Lucen chuckled. "Fine. Orientation."
She led him back through the corridor, stopping at an open door.
"Here’s your desk." A small station, computer, mana gauge reader, and a naplate: Ivara, Lucen.
He looked at it. "I don’t have a title."
She tapped the plate, it lit up along with the desk. "This is pre-award. We’ll adjust once you formalize. For now it’s inventory, intel logs, drift prep."
He yanked a chair out, sat. Feels smaller than his couch at ho. But official.
Gabe let him settle. "You’ll be shown how system syncs with ours. We’ll audit your interface tomorrow. Today you train awareness, shadows, pre-emptive scanning."
"Cool." He leaned back. "You an I can roll in here and tag drifts like I did?"
"Yes," she said. "But with us."
He nodded until his head hurt. "Alright. So what do I do now?"
She smiled. Warm. Businesslike. "et the team. Lunch down the hall. Get assigned a pen, your catalog, and pick a guild codena if you want one."
He shook his head. "I’m fine with Ghostweave. It’s more out-of-the-box."
Gabe laughed. Genuine that ti. "Then that’s perfect."
He studied it on his naplate. Ghostweave (Ivara).
He tapped the desk. Soft hum. The monitor lit up with guild hieroglyphs, infobox: Training logs; Drift assignnts; A-rank trial schedule.
Lucen stared at it. ’Guess I needed a desk.’
Gabe rested a hand on his shoulder. "I’ll see you at lunch."
He looked up. "Thanks... Gabe."
Her nod was brief. But her eyes held sothing: approval.
She walked away. Lucen stared at the empty hallway outside, then back to the desk. The screen glowed.
He let the mont hang a second. Heart pounding. Alive.
Then he shrugged. Logged in. Typed "Hello" with a new guild font.
—
The cafeteria didn’t sll like school. It slled better. Mana-charcoal grill lines. Stead grain blends. Sothing sweet drifting out of the drink machine like soone forgot to clean the syrup tube.
Lucen walked in like soone told him not to look too interested.
No crowd. Just a few tables occupied by figures wearing Ivara coats, most of them unzipped, sleeves rolled, badges dangling off lanyards or belts. Casual posture, but alert eyes.
One looked up from her tray and waved a hand once, sharp, like she’d done it a thousand tis in a thousand briefings.
Lucen walked toward her because she gave him a reason not to hover.
She nodded toward the open seat across from her.
"You’re the new seat at station four?" she asked, voice smooth. Practical. Her hair was cropped close on one side, dyed a dark steel-blue, and she wore fingerless gloves like she forgot to take them off after warmups.
Lucen slid into the chair. "Yeah."
"Nice." She offered a hand across the table. "Na’s Cas. Intel tracking, close-quarter interrupts. I don’t shoot first, I point who should."
Lucen shook her hand. Her grip was dry, firm, no posturing.
"Lucen. Support specs. Mostly reaction glyphs. Long-form builds."
Cas whistled through her teeth. "One of those. No quickfire?"
Lucen smirked. "Only if I’m bored."
She laughed once. "Yeah, you’ll fit in fine."
Another chair screeched across the floor. Soone dropped into it sideways, drink already half-empty, shirt collar crumpled, hair bleached gold in streaks like soone spray-painted it as a prank and he just left it that way.
"Yo," he said. "Who’s the new guy? Please tell you’re not another sword main. I can’t take it anymore."
Lucen tilted his head. "Lucen. Not a sword main."
"Praise be," he said, clapping his hands together like in prayer. "I’m Lane. Trickster class, technically. Realistically I just cheat. Flash glyphs, trap mirage types, stuff that gets yelled at by guild moms."
Lucen nodded once. "Seems healthy."
Lane grinned wide. "Hey, Cas, I like him."
"Give it a week," she said without looking up from her food.
Lucen leaned forward. "You guys been with Ivara long?"
"Year and a half," Cas said. "Mostly sector six stuff. No deep rifts. We’re not that suicidal."
Lane shrugged. "I joined for the free al plan. Stayed because Gabe hasn’t kicked out yet."
Lucen cracked his knuckles once beneath the table. ’They’re not impressive. But they’re not dumb.’
Then a fourth voice cut in. Calm. Older. Closer to Varik’s tone, but less... tired.
A man walked up to the table, dark skin, buzzcut, square shoulders that said military even if his badge didn’t. His plate held rice, two chicken skewers, and a drink that fizzed even without a glyph seal.
He sat without asking.
"New recruit?" he asked.
Lucen nodded. "That’s what the plate says."
The man looked him up and down. "You got the poise. I’m Myles. Formation lead, heavy breaker, counterclass design. Don’t believe in yelling unless sothing’s on fire."
Lucen said, "Good to know. I’m Lucen."
Myles gave a slow nod. "Well, Lucen, welco. No one here bites unless it’s field rations. You cleared dical?"
"Yeah."
"Then you’re real." He cut into his skewer with the side of his fork. "You fight?"
Lucen t his eyes. "Enough."
Myles chewed for a second. "Then let’s see how you work when it’s ti."
Lane leaned toward Cas and mock-whispered, "He’s got that mysterious guy vibe. I give him a week before soone writes a forum post about him being a rogue prince."
Lucen glanced at him. "I’m allergic to royalty."
Lane raised both hands. "Even better."
Cas set her tray aside. "Alright. Team huddle over. I’ve got glyph checks and recalibration forms. If they make fill out one more field for ’reason of mana delay’ I’m transferring to food services."
She stood.
Lane stood too. "Lucen, if you ever need soone to fake your paperwork, I’m the guy."
"I’ll log that," Lucen said.
Myles didn’t get up.
He pointed at Lucen’s tray. "You’re not eating?"
Lucen looked down at it. Picked up his fork. "Was waiting for the awkward small talk to end."
Myles smiled once. Just briefly.
"Good man."
—
The ping ca halfway through Lucen’s third bite.
Soft chi. Subtle vibration across the table. Not urgent, but not casual, either.
Cas glanced down at her wristband. The color wasn’t red. Not yet. But it was close.
"Drift breach," she said flatly. "Minor. South corridor."
Myles tapped his screen once. "Level?"
"Nothing tagged yet."
Lane stood, tossing the rest of his drink. "I bet ten creds it’s manglers again."
Lucen chewed once more. Swallowed.
’Perfect. Half a al and a live op.’
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