"Hasphien! Up! It's Celestial Weave Day—again!"
Dad's voice bellowed from downstairs, rattling the floorboards. "Just to remind you: this is your last chance. Don't give me that 'next time' excuse, or I'm coming up there to drag you out of bed myself!"
The moment I cracked my eyes open, the morning sun struck like a physical blow. I groaned, burying my head deep under the blankets to reclaim the darkness.
Right. It's the day…again.
The Celestial Weave. One day each year, when the heavens might decide to touch a soul.
A cosmic thread that could pull me into something bigger. Something that mattered. A gift that could finally make me count.
And yet… I've squandered my chances for years.
Video games ruled the first half of my teenage years. Then came soccer, which consumed me until I hit the mattress every night like an Olympian in training. Yet, even when the weight of carrying an Arkan became real—after I'd prepared the Whispering Rite, practiced the steps, and set every alarm—I still managed to oversleep.
My chest tightened, a mix of frustration and that familiar hollow ache, like something was missing I couldn't name.
I slammed my fist against the mattress, cursed under my breath, and yet… even in that irritation, a quiet tug gnawed at me, insistent and impossible to ignore.
I've always wanted an Arkan, though I could never explain why.
When I was younger, that wanting felt light—more curiosity than desperation—and no one expected anything from me anyway. But now that I'm eighteen, the world looks at me differently.
Sharpened by expectations—everyone else's and my own. The wanting has sharpened into something hungrier, heavier, like a thread tightening around my chest.
I still don't know what I'd become with an Arkan. I don't have some grand purpose prepared. All I have is this pull—steady, insistent—like something out there is waiting for me, and I'm failing it every year I'm left unanswered.
No more excuses. This year, I wouldn't fail. I will make it happen.
I'm eighteen now—the absolute end of the Moon's listening window. I'm standing right at the edge of that silence
Guuushhhhh!
Outside my window, the streets already buzzed with festival energy.
Adjacent hover-carts hissed as vendors fried dumplings and caramelized sweet pods, the aroma mingling with the sharp tang of ozone from nearby hover-rails. Kids darted between neon-glittered streamers that shimmered like liquid silver, their laughter echoing off the city's glass-and-steel facades.
Maintenance drones whirred past, scanning the streets with soft hums, while the faint chime of ceremonial bells blended with the city's pulse.
You could tell people didn't treat the Celestial Weave as just a celebration. It was hope wrapped in ritual, thrumming in the air.
From afar, I could see the Piercing Monument of the central plaza rising in the distance, its sharp silhouette cutting through the morning haze. Even from here, it felt like it was watching the whole city breathe.
By evening, everyone would be there—pressed shoulder to shoulder—waiting for the moon to reach its zenith, for mana to thicken in the air, for their chance to whisper their prayers to the heavens.
Whispering Rite can be done anywhere. But here in Upper Iris, the Central Plaza is the perfect cradle for starlight. It is where the moonlight didn't just fall, it gathered. It felt like the sky leaned closer there, listening harder.
And maybe that's why the Whispering Rite felt heavier there.
It had three sacred parts:
Name of One Self. Who are you?
Unveiling of the Soul. What truth are you brave enough to speak?
Vow of Use. What will you do with the Arkan?
I'd discarded the lines I wrote last year—they felt rushed, insincere, like a homework assignment I'd finished at midnight.
This year, I wrote from the heart.
I had the first two down cold. But the last one... the last one remained a hollow space on the page.
If I were chosen… if I actually received an Arkan…, what would I even do with it?
I sighed, threw on my uniform, raked a hand through my hair, and finally headed downstairs.
Dad was at the table, sipping his usual morning coffee.
"Come eat your breakfast," he said, not looking up.
He took a final gulp, stood, and hurriedly grabbed his briefcase.
"I've got to go. We're busy all day at the laboratory—don't be late at school, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled between bites of hot rice and a sunny-side up.
As the door closed behind him, I glanced at the wall clock above the entrance door.
7:43 AM.
Wait.
7:43?!
"WHAT?!"
I inhaled my breakfast, nearly choking on a glass of milk, grabbed my bag, and bolted out the door.
The moment I stepped outside the gate, I spotted Yinoh—my childhood friend and my classmate again—ambling down the road like a zombie.
I lunged forward and snagged his bag. "Hey! Where's your Drifter?"
"Left it at home," he muttered, yawning and scrubbing a hand over one eye. "Too sleepy to drive. Why?"
"Grab it. We're running late." I didn't give him a choice; I dragged him back toward his house, which sat right next to mine.
"But—"
I cut him off by slapping his pulsevisor into his hands and snapping mine into place. "Shhh. Let's go!"
The drifter roared to life, its core pulsing with a bright azure glow. Yinoh slammed the throttle, and we shot down the street—wind tearing as the city blurred into streaks of electric blue and metallic gray.
We weaved through the morning rush like maniacs, zipping past students, food stalls, and one very angry traffic warden yelling about speed limits.
Then Yinoh swerved into a narrow alley I didn't even know existed.
"Where the—!?"
"Trust."
The alley spat us back into the main road just as the academy's white spires came into view. The final bell echoed across the district.
"Step on it!" I yelled.
"I'm already stepping on it!"
The drifter spun into the courtyard, tires screeching as sparks flared beneath us. We slid perfectly into the parking space—just as the bell finished ringing overhead.
I yanked off my pulsevisor, grabbed him—who was still trying to park properly—and bolted for the stairs.
We burst through the hallway and skidded to a stop outside our classroom—with exactly two minutes to spare.
I doubled over, hands on my knees, my lungs burning. "You're... welcome," I wheezed, a frantic laugh bubbling up. "Just saved your life... from being tagged as absent."
Yinoh didn't respond. He just stared at me through his still on pulsevisor. Then he looked slowly up at the ceiling. Then back at me.
Finally, he tore it off—hair wrecked, face pale, chest heaving.
"...I'm going to die before I even get my Arkan," he muttered, fruitlessly trying to smooth down his hair and tidy his clothes.
I grinned and slapped him on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him again. "Well, look on the bright side: at least you'll die on time."
We both laughed, breath still shaky from the sprint, and quickly straightened up as our instructor approached.
"Good morning, miss," we said in unison.
"Good morning, you two. Now get inside."
We exchanged a look—tired, amused, a little nervous—and stepped into the classroom together.
.
.
And somewhere above this ordinary morning…the moon was already listening—quiet, patient—waiting for the moment everything would change.