Fieldwielders

Coren hesitated at the threshold, glancing back one last time. She half-expected to see someone—a guide, a watcher, anyone—to reassure her or at least give her instructions. But the hallway behind her was empty, the shimmering doors closed.

Apparently, they didn't need to observe the tests to know the results. How? Coren had no idea. She didn't fully understand how any of this worked, but there was no time to dwell on it now. She turned back to the room ahead and stepped inside.

The Hall of Music wasn't what she had imagined.

For something called a "hall," it was smaller than she'd expected—intimate, almost. The space was circular, the ceiling high enough to make the room feel open, but not vast. In the centre stood six pillars arranged in a perfect circle, their surfaces smooth and metallic, shimmering faintly in the dim light. Each was etched with markings—lines, curves, and symbols that seemed to shift and ripple as her eyes moved over them.

She approached cautiously, her heart pounding. The closer she got, the more the markings seemed to sharpen, their shifting shapes settling into something she could understand. Words formed in her mind, not in her ears but somewhere deeper, as if the meanings were flowing directly into her thoughts.

The Melody of Form.

The Melody of Flow.

The Melody of Perception.

The Melody of Harmony.

The Melody of Potential.

The Melody of Connections.

She blinked, stunned by the clarity of the names. How did she know them? The symbols didn't resemble any language she'd ever seen in her language classes, yet the meanings were undeniable. It was as if the room itself was speaking to her, whispering its secrets.

For a moment, Coren stood frozen, her chest tight. Was this it? Was simply understanding the names enough to prove she was Field-sensitive?

She took a slow step forward, her boots clicking softly against the reflective floor. The stillness of the chamber pressed against her, heavy and expectant. It wasn't a lifeless stillness, though. It felt… alive. Not like a person, but as if the air itself was aware of her presence, watching her, waiting for her to act.

Coren wove carefully between the pillars, her fingers twitching at her sides. Her nerves began to settle as the silence stretched on, unbroken. Nothing was happening. Maybe she wasn't Field-sensitive after all. Maybe this was all—

And then it happened.

The first sensation was subtle, barely noticeable: a faint vibration deep in her chest, like the low resonance of a distant bell. It wasn't a sound, exactly, but something she felt, something that seemed to rise from within her rather than from the room around her.

She froze mid-step, her heart quickening as the vibration grew stronger, more distinct.

And then, she understood.

It wasn't just a vibration—it was a melody.

Each pillar was singing, its own unique notes threading through her mind. The melodies were distinct yet interconnected, weaving together in perfect harmony. The room wasn't silent at all. It was alive with sound, not through her ears but through her very being.

The shimmering markings on the pillars began to glow, faint at first but growing brighter with each passing second. Trails of light ran through the symbols, like veins filled with molten fire. The glow spread from one pillar to the next, an intricate network of brilliance that illuminated the entire chamber.

Coren stepped back, her breath catching in her throat. The air around her pulsed with energy, as if the melodies were wrapping themselves around her, pulling her into their rhythm.

She didn't need anyone to explain.

This was what they had meant. This was the feeling that the Field-sensitive candidates spoke of in hushed tones—or refused to speak of at all.

Undeniable.

The word flashed through her mind, settling in her chest alongside the melodies.

Coren now understood why they called it the Hall of Music.

The glow of the pillars faded, leaving the Hall of Music silent and still once more. Coren stood there for a moment, her breath unsteady, the echoes of the melodies lingering in her chest. She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, caught in the strange harmony of the room. It felt timeless, like she'd been swallowed by the melodies themselves.

Before she could lose herself again, another door slid open with a soft hiss, breaking the spell.

Coren turned, her heart still pounding, and immediately recognised what lay beyond the doorway. The Pool of Reflection.

She hesitated, her hand brushing against her side as if to steady herself. The Hall of Music had been overwhelming, but this—this was something else entirely. If the Hall was about sensing the Fields, the Pool was about connection. About proving she was worthy of a bond.

Steeling herself, she stepped forward and passed through the door.

The room was unlike the Hall in every possible way. Gone were the shimmering alloys, the clean lines of ancient technology. Instead, the chamber felt raw, almost primal, as though it had been carved directly from the heart of a mountain. The walls were rough stone, the floor uneven in places, as though untouched by tools. The air here felt heavier, more grounded, and carried a faint mineral scent.

At the centre of the room was the pool.

Coren's breath caught as she stepped closer. She had read countless descriptions of the Pool of Reflection, but nothing had prepared her for the sight of it. It was beautiful in its simplicity—a perfect oval carved into the stone floor, its surface glowing faintly. It looked like liquid at first glance, a still, radiant substance that shimmered like molten glass.

But as Coren knelt at its edge, she realized it wasn't liquid at all. The substance wasn't physical—it was energy, soft threads of light weaving and flowing within the pool. It flickered with colors she couldn't quite name, shifting constantly, as though it were alive.

She swallowed hard and slid off her boots, setting them aside. Slowly, she stepped into the pool, bracing herself for the coolness of the liquid. But when her feet sank into the energy, there was no cold, no wetness—only warmth, like standing in sunlight on a spring day.

The energy rose around her as she moved to the centre of the pool and sat cross-legged, the light coming up to her waist. It shimmered softly as she settled into place, as though it were adjusting to her presence.

Her hands rested on her knees as she closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. She could feel her heart racing, but she pushed the nervousness aside. This was the test she'd dreaded most—not because it was difficult, but because failure would mean that she had been rejected. If a Companion didn't come to her, it would mean she wasn't enough.

She focused on her breathing, each inhale and exhale steady and measured. The warmth of the pool surrounded her, calming her body even as her mind remained restless.

The world around her shifted.

At first, it was subtle—a faint pull at the edges of her awareness. Then, suddenly, she was no longer in the chamber.

She opened her eyes to find herself standing in a blank, white void. The emptiness stretched endlessly in all directions, and yet she didn't feel alone.

And then, the orbs appeared. Each one was a possible companion.

They buzzed past her like tiny comets, glowing with vibrant colours—blue, green, gold, violet, red. Each one radiated a unique energy, and as they circled her, she could feel them probing, inspecting her.

Coren held her breath, waiting, hoping. She had seen Holos describing the bonding rituals before. The Companions were supposed to choose quickly, drawn toward their match like moths to a flame. But these orbs didn't come closer.

They stayed just out of reach, their movements cautious, hesitant. One by one, they began to drift away, retreating to the edges of the void.

Her chest tightened.

No.

Her worst fear was coming true. They weren't choosing her. They were rejecting her.

Her breathing quickened as she watched the orbs fade into the distance, leaving her alone in the empty space. Her throat tightened, and for a moment, the weight of the rejection threatened to crush her. She'd failed.

But then, the energy in the void shifted again.

The orbs, as though responding to some unseen signal, parted suddenly, scattering like leaves in the wind. A figure emerged from the emptiness, walking toward her.

Coren's eyes widened. It wasn't another orb. It was a human man.

He looked to be in his thirties, with brown hair that fell messily over his forehead and deep, soulful brown eyes. Tears shimmered in those eyes as he gazed at her, his expression filled with something that looked like longing—or perhaps relief.

And behind him, the largest Companion she had ever seen appeared.

The massive orb was at least ten times the size of the others, its glow pure white, almost blinding. It radiated an overwhelming sense of power and dignity, and Coren could feel the respect it commanded from the other orbs. They hovered at a distance, almost bowing, their lights dimmed in reverence.

The human man spoke, his voice gentle but filled with emotion. "It has been a while, old friend. But it seems your soul has returned from the cycle."

Coren blinked, stunned. "What?" she whispered. "I… I don't understand."

The large Companion's smooth, resonant voice followed, steady and measured. "The pair is complete. There can only ever be one true Companion for you. They have been waiting… for quite some time." As it spoke, the massive orb shifted slightly to the side.

Coren's attention snapped to the movement. Emerging from behind the larger orb was a smaller figure, it's light softer, steadier—a faint white glow that pulsed with a warmth that felt oddly familiar, like the echo of something she had lost but couldn't name.

The white orb floated in front of Coren, its light pulsing faintly as though it were alive—no, she realized, it was alive. She could feel it, not just as something external but as a presence brushing against her mind, its energy steady and warm. The larger, white Companion hovered silently in the background, watching, its aura of quiet approval.

The man with brown hair stepped aside, giving the smaller orb space. His face was calm, but the tears in his eyes shimmered as though he were witnessing something sacred.

"It is time," the Companion said, its voice soft but resonating in the vast, empty space. "Do you accept this bond, Coren Drax?"

The question made her heart skip. This was it—the moment she had dreamed of but never truly believed would come. She took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she answered.

"I do."

The orb pulsed brighter for a moment, as if acknowledging her answer. Then, slowly, it began to circle her, leaving a faint trail of shimmering light in its wake. The trail spiralled outward, forming a glowing pattern in the air—an intricate weave of symbols and lines that reminded her of the carvings on the pillars in the Hall of Music.

She stared, mesmerized, as the orb's movement picked up speed, the lines of light growing more complex until they formed a radiant, floating sigil that surrounded her completely.

"The bond is a sacred exchange," the orb said, its voice still gentle, but now carrying an ancient authority. "You will share your strength, your thoughts, your soul with me. And in return, I will share mine with you. Together, we will be more than what we are alone. Do you still accept?"

Coren felt a weight settle on her chest, not unpleasant but heavy with importance. This was more than just a choice. It was a promise, a commitment unlike any she had made before. Her hands trembled, but she clenched them into fists to steady herself.

"Yes," she said firmly this time, her voice stronger.

The orb stopped circling and hovered directly in front of her face.

"Then let us begin."

It drifted closer, and Coren instinctively closed her eyes.

The first sensation was warmth—not the gentle warmth she'd felt in the Pool of Reflection, but something deeper, more profound. It wasn't just on her skin—it was in her, spreading through her veins, her chest, her mind. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was overwhelming, as though every part of her was being illuminated from the inside out.

She felt the orb's presence pushing against her consciousness, not aggressively but insistently, asking for permission to enter.

She opened herself to it.

The moment she did, her mind exploded with colour and sensation. Memories that weren't her own flooded in—a great expanse of stars, ancient worlds long forgotten, battles fought in the void of space, and a deep, abiding love for something she couldn't name. She tried to hold onto them, but soon they were gone.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the flood of sensations slowed.

Coren opened her eyes, gasping, her chest rising and falling as if she'd run a great distance. The orb floated in front of her, smaller now, its light dimmed to a soft glow. She could feel it more clearly than ever, not just as something external but as a presence intertwined with her own.

"I am yours," the orb said, its voice quiet and reverent.

"And I am yours, Sol" Coren replied, the words leaving her lips without thought. His name was firmly implanted into her mind as if it had always been there.

The glowing sigil around her pulsed one final time, then collapsed inward, vanishing in a burst of light that left her momentarily blinded. When she blinked the spots away, the orb had settled into place, floating calmly over her shoulder.

The man with brown hair stepped forward, his face unreadable now but still carrying that strange sadness. He knelt before her, bowing his head.

"You carry something special," he said softly, his voice cracking. "A bond unlike any this world has seen in centuries. Protect it well, Coren Drax. May you find better luck in this life than your last"

The large white Companion, still hovering in the background, pulsed faintly. "You are more than you know," it said. "The cycle has brought you back for a reason."

Coren opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, the space around her shifted again.

The white void dissolved, and the warmth of the Pool of Reflection returned. She blinked as the dim light of the chamber came into focus, her body still seated cross-legged in the energy pool.

The orb was still there, hovering quietly beside her, its soft white glow steady and calming.

"Welcome back," it said.

Coren stared at it, a mix of awe and disbelief coursing through her. She reached out, her fingers brushing the orb's surface. It felt warm and alive, like touching the surface of a star.

"I…" she started, but words failed her.

The orb pulsed gently, as though amused. "We have time, Coren."

She nodded slowly, standing on shaky legs as she stepped out of the pool. The energy clung to her briefly before fading, leaving her feeling light, almost weightless.

She glanced toward the doorway, where the Mirror of Self-Reflection waited beyond. The last two tests had been beyond anything she had prepared for, she couldn't hope to guess what the next would entail.

"Let's go," she said, her voice steady now. Before heading into the next room.

The room was unremarkable—just white walls and a freestanding mirror in the centre. It was so plain it felt almost out of place after the grandeur of the Hall of Music and the raw, natural beauty of the Pool of Reflection. The mirror itself was equally unassuming, with a simple wooden frame that looked like it might have belonged in an old farmhouse rather than a sacred testing ground.

"There is no pass or fail for this room," Sol said softly, his glowing orb hovering in the corner of the room. His voice, calm and melodic, echoed faintly against the empty walls. "It's not a test. Just be honest with yourself."

Coren turned to glance at him, her brows furrowing. "Not a test? Then what is it?"

Sol didn't answer, retreating to the corner of the room where he dimmed his light, leaving her to face the mirror alone.

She let out a slow breath and stepped toward the mirror. By now, she had learned to stop questioning what these tests—or non-tests—were supposed to do. The only way forward was through.

Coren stood in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection. It was ordinary at first—just her, wearing the same grey tunic and practical braid she always wore. Her face looked tired but steady, her blue eyes searching for something she couldn't quite name.

But then her reflection began to shift.

She took a startled step back as her image blurred and warped. Her features softened, her frame shrank, and suddenly she wasn't staring at herself anymore—at least, not as she was now. Her reflection had morphed into her younger self.

It was her at ten years old, the girl she had been when Professor Varik had found her on Earth. Her hair was tangled, her face streaked with dirt, and her eyes were wide with fear, the wound on her face still fresh, she could still remember too well.

"You survived," the reflection said, its voice high-pitched and trembling, like it didn't quite believe the words. "But what about them? What about the ones who didn't?"

The surface of the mirror rippled, the reflection twisting and warping as it began to shift. A moment later, it wasn't her own face staring back anymore. It was theirs—the children she used to scavenge with, their faces pale and gaunt, each marked with the injuries she remembered all too well.

Coren's throat tightened. She hadn't been prepared for this.

"I couldn't save them," she said quietly, her voice steady but laced with regret.

The reflection tilted its head, studying her. "You couldn't, or you didn't?"

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she looked at her feet before lifting her head. "I was a child," she snapped, the defensiveness in her voice surprising even herself.

"What was I supposed to do? I didn't have food. I didn't have a weapon. I could bearly keep myself alive. It wasn't my fault it was an accident!"

The mirror rippled again and now she was faced with her younger self. It didn't flinch. It simply stared, its wide, accusing eyes boring into hers.

"They died because they were weaker than you," it said bluntly. "You survived because you did what you had to. Isn't that what you've always told yourself?"

Coren's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes," she admitted after a moment, her voice hard. "That's how survival works. You can't save everyone. You can't even save most people. You save yourself and hope that's enough."

The reflection didn't respond. It simply stared at her for a long moment before blurring again, its form shifting once more.

This time, Coren saw herself as she was now—older, stronger, and sharper. But even as the reflection stabilized, it began to change again, aging her further. In the span of a heartbeat, she was staring at herself as a woman in her forties. Her face was harder, lined with grief and experience, her blue eyes darker somehow.

"You have hopes," the reflection said, its voice deeper now, more measured. "Dreams. But do you truly believe in them? Or are they just illusions you use to keep moving forward?"

Coren blinked, her mouth opening slightly, but no words came out.

The older reflection stepped closer to the surface of the mirror, its expression sharp. "What do you want, Coren Drax? Truly want?"

"I…" Coren hesitated, the words catching in her throat. "I want to… uncover the truth. To learn what happened to us during the Severance. Learn why I had to grow up in a pile of ruins."

The reflection's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "No, you don't. You don't just want answers, Coren. You want to matter. You want to be remembered. Be honest with yourself."

Coren felt a chill settle in her chest, but she didn't look away. Her throat tightened as she forced herself to speak. "Maybe I do," she admitted quietly. "Maybe I do want to matter." She hesitated, then added, "But knowing our history—finding the truth—that's how I'll do it. If I can help uncover what we've lost, if I can make sense of it, then maybe…" She trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.

The older reflection tilted its head slightly, as if weighing her words. "are you pragmatic or just arrogant?" it said, its tone softer now. "But tell me this: Do you ever wonder what the cost of that pragmatism will be?"

Coren's jaw tightened, but she didn't respond immediately. She couldn't.

Before Coren could respond, the reflection blurred again, the lines of her face dissolving into something else entirely. When the image stabilized, she was staring at herself once more—but this time, the version of her was cold. Detached. Her eyes glimmered with something that made Coren's stomach twist: the look of someone who had nothing left to lose.

The reflection smirked, folding its arms across its chest. "What would you do if your success—your chance to matter—required the death of Lyra Varik?" it asked, its voice low and cutting.

Coren's stomach dropped, the question hitting her like a physical blow. "What?" she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself.

"You heard me," the reflection said, stepping closer. Its face twisted into something cold, merciless. "What if the only way to uncover the truth, to achieve everything you've ever wanted, was to lose her? Would you still take it? Would you sacrifice Lyra for your dream of being remembered?"

The words sent a sharp pang through Coren's chest. The thought of losing Lyra—Professor Varik—was unbearable. Lyra had been more than a mentor to her; she had been her saviour, her anchor in a world that had long felt unstable and cruel.

"I don't…" Coren stammered, her thoughts spinning. "That doesn't make sense. Why would—"

The reflection cut her off, its gaze narrowing, its voice like a blade. "Answer the question, Coren. Would you trade her life for your success? Would you let her die if it meant the world would finally know your name?"

Coren's hands curled into fists at her sides. Her first instinct was to scream no, to deny the thought outright. But the reflection didn't let her look away. Its piercing gaze demanded the truth, the raw, unvarnished answer she didn't want to give.

Her throat tightened as she forced herself to think about it.

"I…" She hesitated, the words heavy on her tongue. "I wouldn't want to. Lyra's the closest thing I've ever had to family. I owe her everything. I wouldn't…"

The reflection raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "But if it had to happen?"

Coren's shoulders sagged, her voice faltering as she spoke. "If there was no other way…" She looked down at the floor, unable to meet her own gaze in the mirror. "I'd hate myself for it, but yes. I would."

The reflection smiled, though there was no warmth in the expression. "Pragmatic," it said, the word ringing in the stillness of the room like a condemnation.

Coren's chest tightened, a knot of anger, shame, and resignation forming in her gut. "What kind of question is this?" she muttered, more to herself than the reflection. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because you already know the answer," the reflection replied smoothly. It unfolded its arms and leaned closer, its voice softening but losing none of its sharpness. "You would trade Lyra's life if it meant achieving greatness. You'd cry for her, mourn her, even carry the guilt for the rest of your life. But you'd do it. Because deep down, you believe the truth—a legacy—is more important than anything. Even her. That is the price you are willing to pay for regret"

Coren's hands trembled, and she clenched them tighter to keep herself steady. "That's not true," she said through gritted teeth, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

"Isn't it?" the reflection shot back, tilting its head. "You've always been willing to do what's necessary, haven't you? To make the hard choices? Why should this be any different?"

Coren's lips parted, but no response came. She wanted to argue, to refute the reflection's words, but deep down, she knew it wasn't entirely wrong. She was a pragmatist. She'd always believed in doing what needed to be done, no matter the cost.

But Lyra…

The reflection's voice softened again, almost gentle now. "You've already made your choice, Coren. You just don't want to admit it."

Coren forced herself to lift her gaze, meeting her reflection's eyes. They were her eyes, but darker somehow—harder, colder, and filled with a truth she didn't want to confront.

"You're wrong," she said quietly, though her voice wavered.

The reflection smiled faintly. "I hope I am," it said, its tone almost sympathetic.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the reflection blurred, dissolving back into her current self. Coren stood frozen, staring at her own face in the mirror, her chest tight and her thoughts racing. Sol floated forward, his light soft but steady. "Are you all right?" he asked gently.

She nodded, though her chest felt tight. "I'm fine," She lied.

She stepped back from the mirror, the weight of the questions still lingering in her mind. The room was silent again, but her thoughts were anything but. As she turned to leave, Sol followed, his light brushing against her shoulder like a comforting hand.

"Honesty," he said quietly. "It's a heavy burden, isn't it?"

Coren didn't respond. She didn't need to.