"Take shorter breaths. Make them shallow. Stop breathing. Now—breathe."
Miss Nyra’s voice was calm, steady, but her instructions felt impossible.
I’m trying. Damn it, Zephyr thought, teeth gritted.
For the umpteenth ti, his body began to lift again—an involuntary float, as if untethered. His senses wavered, detaching from the world. Before he could fully drift, a ripple of Aether surged through him. Miss Nyra had cleared his channels again.
"That’s enough for today," the blindfolded woman said, her tone final.
She ushered the students out of the ditation chamber, her steps as silent as the breath she’d just taken from them.
Zephyr had co straight to this class after choosing the Alchemist path. There were only two classes under this track—
ditation.
Weaving.
He had learnt sothing about the first one. But the second? He didn’t know a thing about it.
Still, after the draining session, he left the room feeling oddly refreshed. He hadn’t fallen asleep today—not like last ti, when the mont he stepped into the room, unconsciousness had claid him.
And that was thanks entirely to Miss Nyra. Anyti he was overwheld with the foreign Aether, she was the one who helped cleaned his Aether channel, wiping the influence it was having in his body off.
He headed into the hallway leading to the Weaving class. It was curved like a lazy river—soft lighting, glass walls veined, and the occasional whisper that exposed the other students overhead as so hurried past him. Zephyr’s footsteps echoed lightly as he moved, a little more aware of the subtle energy flowing through his limbs. ditation had done sothing. His control wasn’t perfect, but the fuzziness was gone. He felt... clearer.
Room 7-A.
He stopped at the labeled door, hand hovering over the access glyph. The mont his palm connected, the surface shimred and parted like liquid glass.
Inside, the room was dim—but not dark. Dozens of strands of colored Aether wove midair, like suspended silk threads—so stretched from floor to ceiling, others curved in patterns too intricate to be random. It was beautiful in a quiet, unknowable way.
Students sat there— so eyes closed other muttering sothing he couldn’t quite made sense of.
And in the center of it all stood a woman in a long, sleeveless coat, its hem brushing the floor. Her hair was braided into a tight knot, and her fingers moved in delicate motions through the threads, guiding one into another. As Zephyr stepped inside, she spoke without turning.
"Go take a seat. I will be with you shortly".
Zephyr moved towards one of the empty seats. Unlike the one in his class that looked like a pod, this one was just a wooden chair connected to a wooden desk.
The mont Zephyr sat down, he felt the faintest hum beneath the wood—as though the chair itself were alive, subtly tuned to the Aether threads surrounding it. The hum wasn’t chanical. It was softer, more organic, like a pulse. He kept still, unsure whether to engage with it or just observe.
Across the room, the woman continued working the threads, weaving two strands—one erald green, the other a bright gold—into a figure-eight pattern. The threads reacted not just to her fingers but to her intent. Zephyr could feel it. Her Aether didn’t push or force. It invited. Enticed. And the threads obeyed.
After a few minutes, she finally turned. Her eyes were sharp, not unkind, but not indulgent either. The kind of gaze that asured before it spoke.
"You’re the new one from Fighter track?" she asked. Her voice carried a faint accent, the syllables crisp. She didn’t wait for an answer. "I’m called rin. You may call Instructor."
She gestured to the air in front of him. A thin strand of blue Aether began to drift down from the ceiling, coiling toward his desk like a living filant.
"Catch it."
Zephyr blinked. Then extended his hand only for it to pass through his palm. It was like it was holographic. "Catch it? How?."
"With your Aether. Not your hand," she added dryly. "This is weaving. Not fishing."
Right. He drew in a breath, trying to steady the energy within him. He focused on the thread, willing his Aether to extend outward, to touch it.
Nothing.
The strand hovered lazily, as if mocking him.
Instructor rin then spoke impatiently as if tired of saying the sa thing over and over again. "Attempt to join it. Don’t overthink it, use your will you intent".
He nodded subtly then narrowed his eyes, trying again. This ti, hefollowed the words his instructors had just said and the little control he had learnt in ditation class to guide him—not to grab the thread, but to join it. His Aether nudged forward, slower this ti. And the thread... tilted. It responded. Not entirely, but it noticed him.
Zephyr felt the difference imdiately.
A flicker of satisfaction touched rin’s lips. "Good. Better than most first tries. My ti wasn’t wasted on you."
The strand slowly wrapped around the air above his desk and stayed there, suspended in a gentle spiral.
"In this class," she continued, "you will learn how to shape Aether. Not simply move it. Not punch with it. You will compose with it. Weaving is language. It is structure. It is form."
Zephyr nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the thread. He could already tell—this wasn’t a skill you mastered quickly. But it had depth. Elegance.
"There’s sothing I want you to understand". She said while turning her back at him. "Aether weaving only has basics, no advanced form. Everyone understanding of it is different and unique in it’s own ways. Just as everyone faces are different so is their thoughts and so is they understanding. It may look the sa but upon closer inspection non are exactly the sa".
’Am feeling this class’. He originally thought that it was going to be boring due to the chanism he had previously seen but this— this was revolutionary for his mind.
The suddenly the all too familiar voice of Elden sounded. Not from his phone or the one from the next person. It ca from the one monitoring the class.
[SYSTEM ANNOUNCENT – ELDEN AI INTERLINK – PRIORITY TRANSMISSION]
TO ALL STUDENTS OF THE FOUR GREAT WINGS
T̷͔̍H̴͖͛Ë̷̗́ ̷̟̍T̷͙͝O̸͕̔U̷͉͆Ŕ̵̪N̶̯͐Á̸͚M̴̹͐E̵͓̽N̴̤̓T̸̳̍ ̵̥͊O̷̘͗F̴̠͠ ̶̛͔P̵͖͝O̵͕͘W̴̯͒É̸͇R̶̡̕ ̸̪͝Ḯ̷̮S̶̢̓ ̷͕͊C̴̳͝O̷̝̿Ḿ̷͔I̴̯͗N̴̙̅G̸̫̈́
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