Day 24 of accepting my background character status, and honestly? It was going pretty well.
I'd answered Lyka's communication device that morning. Turns out she just wanted to know if I was alive and if I needed anything. I told her I was fine, thanks for asking, and no, I didn't need extraction from certain death this week. She'd seemed surprised but pleased. We'd agreed to maybe get coffee sometime, the way people do when they mean "let's never speak of the traumatic events we shared."
The morning route took me through the Artisan Quarter, where the sound of hammers on metal created a rhythm that almost made sense. I had three deliveries there, then a loop back through the Lower Market for two more. Routine. Manageable. No philosophical bleeding required.
I was counting cobblestones (a new habit that kept my brain occupied without requiring emotional investment) when I walked straight into someone.
"Shit, sorry, I wasn't…" I looked up. "Oh."
Arthur Solvain stood there like a casualty of war that had forgotten to fall down. His prosthetic arm hung at an angle that physics shouldn't allow, more suggestion than limb. What used to be gleaming metal now looked like someone had tried to make abstract art out of suffering. His other hand clutched what might generously be called sword fragments, wrapped in cloth that wasn't doing much to hide the fact that his legendary weapon was now just very sharp garbage.
"August," he said, like finding me here was about as interesting as finding a penny on the ground. "You're still here."
"Where else would I be?" (Home. I'd be home if I could. But that wasn't really an option, was it?)
Lyka stood beside him, looking exactly the same as always, which is to say competent and slightly exasperated. She gave me a small wave. "Hey. Good to see you up and about."
"Yeah, I'm…" I gestured vaguely at myself. "Delivering messages. Being useful. Not claiming to be anyone's author."
Arthur blinked. "Good. That's… good."
We stood there in the middle of the street while people flowed around us like we were very awkward rocks in a stream. I tried not to stare at his destroyed arm. Failed. Tried not to ask about the sword. Also failed.
"What happened to…" I gestured at the wrapped fragments.
"Resonance feedback," Arthur said simply. "Turns out killing someone with reflected philosophy has consequences. Who knew?"
(Everyone. Everyone knew that sounded like a bad idea.)
"And you're in Edgeharbor because?"
"Need repairs." He lifted the destroyed prosthetic slightly, winced when something inside it made a grinding sound. "And a new sword. Real repairs, not just field patches."
"The good smiths are here," Lyka added. "The ones who can work with specialized materials."
"Specialized materials?"
Arthur shifted his weight, and I noticed he was favoring his left side. "Forsaken heart. For both the arm and the sword. Should prevent another…" He paused, searching for words. "Incident."
Right. Because using the crystallized heart of an erosion victim as crafting material was totally normal and not at all disturbing. (When had that started seeming reasonable? When had I stopped being horrified by the casual body horror of this place?)
"That's… practical," I said, because what else do you say?
"It'll take months," Lyka said. "The hearts have to be properly prepared, attuned, shaped. Plus finding the right ones in the first place. We'll be here a while."
Months. Arthur Solvain would be in Edgeharbor for months. The protagonist of my thirteen-year-old fever dream would be getting his groceries at the same market, drinking at the same taverns, existing in the same space where I was trying very hard to be nobody special.
(Cool. Cool cool cool. This was fine.)
A group of people walked past us, moving with that particular confidence that made other pedestrians unconsciously give them space. They wore practical gear, all muted colors and reinforced fabric, but it was their equipment that caught my eye. Belt pouches marked with containment symbols. Stabilization crystals hanging from reinforced chains. One had what looked like a modified surveyor's tool strapped to their back, but the readings flickering across its surface weren't measuring distance.
The woman in front wore a badge on her chest. Silver background, black center that seemed to eat light, tier marking etched along the edge. Even from here I could feel something coming off it, like standing too close to a tuning fork.
She noticed Lyka and raised a hand. "Castillo! Didn't know you were back in town."
Lyka waved back. "Marcus. Just got in. How's the recon team?"
"Can't complain. Still Tier 2, still breathing. You hear about the silent zones spreading?"
"Yeah, we just came from there."
Marcus's expression shifted, professional interest replacing casual greeting. "Anything we should know about? Command's been tight-lipped about the eastern readings."
"Nothing confirmed. But maybe avoid the Seventh Circuit settlements for a while."
"That bad?"
"That quiet."
They exchanged the kind of look that meant more than words. Marcus nodded slowly. "Thanks for the heads up. You reporting in?"
"Tomorrow. Need to get some paperwork sorted first."
Marcus glanced at Arthur, then at me. His eyes lingered on Arthur's destroyed arm and the wrapped sword fragments. "New recruits?"
"Something like that."
"Well, good luck with that. Academy's gotten stricter since the Marrow District incident. They're not just checking for stability anymore. They're looking for…" He paused, searching for words. "Philosophical coherence."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Marcus studied me with the kind of attention that made me want to check if I'd forgotten pants. "You're not licensed."
It wasn't a question.
"Not yet," Lyka said smoothly. "Hence the paperwork."
"Huh." He kept looking at me. "Adaptive foundation, right? Can smell it on you. That's rare. Usually burns people out before they hit twenty."
"I'm very careful," I said, which was such a massive lie that Arthur actually made a sound that might have been a laugh.
"Careful." Marcus repeated it like he was tasting the word. "Yeah, okay. Word of advice? The Institute doesn't like careful. They like predictable. There's a difference."
His team had kept walking, and one called back to him. He gave us a final nod. "Stay stable out there."
After they left, I couldn't help asking. "What was that about? The badge, it felt…"
"Zone hunter identification," Lyka said. "Tier 2, like he said. Authorized for standard reconnaissance and material extraction. The badges are keyed to their foundation. Prevents forgery."
"And that feeling?"
"Resonance damper. Keeps them from accidentally triggering reactions in sensitive areas. Also makes them easier to track if they go Forsaken."
"If they what?"
She gave me that look again. Like I'd asked what water was. "Zone exposure isn't exactly healthy, August. Extended contact with spatial distortions can cause… degradation. Sometimes hunters break. When they do, they need to be found quickly."
"Before they transform," Arthur added quietly.
Right. Of course. Because why would anything in this world not eventually turn into body horror?
"The Institute tracks all of that," Lyka continued. "Stability ratings, exposure limits, philosophical drift. That's what Marcus meant about coherence. They're not just teaching you to use your foundation. They're making sure you stay yourself while doing it."
"And if you don't?"
"Then you get moved to Restricted Track," she said simply. "Or you disappear entirely."
(Cool. Cool cool cool. Love a school with a murder track.)
"Anyway," Lyka said brightly, like we hadn't just been discussing institutional disappearances, "speaking of the Institute. You two need licenses, and they have an accelerated program starting next week."
"Institute?" I said. "I thought you said Academy."
"Eidolon Institute for Applied Belief. People just call it the Academy sometimes. Old habits." She pulled out a device and started scrolling through something. "Three month intensive program. You'll take the core courses, pass the stability assessments, get your Tier 1 certification. Simple."
"Nothing about this sounds simple," I said.
"It's that or keep operating illegally," she pointed out. "And with the Council tightening regulations after Marrow District…"
"What happened in Marrow District?" I asked.
Arthur and Lyka exchanged looks.
"Unlicensed Founder tried to help during a Forsaken outbreak," Arthur said finally. "His belief fractured mid-combat. The resulting transformation killed forty people before Zone Command could contain it."
"The Forsaken he became was three stories tall," Lyka added. "Made of guilt and burning newspaper. They had to evacuate six blocks."
I stared at them. "And you've been operating without a license this whole time?"
Arthur suddenly found the architecture across the street fascinating. "Entertain me for a second, August. Do you know what exactly a Zone license certifies?"
(Oh no. Oh no no no.)
"Arthur," Lyka's voice had dropped to that dangerous register I remembered from the zones. "Show me your license."
"The weather's nice today," Arthur said. "Have you noticed? Very… mild. For the season."
"Arthur."
"I've never really appreciated Edgeharbor's climate before. The way the sea breeze moderates the temperature. It's quite pleasant."
"You're Tier 4 work without a license? You're hunting Zone Kings without certification?"
"No one asked," Arthur said defensively. "They just assumed…"
"They assumed because you're ARTHUR SOLVAIN. They assumed someone fighting Blacklist threats would have done the basic paperwork!"
"It never came up," Arthur said. "I was busy. There were people to save."
"There were forms to fill! Stability assessments! Philosophical coherence tests!" Lyka rubbed her temples. "Do you have any idea what happens if the Belief Regulation Authority finds out? They'll retroactively classify you as rogue. Every Zone King you've killed becomes an unauthorized belief interaction. That's decades in Concordance Prison!"
"The statute of limitations…"
"Doesn't apply to unlicensed Tier 4 operations!"
(This was amazing. This was the best thing that had happened to me in weeks. Arthur Solvain, paperwork delinquent.)
"Okay," Lyka said, visibly pulling herself together. "Okay. We can fix this. The Institute has mature student enrollment. You can both apply, get your certifications, and we pretend this conversation never happened."
"Both?" I said.
"You need licenses too," she pointed out. "Unless you want to keep accidentally stumbling into disputed zones with no legal protection. What happens when that adaptive foundation of yours finally burns out? Who's going to know to look for you before you transform?"
She had a point. The idea of becoming a three-story manifestation of my own neuroses wasn't exactly appealing.
"The Institute's for kids," Arthur protested. "Teenagers who just manifested."
"They take anyone up to twenty-five in the accelerated program. Good thing you can literally change your appearance," Lyka said sweetly. "Unless you'd prefer I start documenting your crimes for the Authority? Let's see, we have operating without a license, accepting payment under false pretenses, unauthorized use of restricted zones, illegal possession of Forsaken materials…"
"You wouldn't."
"Try me. I'm not losing another partner to philosophical fracture because they couldn't be bothered with paperwork."
They stared at each other. Something passed between them, some history I wasn't privy to. Arthur blinked first.
"Fine," he said. "But I'm not happy about it."
"You're never happy about anything," Lyka said. "That's your whole thing. Now shift."
"Now?"
"Now. I want to see if you can still pass for the age limit."
Arthur sighed deeply. The air around him shimmered, not dramatically, just a subtle warping like heat distortion. It was fascinating to watch up close. The lines around his eyes smoothed out, the wear of years lifting like someone had taken an eraser to all the small damages time leaves. His hair darkened from weather-worn brown to something richer. Even his posture changed, straightening in that unconscious way people have before the world teaches them to hunch.
When it was done, he looked maybe twenty. Young enough to be believable as someone who'd lived hard but not long. Still tired, but the kind of tired you get from staying up studying, not from years of philosophical warfare.
He looked… god, he looked almost exactly like I'd imagined him when I was thirteen. Young and tragic and beautiful in that way that makes teenage writers think they're creating art when really they're just hormonal.
"Happy?" he asked, and even his voice was different. Not higher, just… less weathered.
"You'll do," Lyka said. "August, you're already age-appropriate, so you're fine."
"Thanks?" (Was that a compliment or an insult? Being told you look exactly like the teenager you are probably shouldn't sting, but somehow it did.)
"Registration opens tomorrow," Lyka continued. "I'll handle the paperwork tonight. You two just need to show up and not mention the part where one of you is actually pushing thirty and has been committing Zone fraud for a decade."
"Twenty-eight," Arthur corrected.
"Whatever. Can you hold that form for extended periods?"
"If I have to."
"You have to. The program is intensive. Daily classes, practical assessments, stability monitoring. They'll be watching for any signs of philosophical drift or identity instability."
"Wonderful," Arthur muttered. "Three months of pretending to learn things I've been doing since before these instructors were born."
"Three months of not becoming a three-story guilt monster," Lyka corrected. "Perspective, Arthur."
I watched this unfold with a mixture of horror and fascination. "So we just… go to school? Take tests? Pretend everything's normal?"
"You learn to stabilize your foundation before it eats you alive," Lyka said. "That's what the Institute does. Teaches you to believe consistently, coherently, without contradiction. Because contradiction is what breaks you."
"And everyone just accepts this? Parents send their kids to identity stability school?"
"Parents send their kids so they don't wake up to find their teenager has become a Forsaken made of anxiety and unfinished homework," Lyka said flatly. "The Institute has an 87% success rate for preventing first-year fractures. Those are good odds."
"What happens to the other 13%?"
Neither of them answered. Which was answer enough.
"Right," I said. "So. School."
"School," Lyka confirmed. "I've already sent your preliminary applications. You'll both start in Stabilization Track, given your… unique circumstances. Arthur, they'll probably want to test your decay resistance, given the prosthetic. August, they'll definitely want to study that adaptive foundation."
"Study?"
"Non-invasively," she assured me. "Probably."
(Probably. Great. Love a good probably when it comes to being experimented on.)
"This is insane," I said.
"This is necessary," Lyka corrected. "The zones are spreading. The silent communities are growing. The Belief Regulation Authority is cracking down on anyone who might destabilize. You want to survive what's coming? You need to be in the system, not outside it."
"What's coming?" I asked.
Another exchanged look between them.
"We don't know," Arthur said quietly. "But the patterns are wrong. The zones aren't behaving like they should. And the Institute…" He paused. "The Institute is recruiting more aggressively than usual. They're looking for something."
"Or someone," Lyka added.
We stood there in the street, morning traffic flowing around us. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that reality had rental agreements and late fees measured in human transformation.
"I should finish my deliveries," I said finally.
"Yeah. We need to find lodging. And a smith who can work with Forsaken hearts without asking questions." Lyka checked her device again. "Meet us tomorrow morning at the Institute gates. Seven sharp. Don't be late."
"What should I wear?"
"Something that screams 'I'm philosophically stable and definitely not a risk to myself or others.'"
"So… not my usual outfit then."
Arthur almost smiled. Almost. "Just be yourself, August. But a version of yourself that fills out forms properly and doesn't claim to have written reality."
They left, heading toward the craftsman district. I watched them go, Arthur moving carefully to avoid jostling his destroyed arm, Lyka already making lists on her device.
Three months at the Eidolon Institute for Applied Belief. Three months of learning to be stable in a world that thrived on contradiction. Three months of pretending I wasn't alternately terrified and fascinated by the idea of transformation.
(At least I'd have good stories for my parents. If I ever saw them again. When. When I saw them again.)
I finished my deliveries in a daze. The familiar routes felt different now, charged with the possibility of danger I'd been ignoring. How many of these streets ran close to zone boundaries? How many of the people I passed were one bad day away from becoming their own worst nightmare?
When I got back to the Bent Gear, Marta took one look at my face and poured tea without asking.
"That bad?" she said.
"I'm going back to school."
"Oh?" She sat across from me. "I thought you were done with formal education."
"So did I. But apparently I need licenses to be professionally traumatized by interdimensional anomalies."
"That does sound like something that would require paperwork."
I laughed despite myself. "The Eidolon Institute. Ever heard of it?"
Her expression shifted slightly. "Ah. The stability school."
"You know it?"
"I had a nephew who attended. Smart boy. Very creative. They put him in Restricted Track after his first assessment."
"What happened to him?"
She poured more tea. "He graduated. Eventually. Different than he went in, but still himself. That's what matters."
"Different how?"
"Quieter. More careful with his words. They teach you that beliefs have weight there. That thoughts can kill if you're not careful." She studied me. "You'll do fine. You're already careful with your thoughts."
"I literally told someone I wrote them into existence."
"And then you stopped. That's the kind of control they're looking for."
That night, I lay in bed thinking about tomorrow. About applications and assessments and learning to be stable in an unstable world. About Arthur, looking young again but carrying the weight of years in his eyes. About badges that hummed with contained power and schools that made people disappear.
About the 13% who didn't make it through their first year.
(I was already doing the math. Three students in twenty. In a class of sixty, that was seven or eight people who'd fracture. Transform. Become cautionary tales whispered in hallways.)
Outside my window, Edgeharbor went about its business. Somewhere, Arthur was probably struggling with the indignity of looking twenty again. Somewhere, Lyka was filing paperwork with the efficiency of someone who'd cleaned up other people's philosophical messes before.
And here I was, August Philistine, eighteen and about to enroll in a school that taught you how not to become your own monster.
At least the commute would be short.
(That's it. That's what I was focusing on. The commute. Not the existential horror of attending Stability School. Just the convenient location.)
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about Forsaken made of guilt and burning newspaper. Tried not to wonder what my own fracture would look like. Tried not to imagine transforming into three stories of "I thought I was the main character but I was wrong."
Tomorrow, I'd register for classes that might keep me human.
Tonight, I'd pretend that was a normal thing to worry about.
Welcome to Edgeharbor, where even education could kill you.
(I really should have stayed home that night. Should have cleaned my room like Mom asked. Should have done a lot of things differently.)
But I hadn't. And now I was here. And tomorrow, I'd learn how to stay myself in a world that specialized in making people into something else.
Character development.
(Please let it stay metaphorical.)