Breakfast ended with another toll of the bell. Students rose, gathering their belongings - books, carved sticks, leather pouches, and other objects Finn couldn't identify. He followed Sophie and Kai out a side doorway to the right of the main entrance and down a corridor lined with narrow alcoves where strange plants grew in spiraling patterns.

  "Better not touch these," Kai warned as Finn's curiosity got the better of him and he reached toward a flower with deep blue petals. "Some of the plants around here are 'defensive'. That one shoots poisoned thorns if disturbed."

  Finn quickly withdrew his hand. Why on earth would anyone grow poisonous plants in a school?, he thought. They entered a circular chamber whose walls were entirely glass, offering a panoramic view of the Academy grounds and surrounding forests. The floor was smooth stone carved with a gigantic triskelion, a Celtic spiral. About twenty students sat cross-legged along its outer edge, leaving the center open. Mistress áine stood waiting, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, her cloak the green of spring leaves. She was tall and willowy, with features that reminded Finn more of the elves from his books than any human he had ever seen. High cheekbones sat below almond eyes that shifted between green and silver, her face framed by ears that tapered to subtle points.

  "Sit," she said, gesturing towards the other students. "Form the circle. Finn - here, beside me."

  Finn sat next to her as instructed, with Sophie and Kai dropping down next to him. His palms were already sweating. He felt like he was in a dentist's chair, waiting for the doctor to ask him to open his mouth. Nothing to worry about, he told himself. No way they hurt you in your first lesson. I really hope Sophie didn't lie to me.

  Most of the other students eyed him with curiosity, few with indifference. One boy who looked taller than the others, wrapped in a pine green cloak, with pitch-black hair, grey green eyes and a haughty expression stared with undisguised hostility.

  "That's Bran," Sophie mouthed, noticing the boy's stare.

  "Ignore him. He thinks having high Druid ancestors makes him special."

  áine raised her hands for silence.

  "Samhain Eve heightens the Aether's flow," she began, her gaze sweeping the circle.

  "Today we focus on the most basic but absolutely essential skill of a Weaver: seeing the threads of light that bind all creation." She stepped to the circle's center, raised one hand in a graceful wave, and moved her fingers in a pattern too quick for Finn to follow. The air around her hand shimmered, then erupted into visible threads of gold, silver, green, and blue light that wove together like a living skein of yarn floating between her palms.

  "The Aether," she said, "is not magic as humans understand it. It is the very fabric of creation. As Weavers, you do not create power. You only channel what already exists and shape it through understanding, will, and gesture." The threads danced between her fingers, spiraling and curling into patterns with each subtle movement of her fingers.

  Finn stared, transfixed. It was like watching the northern lights brought down to earth, shifting like an orchestra adjusting its tune to the gestures of a conductor.

  "For centuries, Weavers have used different systems to visualize the Aether's flow," áine continued. "Some see it as music, others as mathematical patterns. The Celts, whose traditions we honor, saw it as threads to be woven, and so shall we."

  She closed her hand, and the light vanished.

  "Today, you will attempt to see these threads with your inner eye. The key is to feel their presence, even if visibility eludes you. This is the foundation of all weaving."

  The Mistress instructed them to hold their hands before them, palms up, and focus on the space just above their skin.

  "Close your physical eyes," she said, her voice dropping into a hypnotic cadence.

  "Open the eye of your mind. Feel the warmth gathering in your chest - right behind your sternum. Let it rise, flow down your arms, and pool in your palms."

  Finn obeyed, shutting his eyes and concentrating. He immediately found the warmth in his chest, the same warmth he'd felt at the Witch's Henge and the oak tree behind the Hargroves' house. It was much stronger here, more accessible, as if the Grove amplified what had just been whispers in Duncliffe. He'd briefly felt it when touching the Croi tree this morning, but now it was impossible to ignore. He remembered Morrigan's words:

  It takes getting used to, especially for new Weavers.

  "The threads are always there," áine's voice continued, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. "You need only learn to see them. Imagine them rising from your palms like steam from hot water."

  Finn focused, drawing the warmth up from his chest, visualizing it to flow as she described. After a few moments, his palms began to tingle, then started to burn, as if he was cupping a freshly poured cup of hot tea. Behind his closed lids, he thought he saw a flicker, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

  "Now," áine said, "open your eyes, but maintain your focus. Look, but do not look directly. See with the corner of your vision, as you would catch movement in the dark."

  Finn opened his eyes cautiously. At first, he saw nothing but his empty palms. Then, as he relaxed his gaze, something caught his attention. A shimmer above his skin, barely visible, like heat rising from asphalt on a hot summer day. He focused harder, and the shimmer strengthened, taking form, tiny threads of light, ice-blue with flecks of silver, rising slowly from his palms like mist. A small gasp escaped him, and the threads vanished instantly.

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  "Hold the vision!" áine commanded. "Do not let anything break your concentration."

  Finn tried again, recapturing the warmth, coaxing it outward. The threads reappeared, slightly stronger now, weaving together in patterns that seemed to respond to his thoughts. He pictured them brighter, and they glowed more intensely. He pictured a spiral, and they began to curl... then collapsed and disappeared again. By now, his palms felt sunburned.

  How do I keep these threads from dissolving?

  Around the circle, other students displayed varying levels of success. Sophie's hands were wreathed in pale yellow threads that danced like flames. Kai's were more subtle, silver strands that moved with deliberate grace. Some students had managed only faint shimmers, while others had created elaborate constructs that held steady in the air.

  Bran, the tall boy, had created an impressive display of emerald green threads forming a complex Celtic knot that rotated slowly between his palms. He caught Finn watching and narrowed his eyes, his knot suddenly shifting and transforming into a double helix that grew longer and longer, winding its way across the circle towards Finn, before recoiling and snapping back to Bran's hands.

  "He's trying to distract you," Sophie muttered, rolling her eyes at Bran. "Don't let him."

  Finn ignored him, turning back to his own weaving. The blue and silver threads responded, thickening and brightening. He thought of the acorn in his pocket, its spiral marking, and the threads began to form a similar pattern, a tight spiral that expanded outward, growing taller with each revolution.

  "Interesting," áine's voice came from directly behind him, making him jump. The threads wavered but held.

  "You have a natural affinity, Finn. The threads respond to your will without structured gestures." She circled him, studying the pattern he'd created.

  "Weavers have affinities. Elementalists excel in summoning spirits; Combat Weavers manifest threads for barriers or offense. Your blue-silver threads, Finn, hint at water and air, with strong ties to the spirit realms. A rare blend." Her voice was analytical.

  "Continue."

  Confused yet encouraged, Finn steadied his focus. The spiral expanded, its inner coils tightening as its outer edge reached higher. The blue deepened to indigo, and the silver brightened until it gleamed like moonlight. The warmth in his chest intensified, flowing outward and into his palms to feed the construct. Focus! His hands began to burn, as if pressed against a hot stove.

  Then, without warning, the threads surged. The spiral pattern exploded outward, blue-silver light zapping through the air around him. The Triskelion carved into the floor began to glow in response, gasps erupting around the circle.

  áine's voice cut through the rising hum, sharp and clear. "You are not channeling the Aether, Finn Madden. You are provoking it."

  She stepped forward, her voice calm but commanding.

  "Control it! Draw the energy back!"

  But the threads were no longer his to command. They whirled faster, the spiral unwinding into chaotic streams that filled the circular chamber. A wind rose from nowhere, tossing Finn's hair and lifting loose papers. The glass walls trembled, a lattice of frost spreading across them despite the warm autumn day. Cold panic replaced the warmth in his chest. This was just like the water fountain in St. Brendan's, but magnified a hundredfold. The Aether was overwhelming him, using him as a conduit for something he couldn't control.

  "I can't!" he gasped, shielding his eyes from the whirling light. "I don't know how—"

  "Breathe, Finn. The threads are part of you. They cannot hurt you unless you fear them. Focus on one thread. Follow it back to your palm. The rest will follow."

  Finn clenched his teeth, forcing his breathing to slow. He found a single silver thread in the blue chaos and locked onto it, tracing its path from the ceiling, through the vortex, back to his right palm. As his focus narrowed to that single filament, it began to straighten, falling back into alignment. He imagined pulling it gently, like reeling in a fishing line, and it responded, collapsing back toward his hand. Other threads followed, the chaotic weave gradually contracting, spiraling inward. Finally, the wind died, the frost on the windows melted, and within moments, the only thing remaining was a small, stable, blue-silver spiral, rotating lazily above his palms.

  Silence filled the chamber. Finn slowly lifted his gaze, expecting anger or mockery or annoyance. This couldn't have gone any worse. But the faces staring back at him weren't annoyed. What he saw instead was astonishment.

  "Well," áine said, breaking the silence.

  "It seems Morrigan was right about you, Finn. Your connection to the Aether is... unusually strong." The small spiral of Aether still rotated above his palms.

  "You may dispel your weaving now. Simply imagine the threads fading, returning to the air around us."

  Finn did as instructed, and the spiral dissolved into nothingness, the warmth in his chest coming back. Across the room, some students had started to whisper behind their hands. Only Bran's face had darkened.