THE ECHO OF A FORBIDDEN FLAME

The Great Orrery Tower of the Astral Lyceum was a silent, spinning universe of crystal and light. Its massive, concentric rings, each etched with the celestial charts of a thousand generations, rotated in a slow, majestic dance that mirrored the true orbits of the heavens and its three moons. The innermost ring, tracking Nyxar's swift, erratic path, glowed with a restless crimson light. The middle followed Selar's steady, reflective journey in cool silver, while the outermost ring, mirroring Thalen's distant, slow orbit, pulsed with a deep, contemplative blue. What most humans couldn't see were the threads that powered it—thousands of etheric strands connecting the Orrery to the actual celestial bodies, constantly adjusting and calibrating. At the points where these threads intersected, tiny knots of pure starlight formed and dissolved in an endless cycle, keeping perfect time with the cosmos itself.

From his spot on the Lyceum's main plaza, Auren Saelaris watched the students practicing beneath the tower. A group of third-years had gathered in one of the designated Weaving Circles, running through combat drills amidst the bustle of the preparations. Their hands moved in practiced patterns as they drew threads from the very air—gossamer strands of elemental energy that every student at the Lyceum could see, though mastery varied wildly. A girl with braided hair pulled a thick strand of cerulean blue from the fountain's spray, weaving it with threads of silver moonlight into a shimmering barrier. Her partner countered by drawing crimson red threads from a nearby brazier, braiding them into a lance of controlled flame.

"Showing off for the festival crowds," a passing instructor muttered, though not without approval. "At least they're keeping the weaves simple."

Around the plaza, the everyday magic of Veltryss continued. A water merchant drew hydric threads from the crystalline basin of a public font, weaving them into portable containers that preserved freshness—cylinders of crystallized water that wouldn't spill or evaporate for days. A street sweeper used simple aeric threads to gather dust, the weaving so mundane that nobody gave it a second glance. Thread-woven banners for the High Moonsong festival rippled overhead without any wind, their fabric containing captured aeric threads that made them dance eternally.

The shifting lunar light from the Orrery played across Auren's features, catching the shimmering silver streaks in his otherwise golden hair. To anyone looking, his eyes appeared to be matching silver, luminous and cool like Selar's light—a careful glamour his mother had taught him years ago, woven so delicately it had become second nature. But beneath that illusion, his right eye held a warm, molten gold that echoed a forbidden, solar flame.

Auren felt the threads around him constantly, more intensely than most. Where other students might see threads as faint lines of colour, he felt them as living things pressing against his consciousness. The problem was, the threads he felt most strongly were the ones people feared to touch. Golden solar threads that sang with warmth and power, remnants of an age before the Flamefall. They clustered thick around the Orrery Tower, drawn to its celestial resonance. Solar threadwork wasn't forbidden; the Lyceum even taught it under strict oversight. Yet, most threadwrights avoided it, haunted by the memory of the ruin that followed when the sun's power was unleashed without control.

"If you stare at it any longer, you'll be able to count the dust motes on Thalen's ring," a voice said, a calm current beside Auren. He turned to see Tirin Olyss, whose slender, unassuming frame was a quiet contrast to the grandeur of the tower. A gentle smile touched Tirin's lips, his features as serene as his voice. His deep, blue-green eyes held a familiar, knowing warmth, and his dark, soft hair fell loosely around his shoulders.

Tirin's gift was different from most threadwrights. Where others saw threads as distinct lines to be grasped and woven, he felt them as currents and tides, especially the hydric threads that flowed through all water, and the subtle etheric threads that connected living things. It made him naturally empathetic—he could sense the chaotic tangle of solar and lunar energies around Auren like feeling the temperature of water, a constant reminder of his friend's dangerous secret.

"And as fascinating as that sounds," Tirin continued, glancing at the Weaving Circles, "we'll miss the best of the festival. Master Lyran's lecture on temporal thread-dynamics can wait."

Auren tore his gaze away from the tower. "I wasn't counting dust motes," he murmured, shifting slightly to keep his face angled away from the direct sunlight—a habit that helped maintain the glamour his mother had woven to conceal his dual-coloured eyes. "I was just... thinking."

"That's what worries me," Tirin replied with a gentle smile, nudging Auren into motion. "Your thinking usually involves how to avoid Kael in the training yards or whether you can sneak into the restricted section of the Hall of Records again. Today is for not thinking."

They descended the grand marble steps of the Lyceum, leaving the academic serenity behind and stepping into the vibrant life of Veltryss. The city, the very heart of Elarion, spread out before them. It was a marvel of lunar design, built in three concentric rings. From here, in the Middle Ring of Selar's Rise, they could see the distant, dark, and organic curves of the outer ring, Nyxar's Veil, a place of shadow and chaotic innovation. To their other side, closer to the city's core, rose the ethereal, dream-like spires of the Inner Ring, Thalen's Breath, where the air itself seemed to hum with prophetic energy. And at the very centre of it all, piercing the sky like a needle of unified faith, was the Concordium, its three spires converging into a single, luminous crystal peak that seemed to touch the heavens. It was a perfect, harmonious system, a city built in the image of the gods it revered.

Auren, a living contradiction to that harmony, felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. He kept his head down as they joined the throng moving towards the Grand Bazaar.

The Hour of High Bell was a symphony of controlled chaos in Selar's Rise. The High Moonsong festival transformed the usual orderly commerce into something more primal—vendors wore masks of the three moons, street corners hosted impromptu threadweaving competitions, and children ran through the crowds trailing ribbons woven with simple lunar threads that made them glimmer and shimmer. The air, thick with the summer heat of the Sunscorch season, tasted of tide-influenced spices from the southern isles, sweet moon-wheat pastries dusted with shimmering sugar, and the clean, metallic scent of water flowing through the district's shimmering canals. Sunlight, unfiltered by the mists of Nocthera or the canopies of Verdancea, struck the white marble bridges and polished silver inlays of the architecture, creating a glare that made Auren squint.

"Alright, let's make this quick," Tirin said, his voice barely rising above the din of merchants hawking their wares and the soft, reflective music of stringed instruments that seemed to hang in the air. The musicians were using etheric threadwork to layer their melodies, creating harmonies that resonated directly with listeners—a technique that made their music feel emotionally transcendent. "I just need to find a stall with polished river stones from the Silverflow. Master Lyran says they hold Selar's clarity better than sea-worn pebbles for reflective shielding."

He navigated them through the crowd with an easy, fluid grace, his deep blue tunic a stark contrast to Auren's muted grey. Auren followed in his wake, his eyes darting around, taking in the sights with a mixture of wonder and dread. A cleric of the Harmonium passed by, a representative of the dominant religious order that acted as the city’s peacekeepers and spiritual guides. Operating from the sprawling Harmonic Sanctum in Selar's Rise, they were the sworn protectors of the Vault of Silence, trained to sense the slightest celestial disturbance. This cleric, clad in silver-white robes the colour of a full Selar, held a lunar lens to his eye. The lens was standard issue for the clergy—woven with protective lunar threads that could detect and neutralize corrupted solar energy. Auren instinctively turned his face away as the cleric passed. A group of burly warriors from the Crimson Tangle, their arms covered in the distinctive Nyxar-blood tattoos, laughed loudly as they sampled fire-salts from a Verdancean spice merchant. The tattoos weren't just decorative—they were living threadwork, pyric threads woven into the skin that enhanced their bearers' combat abilities during Nyxar's perigee. It was a melting pot of cultures, all united under the three moons.

They passed a stall where a merchant was demonstrating a Selaric Tidemirror. Its polished, liquid-like surface showed not the reflection of the crowd, but a slightly delayed, shimmering echo of their movements, a tool used by oracles to divine immediate futures from the ripples of the present. Further on, an artisan was selling intricate wind chimes crafted from moon-glass, each one tuned to a different celestial frequency. When the wind caught them, they produced not just sound but visible ripples in the aeric threads, creating tiny aurora-like displays that delighted passing children. It was all so perfectly balanced, so harmoniously lunar. Auren felt a familiar, unwelcome heat begin to stir in his chest, a restless energy that had no place here.

It was a street performer who finally broke his fragile control. The man, a wiry fellow from Nyxar's Veil, held up a small, round piece of crystal—a cheap focusing lens. Auren could see immediately that it wasn't just glass—faint solar threads were trapped within it, probably harvested from Flamefall glass and poorly contained. The performer either didn't know or didn't care about the danger. With a theatrical flourish, he angled it towards the sun, catching a beam of light and directing it onto a piece of dry parchment.

"Behold!" the performer cried out. "The memory of Solivar's fire, tamed for your amusement! A power once great, now a parlour trick! See how the moons hold it in check!"

The focused beam of light seemed to lance directly into him, striking the dormant, fiery part of his soul. The heat in his chest, the one he constantly fought to suppress, surged violently. It was a wild, joyful, and terrifying feeling—a spark of Radiance demanding release. Suddenly, he could see them with overwhelming clarity—golden threads, thick as rope and burning with inner light, spiralling up from the performer's lens. They reached toward him like seeking hands, recognizing something kindred in his hidden nature. The threads weren't just reaching—they were singing, a wordless hymn of recognition that resonated in his bones.

He clenched his fists, his knuckles white, his breath catching in his throat. Not here. Not now. The glamour on his eyes flickered dangerously—for a moment, the gold of his right eye blazed through the illusion before he managed to reinforce it. He could feel his mother's carefully woven glamour straining against his surging power, the lunar threads that maintained it beginning to fray under the solar assault.

The solar surge didn't stop at his eyes. Heat flared in his chest—not just from his solar surge, but from something deeper. He pressed his hand against his sternum instinctively, as if he could physically contain the burning sensation radiating from within.

He didn't realize he was staring intently at a nearby stall, one laden with intricate metalwork. His focus landed on a small, beautifully crafted silver locket. As the unwanted solar threads roiled within him, seeking an outlet, he unconsciously began to weave—not the careful, controlled patterns taught at the Lyceum, but something wild and instinctive. Golden threads twisted around the silver threads emanating from the locket, a dangerous weaving that few would dare attempt. Solar and lunar threads resonated in fundamental opposition, their merger difficult, rare, and volatile—capable of causing catastrophic Threadshock if not executed with precise mastery. Yet here they were, intertwining against all conventional wisdom, defying what every threadwright knew to be safe.

The metal began to react. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer surrounded it. Then, its polished surface began to glow, not with reflected light, but with an intense, internal heat. A thin wisp of smoke, smelling of hot metal and ozone, curled from its delicate hinge.

The stall owner, a portly man with a neatly trimmed beard, frowned, his nose twitching. "Strange," he muttered, reaching out a thick finger. "Must be the heat of the Sunscorch..."

Before his fingers could touch the superheated silver, Tirin acted. With a movement so smooth it was almost invisible, he "stumbled," his waterskin tipping just enough for a stream of cool water to splash across the stall's wooden surface, sizzling into a cloud of steam right beside the glowing locket. But it wasn't just water—Tirin had woven hydric threads through it, creating a localized cooling field that absorbed the excess heat without making it obvious.

"Apologies!" Tirin exclaimed, his voice a mask of clumsy embarrassment. "So sorry, the crowd pushed me."

The stall owner grumbled, waving away the steam and forgetting about the locket as he fussed over the damp wood. The locket's glow faded as quickly as it had appeared, its silver surface now just a normal piece of metal, albeit one that was unnaturally hot.

Auren stood frozen, the breath caught in his throat. The fiery surge within him receded, leaving him feeling hollowed out and shaky. He looked at Tirin, whose calm, blue-green eyes met his. There was no judgment in them, only a shared, tense understanding that went deeper than words. Through their etheric connection—that rare bond that sometimes formed between those who grew up together—Tirin could feel the aftermath of Auren's near-loss of control, the chaotic tangle of relief and terror.

"I think," Tirin said quietly, his hand gently but firmly taking Auren's arm, "we've seen enough of the market for one day."

Auren could only nod, allowing his friend to guide him away from the crowds and into the quieter, shaded archways that led towards the canals. The symphony of the market faded behind them, but the chaotic, fiery note that had flared within him still echoed, a terrifying reminder of the sun he was forced to hide from the moons.

They walked in silence for a time, following a less-traveled path that ran alongside a shimmering waterway. The canal's water was infused with lunar threads, a common practice in Veltryss that kept the water pure and gave it a faint, silvery luminescence. The grand architecture of Selar's Rise gave way to smaller, more intimate stone buildings, their walls draped in sweet-smelling moonvine. The moonvine was more than decorative—it naturally absorbed ambient solar radiation, one of many subtle defences the city maintained against solar corruption. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of the canal against its stone banks and the distant, melodic chime of a passing gondola.

Tirin led them to a small, secluded stone bench overlooking the water, shaded by the drooping branches of a silver-leafed willow. He sat, but Auren remained standing, his back to his friend, his hands gripping the stone balustrade as he stared down at his fractured reflection in the water. The lunar-infused water seemed to split his reflection, showing his dual nature more clearly than any mirror—one half bathed in silver light, the other flickering with golden shadows.

"It was stronger this time," Auren said, his voice barely a whisper. The words felt like a confession.

Tirin didn't feign ignorance. "I felt it." He paused, choosing his words with the care of a scholar selecting a scroll. "It was... loud. In my head. Like the performer's fire had a voice."

Auren's shoulders tensed. "It's getting harder to control. At the Lyceum, in the quiet of the library, it's just a hum. But out here... with the sun so bright... it wants out, Tirin. It feels like a part of me is trying to burn its way free."

Tirin stood and moved to stand beside him, his presence a cool, calming counterpoint to the lingering heat in Auren's veins. He didn't speak, just rested a hand on Auren's shoulder. It was a simple, grounding gesture they had shared a thousand times since childhood. Auren could feel the faint, soothing coolness of Tirin's innate hydric threadwork seeping through his tunic, a gentle tide against his inner fire. Tirin was unconsciously weaving, his hydric and etheric threads creating a cocoon of calm around them both—not suppressing Auren's nature but soothing it, like cool water over a burn.

"Remember that dream we shared last week?" Tirin asked softly. "The one with the city of glass and the sky filled with ash?"

Auren nodded, not trusting his voice. In their shared dreamscape, a place of profound connection where no secrets could be kept, he had seen it: Pyrelith, the City of Eternal Fire, a place he'd only ever read about in forbidden texts. He had felt a pull towards it, a sense of belonging that had terrified him upon waking. The ability to share dreams was rare, usually only possible between those with perfectly compatible etheric threads—another sign of their unusual bond.

"The heat I felt from you in the dream," Tirin continued, his gaze fixed on their twin reflections. "It was the same as what I felt just now. It's the same fire, Auren."

Auren finally turned, his mismatched eyes meeting Tirin's. The gold was still a little too bright, the silver shadowed with fear. "What am I going to do, Tirin? I can't hide this forever. One day, you won't be there with a conveniently spilled waterskin."

Tirin's expression was serious, but his eyes held an unwavering loyalty that was Auren's truest anchor. "Then we'll find another way," he said, his voice firm with a conviction that Auren rarely felt himself. "We always do." He squeezed Auren's shoulder once more before letting go. "Come on. Let's get back. Before Master Lyran decides to assign us a practical essay on the dangers of public loitering."

Auren let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. The fear hadn't vanished, but with Tirin beside him, it felt less like a consuming fire and more like a shadow they could walk through together. As they walked back toward the Lyceum, the midday sun blazed overhead, Nyxar's crimson disc barely visible in the bright sky while Selar and Thalen remained hidden until evening. The festival would continue into the night, but for now, with Tirin beside him, he could maintain the balance.

For now, that was enough.