He simply appeared beside him after evening drills, walking at the same pace—as if they had always been moving together.
They didn’t speak until they reached the outer corridor overlooking the lower academical terraces. The wards hummed softly in the walls. Beyond the glass, the sky had already darkened.
“You left the academy,” Farworth said at last.
It wasn’t an accusation.
“Lyra told you to ask that,” Arata said quietly, then nodded. “Yes.”
“You didn’t ask for permission.”
“No.”
Farworth stopped. Arata stopped with him.
For a moment, Farworth only studied him—really studied him. Not his posture. Not his resonance. His eyes. The way he held himself, like something had settled where agitation used to live.
“Why?” Farworth asked.
Arata didn’t answer immediately.
“I thought,” he said finally, “that if I wanted to understand madness, I should see what the world calls mad.”
Farworth’s brow creased slightly. Not disapproval. Interest.
“And?”
Arata looked away, toward the dark glass.
“They weren’t what I was looking for,” he said. “They were sick. Mentally ill. Trapped inside their own minds.”
He paused.
“My blood isn’t like that.”
“No,” Farworth agreed. “It isn’t.”
That surprised Arata enough that he looked back.
Farworth folded his hands behind his back.
“Madness, as society understands it,” he said, “is illness. It is categorized, medicated, contained.”
He glanced at Arata.
“Your resonance is not a deviation. It is a principle.”
Arata swallowed.
“I realized that much,” he said. “But that doesn’t tell me what to do with it.”
Farworth’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“Then let me ask you something,” he said. “When you were at the asylum—did you feel resonance?”
Arata shook his head. “Nothing. The Veins were silent.”
“Exactly,” Farworth said. “Because what you witnessed was not madness.”
He turned fully toward Arata.
“If you truly wish to understand what your blood aligns with,” Farworth said, “you won’t find it in places where minds have broken.”
“Then where?” Arata asked.
Farworth hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second.
“The southern laboratory,” he said.
Arata stiffened. “That place is sealed.”
“Officially,” Farworth replied.
Silence stretched between them.
“You’ll find people there,” Farworth continued, “who are not broken. Not delirious. Not sick.”
“What are they, then?” Arata asked quietly.
Farworth met his eyes.
“Functional,” he said. “Excessively so.”
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The word landed heavier than any warning.
“They think,” Farworth continued. “They speak. They reason. And yet their minds operate outside every stable framework society recognizes.”
He paused.
“Pure chaos.”
A chill crawled up Arata’s spine.
“You’re saying they’re mad,” he said.
Farworth shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I’m saying they are what remains when madness does not destroy the mind.”
He studied Arata again—closely.
“If you go there,” he added, “you won’t be observing from a distance. Resonance responds to resonance.”
“So you’re not ordering me,” Arata said.
“No,” Farworth replied. “I’m informing you.”
“Of what?”
“That if you continue searching alone,” Farworth said, “you will either suppress your blood until it erupts… or you will let it guide you blindly.”
He turned back toward the corridor.
“The southern laboratory offers a third option.”
Arata exhaled slowly.
“And what option is that?”
Farworth began walking again.
“Understanding,” he said. “Without the comforts of the academy.”
They walked in silence after that.
But for the first time since Arata’s return, the noise inside him did not feel directionless.
It felt like it was waiting.
[What are you waiting for? Go to the laboratory.]
Shut up.
[I’m serious this time.]
[If you die, I die with you. I have no intention of doing that just yet.]
Arata frowned.
“What do you stand to gain from this?” he murmured.
The voice laughed—soft, amused.
“Will the academy even let me go that far?” Arata asked after a moment. “Those lands are… distant.”
“It could be arranged,” Farworth said. “On one condition.”
Arata looked at him.
“You will take someone from the academy as a supervisor.”
Arata considered it. Nebula, perhaps. Or another instructor.
“Lyra might be willing,” Farworth added calmly.
Arata blinked. “You planned that.”
Farworth didn’t deny it.
“Would you come as well?” Arata asked.
Farworth allowed himself a thin smile.
“First I secure the permission,” he said. “Then I decide whether accompanying you is… advisable.”
They reached the junction where their paths diverged.
With a nod, scientist and cadet went their separate ways.
Arata didn’t leave immediately.
The corridor emptied, footsteps fading until only the low hum of the Academy remained. The wards pulsed gently within the walls, steady and measured—order made audible.
He stood alone.
Should I really go?
The thought lingered, heavier than it should have been. Leaving the Academy wasn’t defiance—it was abandonment. Of structure. Of certainty. Of the last place that pretended to understand him.
The Veins beneath the floor glimmered faintly through the stone.
Then his hand began to glow.
A soft blue light crept along his fingers, crawling beneath the skin like living frost. Arata sucked in a breath as his sword—resting against his side—began to tremble, metal humming in resonance.
“…No,” he whispered. “Not now.”
The glow intensified.
Almost without thinking, he knelt and pressed his palm against an exposed Vein where the stone had cracked long ago.
The world fell silent.
Not quiet—absent.
Then a voice rose through the resonance.
“You’re thinking too loudly again.”
Arata’s breath hitched.
“…Flora?”
The sound of her voice was softer than he remembered. Not distant. Not hollow.
Present.
“You always did that,” she said gently. “Thinking like you’re about to disappear.”
His vision blurred.
He didn’t look around. He didn’t stand.
He stayed kneeling, palm against the Vein, like a child pressing an ear to the earth.
“I thought you were gone,” he said.
“I am,” Flora replied. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t speak.”
Her presence felt small and warm—like a memory wrapped in light.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Arata said, voice shaking. “You shouldn’t be talking to me.”
“You sound like you’re scolding a ghost,” she teased. “Is that how you act now? All broody and distant.”
A weak laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“…You died,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t protect you.”
The Veins pulsed.
“You did,” Flora said. “Just not in the way you wanted.”
He swallowed hard.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she said, more seriously:
“You’re hesitating.”
Arata closed his eyes. “I don’t know if leaving is right.”
“The Academy was never meant to be an answer,” Flora said. “It’s a beginning. A place where you learn what you are—not what you’ll become.”
He frowned. “Farworth says the laboratory is dangerous.”
“It is.”
That answer came too quickly.
“But so are you,” she added softly.
His hand tightened against the Vein.
“I already know about resonance,” Arata said. “About blood. About principles.”
“Yes,” Flora agreed. “You know enough to stop being taught.”
Her voice grew firmer—not commanding, but certain.
“The Academy is a prelude, Arata. Everything you’ve learned there was preparation. Your life won’t begin until you reach the southern laboratory.”
His sword hummed louder.
“You don’t need more knowledge,” Flora continued. “You need to feel madness. And you won’t find that where order is enforced.”
He opened his eyes.
“Are you saying I have to go?”
“I’m saying,” Flora replied gently, “that you already know everything you need to know about resonance and dragon blood.”
The blue light along his hand steadied.
“Go to the laboratory,” she said. “That’s where you take your blood back from the world.”
Her presence began to thin, like mist under sunlight.
“Flora—wait—”
“You’ll be alright,” she said, voice fading. “You always walk forward, even when you’re terrified.”
The glow vanished.
The hum of the Academy returned.
Arata remained kneeling for a long time.
Then, unbidden, words surfaced in his mind—spoken in a voice older and rougher, carried on memory rather than sound.
Thomas.
Lightning does not ask the sky for permission.
It falls because it must.
And in its path, the world remembers
that order was never eternal.
Arata stood.
The decision no longer felt like a question.
It felt like an inevitable turning point.