Finnian's grin faded to something more measured, a glint of thoughtfulness sharpening his gaze. His silver-threaded Ether flickered faintly in the dim room as he paced, energy taut yet deliberate.

"You're not just sensing Ether," he said, voice quieter now. "You're inviting it. Think of it like water-fluid, untamed. You can't force it to flow where you want. You guide it, shape it."

Rancent's brow furrowed. "And how am I supposed to do that?"

Finnian gestured to the floor. "Sit."

With a reluctant sigh, Rancent lowered himself, mimicking Finnian's cross-legged posture. His back was stiff, and his hands rested awkwardly on his knees.

"Close your eyes," Finnian instructed. His tone softened, as if coaxing a skittish animal.

"Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Forget the room, forget me. Focus only on the space around you."

Despite his skepticism, Rancent obeyed. His breathing slowed, and the weight of the room faded. At first, there was only darkness behind his eyelids, a blank void that pressed against his senses. But then—a flicker. It wasn't light, exactly, but a vibration, faint and elusive.

"You're starting to see it," Finnian murmured.

"It's barely there," Rancent admitted. "Like... smoke in the distance."

"That's how it begins. Don't chase it-just watch."

The shimmer grew, weaving subtle patterns in the dark. Rancent noticed how the threads seemed to shift in response to his attention, like grass bending to the wind.

"Now," Finnian's voice was steady, "extend your intent. Don't grab it—let it sense you."

Rancent frowned, unsure how to "extend intent." But as he focused, the patterns drifted toward him, curious yet tentative. A warmth bloomed in his chest, subtle but steady.

"Good," Finnian said. "But careful now-Ether doesn't respond well to force."

The warmth wavered, then settled. The threads brushed against Rancent like strands of silk caught in a breeze. His eyes opened, the sensation lingering.

"What was that?" he asked, flexing his fingers.

Finnian's expression was one of quiet satisfaction. "Your first connection. Subtle, but now you've felt it."

Rancent stared at his hands, uncertain. "What now?"

"Now," Finnian said, standing with a fluid motion, "We weave."

Before Rancent could question further, Finnian raised a hand. The threads in the room responded instantly, drawn toward his palm.

They twisted and intertwined, forming a faint sigil that pulsed like a living thing.

"Weaving isn't about control," Finnian said softly.

"It's creation. The threads respond to your will, your emotions. But if you're not careful..." He flicked his wrist, and the sigil unraveled into nothingness.

The room shifted. A faint, charged energy prickled Rancent's skin. Finnian's posture stiffened.

"Uh-oh," he muttered.

"What?"

Finnian's gaze darted toward the door. "Your aura flared. And... someone noticed."

A cold pressure descended on the room, heavy and suffocating. The walls seemed to warp under its weight. Rancent's stomach knotted as a presence-vast and ancient-pressed against his senses.

"Stay still," Finnian whispered, barely audible.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Don't move. Don't speak."

The pressure deepened. The air felt thick, almost viscous. Then, with a slow creak, the door opened.

Golden eyes glinted through the shadows, sharp and unyielding. Silence stretched, taut and electric. The figure stood motionless, radiating an authority that left the room trembling.

Rancent's breath caught in his throat. Finnian's lips barely moved.

"Saint," he mouthed.

The weight in the room sharpened, as though waiting for one wrong move to snap it entirely.

----------------------------------------

The figure stepped forward, golden eyes gleaming beneath the dim light. A cloak of ethereal threads shimmered faintly around them, whispering like wind through leaves. Rancent's pulse quickened.

There was no mistaking that aura-Saint of Igdur.

Youth and Age entwined into one presence, ancient and untamed.

Rancent fought to steady his breathing. His newfound Ether connection flickered under the weight of the saint's presence, threatening to dissolve entirely.

Finnian shifted subtly, placing himself between Rancent and the figure. His calm demeanor remained intact, but Rancent caught the faint tremor in his fingers.

"Saint of Igdur," Finnian greeted, voice low and measured. "A rare honor."

The saint's lips curled slightly, though whether in amusement or disdain was unclear. "Finnian Darrow." Their voice was layered, as though generations of wisdom spoke through them.

Finnian inclined his head. "I'm flattered you remember me."

The Saint smacked his tongue. “How could I not remember you? Always causing problems in a holy church of order? You are rememberable.”

The saint's gaze flicked past him to Rancent, sharp as a blade. "And this... fledgling? Unstable.

Dangerous." Their eyes gleamed with a flicker of judgment. "Why is he tampering with threads beyond his comprehension?"

Rancent tensed, bracing himself for condemnation.

But Finnian's voice cut through the tension.

"He's learning," Finnian said smoothly. "A little rough around the edges, but aren't we all at the start?"

The saint's eyes narrowed. "Teaching recklessness leads to ruin, Darrow. You know that better than most." Their tone was edged with warning.

"True," Finnian admitted. "But l've also learned that stifling potential is just as fatal."

A charged silence hung between them. The weight of the saint's presence pressed harder against the room, as if testing Finnian's resolve.

Rancent clenched his fists, Ether trembling faintly at the edges of his senses. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, but Finnian's subtle hand gesture held him back.

"He's no threat to you," Finnian said, his tone steady.”

The Saint rubbed in between his eyebrows with two fingers while holding up the hand that rubbed his nose bridge on his other crossed arm.

“It’s a threat to the church. You cannot just go around and teach random people the secrets of the energetic manipulation. I bet he wouldn’t even be able to use it right.”

Finnian's lips quirked, a flicker of daring sparking in his eyes despite the weight of the saint's presence.

"I guess that depends on your definition of 'right!"

The saint's expression darkened, golden eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "This isn't a game, Darrow. Weaving is sacred-a gift from the gods.

One wrong twist, and a novice can unravel far more than they intend."

Rancent stiffened at the rebuke, heat rising to his face. "I'm not just some novice messing around." His voice cracked slightly, but he held the saint's gaze. "I want to understand it—to get better."

The saint's gaze sharpened. "Wanting isn't enough. Discipline, intent, and reverence are what separate wielders from catastrophes waiting to happen."

Finnian stepped forward, his presence unshaken despite the suffocating pressure. "And that's exactly why he's learning under me."

The saint crossed their arms, threads shimmering faintly around their cloak like ripples on water.

"Teaching him will make you responsible for his mistakes. Are you prepared for that?"

Finnian didn't flinch. "I'm always responsible for my choices."

Finnian didn't flinch. "I'm always responsible for my choices."

The saint studied him for a long moment, their eyes flickering with something unreadable. Finally, they exhaled sharply, tension easing by a fraction.

"You may be reckless, but you aren't a fool," they conceded, though their tone remained wary. "If he falters—if he tears at the fabric of balance—it will be on your head, Darrow."

"Noted," Finnian said with a faint smile. "But I have a good track record for cleaning up my messes."

A good track record for cleaning up his messes? He looked like one himself, the way sweat beads were dripping down his cheek bones! Rancent thought to himself.

The saint's lips pressed into a thin line. "We shall see." Their gaze flickered to Rancent one last time.

"Remember this: respect the threads, or they will twist against you. And when they do—" their voice dropped to a low warning, "even Darrow won't be able to save you."

With a final glimmer of golden eyes, the saint turned, the weight of their presence lifting as they strode toward the door.