It came without warning, the way the worst ones always do.
A chair. A round wooden table. Someone's voice, not loud, not angry just disappointed.
Lucen, smaller, maybe nine or ten, fingers stained from ink and chalk. Trying to sketch his own glyphs in secret before he even had a system.
It had been dumb. He knew that now. The circuits were wrong, the anchor marks too shaky. He'd tried to hide the paper behind his back, but the sigil was still glowing faintly.
His father had seen.
Had looked at the drawing. Then at him.
And said, simply, "This isn't what we do."
Not "it's dangerous." Not "you're not ready."
Just that.
Not what we do.
The word we had weighed more than anything else in that moment.
Lucen didn't remember arguing. Just the feel of the paper as it burned in the sink. Just the way his mother didn't look up from her cup.
Later that night, he'd drawn the glyph again in secret. On the underside of the dresser. Just once.
