Luma pressed.
Sylie exhaled. Her voice sharpened into something closer to truth.
"We are learning how not to die when it's our turn to cast back."
That silenced everything.
Even Nima stopped chewing.
The resonance plate underfoot hummed once—delicate, like a lullaby trying not to wake a house of ghosts.
Elari, still crouched, said something no one expected:
"I think we're not broken, Sylie. I think we're dreaming someone else's training."
Sylie stared at her.
Nima slowly raised another bun.
Liora sighed like her ribs were cracked from patience.
And Luma just stepped into the glyph ring again—alone.
"So we dream louder," she said. "Or we wake up."