Fieldwielders

Coren had tossed and turned all night, her thoughts tangled in a whirlwind of everything that had happened the day before. The expedition, Lyra's unexpected offer to train her, and the staggering revelation that her mentor wasn't just an archaeologist but a Fieldwielder—it was all too much to process. Fieldwielders were the chosen few, bonded to Companions and gifted with the rare ability to manipulate the ancient Melodies. They weren't just individuals with power; they were the gatekeepers of humanity's most advanced and mysterious technologies, the ones who kept the ancient devices running and the remnants of civilization intact.

The Fieldwielder Association was technically neutral, unaffiliated with any government or political faction, but their influence was undeniable. They were the silent arbiters behind every major decision, their ability to repair and maintain pre-Severance artifacts granting them immense leverage. No colony, no council, no governing body dared to act without their tacit approval. They claimed to be apolitical, but Coren knew better—power like that was never entirely impartial. And now, she couldn't shake the disbelief that her mentor, the composed and methodical Lyra Varik, was one of them.

The thought sent another wave of restlessness through her as she glanced toward the corner of her room. Sol hovered quietly there, the tiny white orb dim as though in a state of rest. The Companion had answered her rapid-fire questions the night before with maddening vagueness, his calm voice gently redirecting her inquiries toward her upcoming training.

"These lessons will reveal much," Sol had said in his infuriatingly serene tone. "Your understanding will grow with time, as it must."

It wasn't the answers Coren wanted, and the ambiguity only added to her frustration. How could she possibly sleep when her life had turned into something out of a storybook overnight? Even now, the room felt too quiet, her mind too loud with question

Now, as she walked the streets of Solvix III, her satchel slung over her shoulder and her thoughts still tangled, she felt like a raw nerve. Lyra—no, the Professor—had sent her instructions that morning. They were meeting at a location that, to Coren, sounded more like an accountant's office than a training facility: GenCom, 45th Floor, Room 7E.

"Secret training center," she muttered under her breath, glancing up at the plain office building in front of her. "Really sells the whole 'mystical Fieldwielder' vibe."

The holo sign above the entrance read "GenCom" in bold but uninspired lettering, and the building was utterly unremarkable—glass-paneled and sandwiched between two taller, more modern structures. People in business attire walked in and out, clutching data pads and mugs of steaming luminseed brew.

"This is it?" she asked, glancing at Sol, who floated silently at her side.

"Appearances are not always indicative of function," Sol replied smoothly, his light brightening slightly.

Coren rolled her eyes. "You could just say 'yes.'"

"How would I know, I've never been here" he replied.

Steeling herself, she pushed through the glass doors and into the lobby.

The receptionist, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, barely glanced at her as she walked past. She followed the directions Lyra had sent, taking a lift to the 45th floor and stepping out into a quiet, nondescript hallway. At the end of the hall, Room 7E was marked with a simple plaque that read "Conference Room."

Coren hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open.

Inside, the space was as bland as the rest of the building—white walls, a table in the centre with a box on top of it, and a few chairs scattered around. But as soon as the door closed behind her, she felt it.

Lyra stood at the far end of the room, her arms crossed as she leaned casually against the table. She straightened when she saw Coren, giving her a small nod. "You're on time. That's a good start."

"Barely slept," Coren admitted, walking toward her.

"As expected," Lyra said with a grin. "Hopefully you won't fall asleep during today's lesson."

Coren raised an eyebrow, setting her satchel down on one of the chairs. "This doesn't feel very 'secret training facility,' you know. It feels like I'm about to give a quarterly financial presentation."

Lyra chuckled, gesturing to the room around them. "That's the idea. The Association doesn't advertise its training facilities outside of the academy. Places like this blend in, which keeps people from asking too many questions."

Before Coren could respond, Lyra's Companion, Lex, emerged from her sleeve in a soft glow of red light. The orb hovered near her shoulder, its light pulsing faintly.

"Let's get started," Lyra said, her tone shifting to something more focused. "Before we can do any real training, you need to understand the basics of Fieldwielding. What the Fields are, how it works, and what your role is in using them."

Coren crossed her arms. "I thought the Fields was just… energy. You know, something wielders tap into to do weird stuff."

"That's part of it," Lyra said, walking toward the centre of the room. "But it's much more complicated than that."

She gestured, and Lex pulsed in response. A three-dimensional holo-projection appeared in the air between them—an intricate web of glowing lines with 6 major lines, each major line made up of smaller ones, each one shifting and flowing to a beat.

"The Progenitor of the Association," Lyra continued, "was the first person to break the Field down into six components. He called them the Six Melodies."

"The melodies from the hall of music?" Coren repeated.

"That is correct," Lyra said, pointing back to the glowing projection, "These size melodies represent the Fields that permeate the whole of existence. They control the physical and metaphysical aspects of the universe. Everything—gravity, time, entropy, even the fundamental rules of reality—stems from the Fields."

Coren stared at the projection, her eyes wide. "You're saying the Fields are… everything?"

"Essentially," Lyra replied, her tone steady but patient. "They're the reason things fall when you drop them. They're why time flows forward instead of backward. The Fields are what hold the universe together, shaping every aspect of existence."

She turned back to the projection, and a series of glowing sections began to pulse softly, each representing one of the six Melodies. "Each Melody," Lyra continued, "represents a fundamental aspect of reality. Most Fieldwielders can only hear one Melody. That's their specialty, their focus. But in rare cases, some can hear more."

Coren tilted her head, her brows furrowing. "Wait, but I heard all six."

Lyra gave her a faint, knowing smile. "I thought as much. But we'll focus on one at a time. Mastery comes through patience, Coren."

She gestured to the projection again, and this time, different sections lit up in sequence. "Each Melody corresponds to a different facet of the universe," Lyra explained. "Wielders use their Companions to manipulate these Melodies, essentially changing the physical or metaphysical rules in a localized area. For example, you could use the Melody of Form to alter the mass of an object or the Melody of Flow to adjust how time moves in a specific space. It's like composing a song, using the correct notes and chords to create a specific effect."

Coren's eyes widened in amazement. "You can manipulate time?"

"In small, controlled ways," Lyra said. "But the larger the change, the greater the cost—and the greater the risk of something going catastrophically wrong."

"What kind of cost?" Coren asked, narrowing her eyes. There was a slight edge to her voice now, a mix of curiosity and caution.

Lyra's expression sobered the faint humor from earlier giving way to something heavier. "Energy," she said quietly. "Mental and physical capacity. Life force, even. You see, the Fields have their own inertia—their own resistance to change. The more you try to bend them to your will, the more they push back. It takes strength—focus, discipline, endurance—to handle that kind of resistance. And if you're not strong enough, or if you can't provide the energy needed…"

Lyra trailed off, letting the weight of her words settle.

Coren frowned, leaning forward slightly. "What happens if you can't?"

Lyra met her gaze. "You and your Companion suffer backlash," she said simply. "The Fields don't take kindly to overreach. Push too hard, and they will punish you."

Before Coren could ask for more details, Lex floated closer, its crimson glow pulsing faintly. "Our role," it said in its smooth, clinical tone, "is to regulate and manage the process. We ensure balance, monitor your limits, and convert energy into a usable form for manipulating the Fields. Without us, wielding the Fields would be... inadvisable."

Coren arched a brow at Lex's choice of words. "'Inadvisable'?" she repeated sceptically.

"Fatal," Lex clarified, its glow pulsing briefly with emphasis. "Without a Companion, attempting to wield the Fields is akin to throwing yourself into a storm with no protection. Our bond with you protects your body and mind—up to a point."

Coren's throat tightened as she glanced at Sol, who hovered silently by her shoulder. His steady white glow felt almost comforting. For the first time, she fully grasped the weight of the bond she had formed with him.

"Is that why the tests were so difficult?" Coren asked softly.

Lyra nodded, her gaze steady. "It's why everything you've faced so far has been preparing you—not just to hear the Melodies, but to respect them. The Fields are not something you command lightly. They demand care, precision… and humility."

Lyra stepped closer, her arms crossed as she studied Coren. "There are stories," she said, her tone low, almost cautious, "of ancient Fieldwielders performing miracles—bending reality in ways we can't even imagine. But that was before the Severance. Before we lost so much of what we once knew." She paused, her green eyes sharp as she met Coren's gaze. "Don't let those stories give you any grand ideas. Our connection to the Fields is limited now. It's better to work within those limits than to dream of breaking them."

Coren hesitated, digesting Lyra's words. The idea of wielding something as powerful as the Field felt exhilarating—and terrifying. The risk, the cost, the potential for failure—it wasn't just a tool; it was a gamble.

Coren glanced at Sol, who had been silent until now and then at Lex. "Does the Companion's colour mean anything?" she asked.

Lyra nodded approvingly. "Good question. A Companion's colour reflects its compatibility with certain Melodies. For example, Lex is red, which means he's especially suited to the Melody of Perception and Connection"

"And Sol?" Coren asked, glancing at her Companion.

Lyra's gaze softened. "White is… unique. It doesn't indicate a single specialty—it suggests compatibility with all Melodies. Which makes you… very unusual."

Before Coren could dwell on the implications for too long Lyra clapped her hands before leaning back into her chair, a soft smile gracing her lips as she adjusted the small, worn necklace resting against her collarbone. The leather cord and the small fragment of burned metal at its centre caught the light briefly, and Coren couldn't help but notice how Lyra's fingers brushed over it as if it were second nature—a gesture of quiet comfort.

"You know," Lyra began, her tone carrying a faint warmth, "when I was first learning about the Melodies, my husband Daylin—ever the teacher—gave me an analogy that I still think about to this day. It stuck with me because it just made sense, even though the concepts seemed so overwhelming at first." She paused, her gaze softening. "He said to think of the Melodies like a symphony."

Coren tilted her head, intrigued. "A symphony?"

"Yes," Lyra said, her smile growing. "Each Melody is made up of three distinct chords—what we call the fields. And within each chord are countless notes. The fields are like the foundation, the structure upon which the entire melody is built.

Lyra's fingers brushed over her necklace again, her tone turning more focused, though still warm. "Take the Melody of Perception, for example," she said. "It's not about physical forces or tangible changes—it's about thought, awareness, and everything that exists within the unseen aspects of consciousness. It's like the symphony of the mind and spirit."

Coren furrowed her brow, listening intently as Lyra continued.

"The first chord in this melody," Lyra explained, "is the Spiritual Field. Think of it like the deepest resonance of a piece of music—it governs the essence of the soul, belief, and emotional resonance. It's subtle but powerful, like the low, humming vibration you feel in your chest when you hear a grand symphony's opening note. It's the emotional core of the melody, grounding everything else."

She gestured lightly with her hand, as though conducting an invisible orchestra. "Then you have the Cognitive Field, the second chord. It governs thought, intelligence, and memory—it's the reasoned, analytical part of the melody. If the Spiritual Field is the heart, the Cognitive Field is the mind. It's like the sharp, intricate notes of a violin weaving through the deeper tones, adding precision and complexity."

Coren tilted her head, intrigued. "And the last chord?"

Lyra smiled faintly. "That would be the Sensory Field," she said. "It governs sight, sound, and perception—everything we can sense and even things beyond what we usually consider the physical senses. It's the most reactive chord, responding to the world in real-time. Imagine the shimmering notes of a flute or harp, delicate and fleeting, always shifting in response to the rest of the melody."

Coren nodded slowly, her gaze thoughtful. "So all three chords—the fields—they work together to create the Melody of Perception?"

"Exactly," Lyra said, her tone filled with quiet enthusiasm. "When you align the Spiritual Field, Cognitive Field, and Sensory Field just right, you create a harmony that allows you to influence the unseen aspects of reality. You're not manipulating matter—you're guiding thought, belief, and perception itself. It's one of the hardest melodies to master because it requires balance. If one field is too strong or too weak, the whole melody collapses, like an orchestra out of tune."

Coren tapped her fingers against the table, absorbing the information. "It sounds… fragile."

"It is," Lyra agreed, her voice gentle but firm. "But it's also beautiful. When you align the fields properly, when all the chords and notes resonate in harmony, the result is breathtaking. It's like creating a piece of art in real-time. And the best wielders—the ones who truly master the melodies—are like virtuosos. They don't just wield the Fields; they create something extraordinary with them."

Lyra paused, a distant look flickered across her face, as though she were seeing something—or someone—far away. "He used to say," she continued, her voice quieter now, "that wielding the Melodies wasn't about brute force or power. It was about listening. Understanding. Finding the balance between what you want to create and what the Fields will allow you to create."

Coren smiled faintly, leaning back in her own chair. "He sounds like a good teacher."

Lyra's expression softened, and she nodded. "He was," she said simply, her hand closing gently around the necklace. "And he would have liked you, Coren. You remind me of him in some ways—curious, determined, and a little too impatient for your own good."

Coren chuckled at that, but her gaze lingered on Lyra, noticing for the first time the quiet longing in her mentor's expression. For all her composure and strength, Lyra carried her own burdens, her own regrets. It was a reminder that even the most composed people were still human.

Coren was broken from her thoughts when Lyra clapped her hands. "Enough theory for now. Let's see what you can do. Here open this" said Lyra while throwing Coren a small box.

Coren sat cross-legged on the training room floor, staring at the small box in front of her. It was utterly unremarkable—plain and metallic, its surface slightly tarnished, with no visible seams, hinges, or even a lock. If she hadn't known better, she would have assumed it was just some old relic Lyra had picked up on one of her expeditions.

"This is the lesson?" Coren asked, frowning as she glanced up at Lyra. "You want me to open a box?"

Lyra leaned casually against the edge of the table, her arms crossed and an amused expression on her face. "That's right," she said simply.

Coren raised an eyebrow, waiting for further explanation. When none came, she gestured to the box. "And you're not going to tell me how?"

"Nope," Lyra replied, her grin widening.

Coren sighed, running a hand through her hair. "So, what am I supposed to do? Just… guess?"

Lyra shrugged. "Figure it out."

Coren groaned, leaning forward to inspect the box more closely. Its smooth surface gave away nothing—no markings, no symbols, no mechanism she could see. She tapped it lightly with her finger, then pressed on various parts of it, hoping something would give.

Nothing.

She picked it up, shaking it gently. No sound, no movement.

"Is this some kind of joke?" she muttered under her breath.

Lyra chuckled from her spot by the table. "Not at all. You'll figure it out eventually. Or not."

Coren glared at her. "You're not even going to give me a hint?"

Lyra tilted her head, considering her for a moment. "Okay, here's your hint: quiet your mind."

"Quiet my mind," Coren repeated flatly. "That's it?"

"That's it," Lyra said cheerfully.

Coren groaned again, setting the box back on the floor. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to calm the frustration bubbling in her chest. But the harder she tried to focus, the more her mind buzzed with thoughts.

She spent the next twenty minutes prodding, pressing, and even lightly smacking the box in a desperate attempt to open it. Nothing worked.

She tried asking questions. "Is there a button I'm not seeing?"

Lyra shook her head.

"Is it pressure-sensitive?"

"Nope."

"Do I need a key?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what exactly am I supposed to do?" Coren demanded, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

Lyra smiled faintly. "Quiet your mind."

Coren groaned, leaning back on her hands and glaring at the box like it had personally insulted her. "This is impossible."

"No, it's not," Lyra said, her tone calm. "You're just overthinking it."

Coren let out a frustrated sigh, closing her eyes again. She tried to block out everything—the hum of the training room, the soft glow of Sol hovering nearby, Lyra's maddeningly patient expression.

Slowly, the world began to fade into the background. She focused on her breathing, letting each inhale and exhale steady her racing thoughts.

And then she heard it.

A faint, familiar melody.

Her eyes snapped open, but the sound didn't disappear. It wasn't a song exactly—it was something deeper, something she felt as much as heard. The same melody she'd sensed during her test in the Hall of Music, but this time, it was quieter, more focused.

The notes seemed to come from the box itself, each one distinct but blending together in harmony. Coren tilted her head, trying to make sense of them. She concentrated on one note, then another, tracing each sound to a specific part of the box.

"It's coming from different places," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Lyra's expression shifted slightly, her smile growing.

Coren leaned closer, her fingers brushing the surface of the box as she tried to follow the melody. But no matter how hard she focused, she couldn't figure out how to make the notes come together. They felt just out of reach, like a puzzle with one missing piece.

After what felt like hours, she sat back with a frustrated sigh, her hands falling into her lap. "I can hear it," she said, glancing up at Lyra. "But I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to make it work."

Lyra stepped forward, crouching in front of her. "That's fine," she said, her tone warm and reassuring.

Coren frowned. "Fine? I didn't even open it."

Lyra nodded. "Exactly. And that's okay. The point of this exercise wasn't to open the box."

"Then what was the point?" Coren asked, her frustration bleeding into her voice.

"To familiarize yourself with the Melody of Perception," Lyra said. "You heard it, didn't you? That's progress."

Coren blinked, staring at her. "Progress? I spent hours failing to open a stupid box, and you're calling that progress?"

"Absolutely," Lyra said, her grin returning. "You heard the Melody. That's more than most people manage on their first attempt. The rest will come with time."

Coren didn't feel reassured, but before she could argue, Sol floated closer, his soft white glow pulsing gently. "Lyra is correct," he said, his voice calm. "You have made significant progress today, even if it does not feel like it. Understanding the Melody is the first step."

Lex, still hovering near Lyra, pulsed faintly in agreement. "He's right. No one masters this on their first try. You're doing fine. Better than fine, actually."

Coren glanced between the two Companions, then back at Lyra. "You're all way too pleased about this," she muttered, crossing her arms.

Lyra chuckled, standing and offering Coren a hand. "Get used to it," she said. "You've got a long way to go, and you're not going to succeed every time. But this? This was a good start."

Reluctantly, Coren took her hand and let Lyra pull her to her feet. She still didn't feel like she'd accomplished much, but the faint glimmer of the Melody lingered in her mind, tugging at the edges of her thoughts.