In a week, the time came to go to the main Hall of the Servants.
The journey there should have felt important. A week had passed since the Aes Sedai told him he could channel. Aren had expected something dramatic—at least a shift in the air, maybe a sense that he was crossing into something larger than himself.
Instead, Paaran Disen looked exactly as it always did: flawless, efficient, and faintly smug about it. Towers shimmered, transport lines flowed in smooth arcs, and people went about their day as if the world hadn't recently developed cracks in its foundation.
Aren sat beside his father, watching the city glide past beneath them, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he had accidentally broken an Aes Sedai ward the previous evening.
"You're not listening," his father said without looking at him.
"I am," Aren replied automatically.
"Repeat it."
Aren sighed. "Don't touch the Power unless instructed. Don't experiment. If something feels wrong, stop immediately and tell someone."
"Immediately," his father corrected.
"Yes, immediately," Aren said. Then, after a pause, he added, "You've said that enough times that I'm starting to think something might actually go wrong."
His father gave him a look. "That's the idea."
Aren leaned back slightly. "…I can still come home, right?"
"Yes," his father said. "You're not being exiled. It's a training placement, not a sentence."
"That's reassuring," Aren muttered. "Mostly."
They descended onto one of the upper platforms, and Aren's first impression of the Hall was that it was… busy. Not imposing, not intimidating—just busy in a way that made it clear things actually happened here.
The structure spread outward rather than upward, a network of interconnected spaces—lecture halls, forums, research wings, administrative chambers—all tied together into something that felt more like a university than a seat of power. People moved in clusters, mid-discussion, carrying devices or arguing quietly, and no one seemed particularly interested in ceremony.
What did stand out, however, was the feeling.
Aren slowed slightly as they stepped forward. "There are a lot of them," he said under his breath.
His father didn't ask what he meant. "Yes."
Aren didn't need to see weaves to know. The awareness he had stumbled into the night before stirred again, reacting to the presence around him. Channelers. Not doing anything obvious—not throwing light or reshaping the air—but there. Like standing near a river you couldn't see but could somehow hear anyway.
They were met quickly by an Aes Sedai in pale grey, who acknowledged his father with a brief nod before turning her full attention to Aren. She didn't introduce herself. She didn't need to. The way she looked at him—calm, precise, mildly inconvenient—told him everything he needed to know.
"This is the boy," she said to the other Aes Sedai who had been at his home.
Not a question.
Aren resisted the urge to say something clever and fail impressively.
"He'll be evaluated," she continued. "Placement after."
His father nodded, entirely too cooperative for Aren's comfort.
"That's it?" Aren asked, looking at him.
"For now," his father said. "Listen more than you speak."
Aren snorted. "That seems very unrealistic."
There was the faintest hint of amusement before his father turned and left—which was deeply unhelpful, because now Aren was alone with people who could apparently sense when you did things you didn't understand.
"This way," the Aes Sedai said.
The evaluation room was disappointingly plain. Aren had expected something more dramatic—glowing structures, complex weaves, maybe a test that involved not accidentally destroying something important.
Instead, it was just an open space.
"Touch it," she said.
Aren blinked. "That's the instruction?"
"Yes."
"That feels like it's missing several steps."
"Touch it."
Aren exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. The awareness came quicker this time, which he wasn't sure was comforting. He reached—not physically, not quite mentally either—and found it again.
Saidin.
It was nothing as he had imagined.
Not light. Not warmth. Not anything pleasant.
It felt like grabbing hold of a current that didn't particularly care whether you were ready for it or not. Cold, immense, and resisting him even as it allowed itself to be touched.
For a brief moment, it was exhilarating.
Then he noticed something else.
A faint wrongness beneath it, deep—very deep within. Subtle, almost ignorable—but there.
Like a stain you couldn't quite see unless you were already looking for it.
Aren's focus slipped.
"Enough," the Aes Sedai said immediately.
The connection snapped, leaving him slightly unsteady.
"So how did I do?" Aren asked.
"Adequately," she said.
That was all.
Aren stared at her. "You're not going to elaborate?"
"No."
"…right," Aren muttered. "Good talk."
By midday, Aren had come to a few important conclusions about the Hall of the Servants.
First, no one had time to explain things properly.Second, everyone assumed you would figure things out quickly.Third, if you didn't, that was considered your problem.
It was, in other words, exactly like every other place that expected competence.
He moved through open forums and lecture spaces, picking up fragments of conversations—some about research, some about infrastructure, some about things he only half understood but was fairly certain were important. It felt less like entering an institution and more like being dropped into the middle of ongoing work.
And then there were the people.
Some stood out immediately, even without trying.
Lews Therin Telamon was one of them, though Aren wouldn't have been able to explain why. He wasn't surrounded by guards or making any obvious display, just speaking with a small group—but the space around him seemed to adjust subtly, as if everyone nearby was aware of him. As they should be, for the man who wore the Ring of Tamyrlin, whether they intended to be or not.
Not far from him, Latra Posae Decume stood in discussion with several others, her posture composed, her tone carrying just enough edge that even from a distance it was clear she expected to be taken seriously—and usually was.
Further off, another man stood apart, watching more than speaking—Barid Bel Medar. Aren didn't know his name, didn't know anything about him, but there was something about the way he held himself that made Aren instinctively decide not to stare too long.
"…first day?" someone beside him asked.
Aren glanced over at a girl roughly his age, arms crossed, expression mildly amused.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You looked at Lord Telamon, then Lady Decume, then Lord Medar," the girl said, nodding subtly toward Demandred. "That's basically a checklist."
Aren sighed. "Good to know I'm predictable."
"You'll get better," the girl said. "Or you won't. Either way, people will notice."
"That's comforting," Aren said dryly.
They walked together for the rest of the day, talking about classes, instructors, and which Aes Sedai were actually helpful versus those who believed confusion was an educational tool.
It felt… normal.
Which was probably the strangest part of all.
The girl—whose name he still hadn't caught—parted ways with him at the end of the day.
By evening, Aren was more tired than he expected. Not physically—just… full. Of information, impressions, and things he didn't fully understand yet but knew he would have to.
Returning home helped.
"You survived," his father said from the courtyard.
"Barely," Aren replied.
"Good."
A practice blade came flying at him with very little warning. Aren caught it out of instinct more than preparation.
"…now?" he asked.
"Yes."
Of course it was.
They stepped into position, and Aren attacked first, because if there was one thing he had learned, it was that waiting usually resulted in him being corrected.
His father deflected easily.
"Too obvious."
They reset.
Aren tried again, adjusting his angle, pushing a little faster this time.
"Better," his father said, redirecting the strike with minimal effort.
They moved again, and this time Aren slowed down, watching more carefully instead of rushing. When he struck, it wasn't faster—it was simply better timed.
His father blocked, then gave a small nod. "Good."
They stepped apart.
"…you learned this at the Hall?" Aren asked.
"No."
A pause.
"From Lews Therin Telamon."
Aren blinked. "…of course you did. And may I ask—why did he teach you? Our lives don't exactly run in the same circles."
His father allowed himself a faint smile. "He's not what people assume. Our family has a close relationship with him. My grandfather was a close friend of his."
"How good is he, then?"
His father considered that for a moment. "Better than most. A man of action."
That seemed like an understatement.
Aren adjusted his grip on the practice blade, then hesitated slightly.
"…I felt something today."
His father didn't interrupt.
"When I touched the Power," Aren continued, "there was something wrong with it."
His father's expression didn't change, which told Aren more than any reaction would have.
"…yes," he said quietly.
Aren looked at him. "Do you know what it was?"
His father nodded, then said quietly, "The world is at the brink of change, my boy. It's the cause of that change that you felt."
Neither of them said anything after that. They simply continued sparring until both were exhausted.
Above them, Paaran Disen still shone as if nothing had changed.
But Aren was starting to understand that appearances, in this city, meant very little.