Cian woke before the rest of the squad. He dressed quietly, tucked his badge into his inner pocket, and slipped out of the quarters.
The base workshop was a cavern off the main corridor, lined with tools and lumber. A few operatives were there—a woman sharpening a blade, a man repairing a leather harness. They glanced at him, nodded, returned to their work.
He selected a stack of planed wood, a small box of nails, a hammer, a saw, and a collapsible workbench. No one asked what he was building. In the Black Badger base, privacy was respected.
He carried the materials to his cave.
The door slid open at the touch of his badge. Inside, the cave was still bare—stone walls, stone floor, the ventilation circuit humming softly on the far wall. The lamp cast a steady glow.
He set up the workbench near the wall and began.
The wood was good—dried, straight, without knots. He measured twice, cut once. The saw rasped. The hammer struck with steady rhythm. Dust rose, settled on the stone floor.
He built three shelves, each wide enough for books, jars, and supplies. The highest shelf he left empty for now. The middle shelf held the Echofern, the mountain resin, the permanent inks, the mortar and pestle. The lowest shelf held the books, arranged by size: Sotael circuits, swordspear forms, focus casting, herb guide.
He stepped back and looked. Functional. Ordered. His.
He did not place the map or the knife on the shelves. The knife went into his belt. The map went into the crate beneath the loose board, beside his journal.
He cleared the center of the floor and knelt.
The Sotael circuit book was open beside him, the diagrams memorized. He had read it twice during the walk back from Central Lagon. The geometry was clear: a star within a circle, sixteen runes at the intersections and cardinal points.
Chalk first, for the outline. He drew slowly, checking each line against the diagram. Then permanent ink, applied with a fine brush. Black for the star, silver for the runes. Each stroke deliberate.
The runes came last. He carved them into the wet ink with the tip of a metal stylus, pressing just hard enough to leave a groove. Sixteen of them. He checked each against the book's diagrams.
When the ink was dry, he spread the mountain resin over the lines with a spatula. The resin was thick and amber, smelling of pine and old stone. It seeped into the grooves, sealing the circuit into the floor. Within minutes, it hardened clear, leaving the black and silver lines visible beneath a glossy coat.
He sat at the circuit's center. The ventilation circuit hummed on the wall. The new circuit seemed to pulse once, then settle.
He closed his eyes and breathed. The Thousand Mirage rhythm. Breathe in: the world as it appears. Hold: the space between what is seen and what is hidden. Breathe out: the world as it could be.
The circuit amplified the flow—not dramatically, but noticeably. The Kael in his channels responded more readily, the breathing technique taking hold faster than in the bare cave. The hold at the bottom, where the air thinned, felt deeper.
He opened his eyes. It worked.
He ran through the Thousand Mirage sequence twice more. Each time, the circuit sharpened the rhythm, deepened the hold. The Kael moved more efficiently through his channels—not stronger, but smoother.
Then he switched to the Unseen March breathing. Shadow drawn from light. Silence drawn from sound. The circuit responded differently—the flow became quicker, more fluid, matching the path's emphasis on speed and stealth.
He noted the difference. The same circuit, different breathing techniques, different effects. The book had mentioned this: Sotael circuits were tools, not tyrants. They amplified what the practitioner brought.
He stood, stretched. His legs were stiff from kneeling. His back ached. But the cave was ready.
He stepped into the corridor to get water. She was there again, standing near her door—cave nineteen, hood up, face shadowed. Not moving. Just present.
Cian nodded. "Wraith."
She did not respond immediately. Then: "You've been building."
"Shelves. A circuit."
A pause. He could feel her attention, though he could not see her eyes.
"Seventeen was empty for a year. Previous occupant didn't come back." Her voice was low, rough, like stone grinding on stone. "Good to see it used."
She turned and disappeared into her cave. The door slid shut.
Cian stood in the corridor for a moment. Previous occupant didn't come back. He did not ask what that meant. Some questions were better left unasked.
He walked to the water station, filled his canteen, and returned to his cave.
He pulled the herb guide from the lowest shelf and opened it to the section on Echofern. The plant grew in high altitudes, needed no sunlight, and was used in rituals to quiet the mind. There was a sketch, pressed samples, notes on preparation.
He turned to the Sotael circuit book, rereading the chapter on permanent installations. The author—a woman named Venera, dead two centuries—had written: A circuit is a question asked of Kael. The answer depends on the asker.
He set the book aside. He thought about the fragments in his journal. The pillars. The path. The Eastern Reach.
He was not ready. But he was preparing.
He stood, blew out the lamp, and walked to the squad quarters.
Cinder was snoring. Echo was reading. Voss was meditating. Wraith was in her cave.
Cian lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. He thought about the cave. The shelves. The circuit. The map hidden beneath the loose board. The knife in his belt.
He thought about the mission to come. The watchtower in the Lureus foothills. The possibility of finding more fragments—or nothing at all.
He closed his eyes. The Unseen March breathing settled him, slow and steady. The new channels were stronger now, almost healed. In another week, he would be ready for anything.
He slept.