Coren sat cross-legged on her cot, the dim light of her room casting soft shadows on the walls. From her satchel, she pulled out the Serakey—a rounded, turtle-shell-shaped instrument divided into six distinct sections, each further divided into three. Its smooth surface gleamed faintly, the simple design belying the complexity it could produce.
She cradled the instrument in her lap, running her fingers over its surface. It was a standard piece of school equipment, something all students learned to play in secondary school. Back then, the Serakey had been just another subject to get through, its notes a chore, its melodies nothing more than assignments. Now, it felt like a lifeline.
Her gaze lingered on the instrument's design, the sections aligned almost too conveniently with the Melodies: six clusters, each corresponding to the six Melodies she'd been learning about—Perception, Flow, Form, Harmony, Connection, and Potential. Coren couldn't ignore the connection. It was too perfect to be a coincidence. The Fieldwielders Association must have had a hand in this, she thought. Another subtle way to guide us into their way of thinking.
She adjusted the Serakey in her lap and pressed a button experimentally, listening as the note resonated softly through the room. The sound was warm, almost alive, lingering just long enough to make her pause. She had taken Lyra's lesson about the Melodies being like a symphony to heart. But understanding the concept and applying it to the box were two very different things.
For a week now, she'd been listening to the box, trying to understand the scattered, disjointed notes of the Melody of Perception that echoed faintly within it. She knew she had to replace the chaotic, unresolved sounds with a song of her own—one that matched the reality she wanted to create. But every time she tried to guide the notes, they resisted her, slipping out of alignment like sand through her fingers.
Coren's frustration had grown with each failed attempt, but it wasn't the kind of frustration that led to giving up. It was the kind that made her dig deeper, try harder. That's why she'd turned back to the Serakey, hoping that practising an actual musical instrument might help her understand the balance she needed to achieve with the Melodies.
She closed her eyes, pressing three buttons at once. A soft chord reverberated from the Serakey, filling the air with a sound that seemed to hum against her skin. She repeated the action, adjusting the pressure of her fingertips ever so slightly, and the sound shifted—richer, fuller, as if the tiniest change had unlocked something new.
Hours passed as Coren played, experimenting with different combinations of notes, testing how even the smallest adjustments in pressure could change the balance of a chord. The more she played, the more she realized how delicate the balance was. A fraction too much force on one note, and the entire chord would feel off. A fraction too little, and it would lack impact.
This is it, she thought, her fingers moving with growing confidence. This is what I'm missing with the box.
The Melody of Perception wasn't just about hearing the right notes—it was about balance. Moving the box, guiding its locked Melodies, required finding the right notes, yes, but also applying the right amount of force to each. Too much change, and the harmony would collapse. Too little, and the notes wouldn't respond.
She set the Serakey down for a moment, letting its final notes fade into the stillness of her room. Her mind raced, replaying the sounds she had just created, comparing them to the dissonant echoes she'd heard from the box.
Sol floated closer, his soft glow casting faint patterns on the wall. "are you making progress?" he said quietly.
Coren didn't respond immediately. She picked up the Serakey again, her fingers moving instinctively across its surface. "I'm starting to understand," she murmured. "It's not about forcing it open. It's about finding the right balance, the right song. The box has its own song that will open it—I just need to find it."
Sol hovered silently for a moment, his light pulsing faintly as though in agreement. "Understanding is the key," he said. "But understanding takes time. Don't rush it."
Coren nodded, her resolve hardening. She wasn't going to rush it. She was going to get this right.
Get it right, she did. But it hadn't been easy.
It had taken another week of relentless effort, trial, and error, but Coren had finally begun to change the way she approached the problem. The box wasn't something to be solved—it was something to be understood and then changed.
The breakthrough came late one night, after countless hours spent with her Serakey and her growing understanding of the Melodies. She had been lying awake, her mind restless, when inspiration struck. What if she imagined the fields as an instrument? Not a physical puzzle, but a symphony of sound and resonance that could be produced in her mind.
That night, she constructed a new Serakey in her mind. It wasn't the simple instrument she had played during her school days. This one was far more intricate, a product of her imagination and growing connection to the Melodies. The Serakey she envisioned was vast, its surface divided into six large sections, each one representing one of the six Melodies she would be learning to master.
But that wasn't all. Within each of the six sections were three smaller segments, each one corresponding to a chord—the Spiritual, Cognitive, and Sensory Fields for the Melody of Perception, for example. And within each chord were twelve individual notes, representing the fine details of the Field, the subtle nuances that made each melody unique.
Her mind's Serakey now contained a total of 216 individual notes, far beyond the simplicity of the real instrument. It was a tool of staggering complexity, capable of creating any song she could imagine. As she visualized it in her mind, she could almost hear the notes forming, intertwining with one another to create harmonies both delicate and powerful. She knew that being a product of her imagination playing it wouldn't be limited to the physical constraints of the real world.
The complexity of it should have overwhelmed her, but instead, it brought her clarity. For the first time, she felt like she could truly grasp the scope of what the box required of her. Each note was a piece of the puzzle, a fragment of the solution she needed to achieve. And with this new instrument, she could finally begin to play.
The next day, she sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, the box resting silently in front of her. Sol hovered nearby, his glow steady and reassuring.
"You've been quiet," he said softly, his voice breaking the stillness.
Coren didn't look up. "I think I've figured it out," she said, her tone calm but determined.
"Oh?" Sol's light pulsed faintly, curiosity evident in the way he floated closer.
She explained that she finally understood how to do what she needed to do: use the notes to rewrite reality itself. The Spiritual Field's notes would serve as a broadcast, projecting to the world—and to her own soul—that the box had always been open. It wasn't about forcing the box to change but aligning its reality with the one she envisioned. This was the foundation of her song, a subtle but powerful declaration to the universe that the closed box no longer existed.
To complete the process, she relied on the Cognitive Field to enhance her mental clarity and boost her ability to process the intricate interplay of notes required for the task. The added precision allowed her to compose and fine-tune the song in real-time. Finally, she drew upon the Sensory Field, using it to map the box's structure and feel for its invisible seams—the places where it could naturally unfold. Piece by piece, she wove the notes together into a harmonious song, one that resonated perfectly with her vision of the open box. It was no longer just a theory; she had created a song that would unlock the artifact.
Sol's glow brightened slightly, a sign of approval. "That's impressive," he said. "But can you actually do it?"
Coren took a deep breath, her fingers brushing against the surface of the box. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I have to try." Excitement sparked in her eyes, the weariness of the process momentarily forgotten. "let's do it now," she said, her voice steady and filled with resolve. "I'm ready."
But Sol pulsed faintly, his tone calm but firm. "Not yet."
Coren frowned. "Why not?"
"You need an appropriate power source," Sol explained. "The energy required to guide the song to open the box is far beyond what I can provide on my own."
Coren sighed, frustration bubbling to the surface. " argh..so what am I supposed to do? Wait?"
"Yes," Sol said simply. "Until we can ensure you're using energy safely. A reckless attempt could harm both of us."
His words were measured, but Coren could hear the underlying concern in his tone. She clenched her fists, wanting to argue, but she knew he was right. The song was just something in her mind—it was a force, a fundamental part of the universe. Manipulating it without control could lead to disaster.
"Fine," she muttered, sitting back and crossing her arms with a frustrated groan. "Tomorrow, then."
Coren barely slept that night. Her mind raced, replaying the practice sessions and the melodies she had woven together in her mental symphony. By dawn, she was wide awake and brimming with determination. Slinging her satchel over her shoulder, she raced through the polished streets of Solvix III, her boots barely making contact with the ground.
When Coren arrived at the training room, Professor Lyra was already waiting for her. She stood in the centre of the room, hands clasped behind her back, her pristine coat catching the soft morning light. There was an amused glint in her eyes, though her tired posture betrayed the fact that Coren's late-night call had likely cost her some sleep.
"You're early," Lyra remarked, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm ready," Coren said breathlessly, throwing her hands in the air with enthusiasm.
Lyra chuckled softly and gestured toward a small case resting on the table behind her. "Not so fast. You're going to need this first."
Coren stepped closer as Lyra opened the case, revealing a sleek gauntlet nestled inside. Its segmented surface gleamed faintly, intricate lines of circuitry running through its design.
"This," Lyra said, lifting the gauntlet and holding it out to Coren, "is your first power reactor."
Coren took it carefully, her fingers brushing the smooth, cool surface. "It's… a glove?"
"A gauntlet," Lyra corrected. "It's packed with rechargeable batteries, designed specifically for trainees. It's a simpler, safer version of the reactors used by Enforcers. Trust me, you don't want to deal with the real thing just yet."
Coren nodded and slipped the gauntlet onto her left hand. It fit snugly, the segmented plates adjusting seamlessly to the contours of her wrist and fingers. As she flexed her hand experimentally, she felt a subtle pulse of stored energy coursing through the device.
"So, how does it work?" she asked, tilting her head with curiosity.
"It channels energy directly to Sol," Lyra explained, gesturing to the glowing orb hovering by Coren's shoulder. "Sol regulates that energy and converts it into a form the Fields can use. Think of it as a stabilizer—it ensures you don't burn yourself out or overload your Companion."
Coren's pulse quickened as she absorbed the information. She could feel the latent energy humming beneath her fingertips, waiting to be used.
Lyra stepped back, giving her space. "Take your time. There's no rush. Remember—don't force it. Guide it."
Coren nodded, her determination firm as she placed the box on the floor in front of her and sat cross-legged. She closed her eyes, steadying her breathing. The familiar mental image of her Serakey materialized in her mind—a mental instrument she had fine-tuned over weeks of practice.
Her fingers brushed lightly over the box's surface as her awareness stretched out. The notes of the Melody stirred faintly, scattered like the beginnings of a song waiting to be composed.
She began with the Spiritual Field, playing its warm, grounding notes on the imagined keys of her Serakey. The message was clear: the box was always open—it had never been sealed. Her soul had to believe it. Next came the Cognitive Field, its sharp, deliberate notes bringing clarity and focus, amplifying her mental processing as she shaped the melody. Finally, the Sensory Field responded, light and elusive, mapping out the invisible seams of the box with precision.
The energy from the gauntlet flowed into her, channelled through Sol, amplifying her connection to the Melody. She played carefully, listening as the notes began to align, their harmony resonating in her mind. The Serakey's keys felt responsive under her mental touch, each note falling into place with purpose.
And then it happened.
A soft click echoed in the room as the box began to move. Coren opened her eyes, her breath catching as she watched the seamless surface split apart, intricate panels shifting and unfolding like petals blooming in slow motion. Inside, a hollow chamber was revealed, its walls lined with glowing engravings that pulsed faintly with light.
"You did it," Sol said, his voice calm but pleased.
Coren blinked, her heart racing. A triumphant grin spread across her face. "I did it," she whispered, the words carrying a mixture of disbelief and pride.
"Well done," Lyra said, stepping forward and crouching beside her. There was a proud glint in her eyes as she examined the box. "That's no small feat for a beginner."
But just as Coren began to revel in her success, the box abruptly slammed shut with a sharp snap.
Her jaw dropped. She stared at the box, now sealed and featureless once again, as if mocking her efforts.
"What?!" she exclaimed, her voice rising in shock and frustration.
Lyra, to Coren's horror, laughed—a warm, genuine laugh that echoed through the room.
Coren turned to Lyra, her expression a mixture of disbelief and indignation. "Why are you laughing? I had it! The box was open! What happened?"
"You stopped playing," Sol said calmly, his glow steady as he emerged from the gauntlet and hovered near her shoulder. His light pulsed faintly as he continued, "The moment you stopped guiding the fields with your song, the reality you created unravelled."
Coren blinked, her thoughts scrambling to process what he was saying. "But… I thought once I opened it, that was it. The box would just stay open."
Lyra stepped forward, her faint smile fading into a more serious expression. "No, Coren. Once you stop playing the notes, the music doesn't linger. It stops. The box's natural state is to be sealed, and the Fields will always revert to that state unless something actively sustains the change."
Coren frowned, the pride she'd felt earlier quickly giving way to frustration. "So what am I supposed to do? Just sit here playing the same tune forever, holding the box open?"
Lyra chuckled softly, though her tone remained patient. "No, of course not. You won't ever be able to keep the box open forever." She crouched beside the box, brushing her fingers lightly over its surface as she continued. "Your goal isn't to keep playing forever—it's to compose a song that plays itself. You need to find a way to train your mind to play the notes even after you've stopped actively playing."
Coren tilted her head, trying to wrap her mind around the concept. "Like… creating a song that loops in my subconscious?"
"Exactly," Lyra said with an encouraging nod.
Sol floated closer, his glow steady and reassuring. "And to achieve that, the song will need to be energy efficient. The reactor you're wearing is your energy source, but the structure of your song will determine how that energy is used. If the song is imbalanced or inefficient, the reactor's energy will burn out quickly. But if the structure is solid, it can keep the box open longer with only minimal energy."
Coren glanced down at the gauntlet on her hand, flexing her fingers as she absorbed their words. "So the reactor is like… fuel for the song?"
"Partially," Sol replied. "Think of the reactor as your power source, but the song—the way you arrange the notes—is the mechanism that uses that power. It's like a finely tuned machine. A well-designed machine uses minimal fuel to achieve maximum efficiency. You have almost everything you need already"
Coren stared at the box, her mind buzzing with possibilities. She thought about her Serakey, the way she'd learned to build melodies by layering notes until they resonated in perfect harmony. But this was something entirely different. It wasn't just about hearing the notes or aligning the chords—it was about constructing a song so precise, so stable, that it could be repeated without her input.
She crouched beside the box again, resting her fingers lightly on its smooth surface. "Okay," she said, her voice steady. "So I just need to figure out the right way of playing the notes. Something that can play itself once it's set in motion."
"Exactly," Lyra said, standing and brushing off her hands. "But take your time. This isn't something you can rush. It's not just about power—it's about understanding."
Sol hovered close to her shoulder. "Efficiency is key. Think of the song as a structure—each note supports the others. If even one note is out of place, the whole thing collapses. Take the time to craft it carefully."
Coren hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the box. She could feel the pull of curiosity, the itch to dive back in and try again immediately. But Lyra placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, her expression calm but firm. "Take a break. You've made incredible progress already, and overworking yourself will only set you back."
Coren let out a reluctant sigh, standing and stretching her stiff legs. "Fine," she said, glancing back at the box one last time. "But tomorrow, I'm going to figure this out."
Lyra smiled faintly, her confidence in Coren evident. "I have no doubt you will try."