The backlash from the Water Attunement incident left Rhys shaken but also illuminated a critical flaw in his approach. He had focused on internal circulation, physical tempering, and passive resonance with an element. But survival, especially in Meridian's depths, required more than a strong body and a calm Aether pool. It required the ability to act, to influence the world outside himself, however crudely. It required Echo Weaving.
He knew, intellectually, that Aetherium Weaving wasn't just about absorption and attunement; it was about shaping and projecting that gathered energy. The Weaver's Scrawl had shown complex patterns, suggesting intricate manipulations far beyond his current grasp. His accidental discharges had produced uncontrolled effects – sparks, gusts of wind. Now, he needed to achieve intentional, albeit basic, control.
Kaelen's warning about imbalance also spurred him. Perhaps actively manipulating different elements, even in small ways, could help maintain equilibrium. Focusing solely on Water felt increasingly dangerous after his near-overwhelming experience.
He decided to start with the simplest, most fundamental manipulations he could conceive, drawing inspiration from his accidental discharges and the basic elemental concepts. Fire – the creation of light and heat – seemed like a natural counterpoint to the Water element he'd been exploring.
Finding a quiet corner of the substation, away from the main chamber where Boulder rested, Rhys sat and calmed his mind. He drew upon his Aether Pool, feeling its denser, more responsive energy. He didn't try to attune fully to Fire – the concept itself felt volatile and dangerous after his Water experience. Instead, he focused on the idea of a spark: a tiny, contained burst of heat and light.
He recalled the feeling of friction, the crackle of static electricity, the intense heat of Kaelen's forge. He gathered a minuscule thread of Aether, drawing it to his fingertips. He tried to compress it, to agitate it, visualizing friction, heat, ignition.
Nothing happened. The Aether dissipated uselessly.
He tried again, focusing his will more sharply. He imagined the Aether molecules rubbing against each other, faster and faster, generating heat. He pushed more energy into the tiny focal point.
Failure. His fingertip felt slightly warm, but that was likely just psychosomatic. The Aether cost was noticeable, though small. This was harder than passive attunement. It required active shaping, precise control he clearly lacked.
He reviewed Kaelen's diagrams for Meridian Dredging. Those exercises involved guiding Aether along specific paths inside his body. Perhaps projecting it outward required similar principles? He visualized a tiny channel extending from his fingertip into the air, and tried to force the Aether along it, compressing it at the very end.
A faint pop, and a single, tiny orange spark winked into existence for less than a second before vanishing. It was pathetic, barely visible in the gloom, but it was intentional. A surge of triumph, quickly followed by dismay at the Aether cost. That tiny spark had consumed more energy than several minutes of sustained Water Attunement practice.
He practiced relentlessly over the next cycle. Creating sparks. Trying to sustain them for longer than an instant (impossible, currently). Trying to make them slightly larger (resulting mostly in uncontrolled dissipation and wasted Aether). He experimented with projecting a small push of air, mimicking the gust effects of his earlier uncontrolled discharges. This proved slightly easier, likely because it involved less energy transformation, just directed force. He managed to create puffs of air strong enough to disturb dust motes a few inches away, again at a significant Aether cost.
He also tried enhancing his senses, specifically hearing. He focused Aether towards his ears, trying to subtly amplify the vibrations carried through the air. This was trickier, requiring delicate resonance rather than forceful projection. He achieved fleeting moments of heightened auditory acuity – hearing Boulder's breathing from across the chamber with unnatural clarity, the scuttling of tiny insects within the walls – but maintaining it was mentally taxing, and the sensory input quickly became overwhelming, threatening disorientation.
Each attempt, success or failure, was a lesson. Echo Weaving, even in these rudimentary forms, was incredibly inefficient at his current level. The Aether cost was disproportionately high for the minimal effects produced. It demanded precise control, sharp focus, and a deep understanding of the energy being manipulated. He was like a child trying to sculpt marble with a blunt rock.
Furthermore, manipulating even tiny amounts of 'Fire' Aether (or rather, Aether forced into a fire-like state) left a faint, contrasting resonance in his pool, subtly warring with the Water affinity he'd cultivated. It wasn't debilitating, but it created a low-level internal dissonance, a reminder of the constant need for balance. The shard, resting nearby, seemed to pulse faintly whenever this dissonance spiked, subtly smoothing the conflicting energies, reinforcing its role as a stabilizer.
He knew these tricks – tiny sparks, weak air pushes, fleeting sensory enhancement – were useless in a real fight. They were parlor tricks, consuming precious energy for negligible results. But they represented a crucial step: the transition from passive cultivation to active manipulation. He was no longer just gathering power; he was learning, however clumsily, to wield it.
As he sat catching his breath after a particularly draining series of spark-creation attempts, feeling the familiar ache of depleted Aether, a new sound reached his ears – not amplified by Weaving, but carried clearly through the heavy air of the tunnels. It was the sound of multiple footsteps, heavier than rats, moving with purpose. And closer than before.
He instinctively focused his Echo Sense. Muddled signatures, aggressive intent. Not the random passage of scavengers. This felt directed. It sounded like they were systematically checking the side tunnels branching off the main passage near the substation.
Corbin's gang. They hadn't given up. And they were getting closer. His pathetic sparks and puffs of air suddenly felt utterly inadequate. The brief respite for internal focus was over. Danger was, once again, knocking at their door.