Certainly. Here's the continuation of ***The Hymn of Shadows*** in Cuttlefis
Aether Valen arrived at the city of **Kaelmire** under the pretense of a traveling scholar from the distant Eastern Wastes—an origin vague enough to be exotic, distant enough to avoid scrutiny, and real enough to evade mystical detection.
The guards at the gate—a pair of bored, underpaid men whose armor bore more rust than emblem—did not ask many questions. They waved him through after a cursory glance at the seal he offered: a wax-stamped sigil he had never studied, let alone forged.
> **\[Skill: Symbol of Plausibility]**
> *Any document presented with sincere intent is perceived as authentic by those not actively expecting deceit.*
As he passed beneath the shadowed archway, Aether lifted his head to observe Kaelmire properly.
It was a city built on **layered fictions**.
Each street bore two names—one spoken in public, and one murmured in alleys. Buildings shifted subtly when not watched directly. Newspapers rewrote themselves if left unread for too long. Even the sky seemed inconsistent—sometimes pale green at dawn, sometimes black as pitch at noon.
Aether felt at home.
---
The **Seminary of Celestial Rhetoric** stood at the city's highest elevation, nestled between a cathedral that worshipped a mute god and a library that banned books without titles. Its spires reached into clouds that refused to touch the ground, and its gates were guarded not by sentries, but by **questions**.
> "What is your reason for entering?" a voice asked as Aether approached.
There was no speaker. Just the question, etched into the space before him.
> "To study what should not be said," Aether replied smoothly.
The gates opened.
> **\[Authority Recognition: 17% Successful]**
> *Door to the Seminary unlocked under False Intent.*
He stepped into a courtyard of paradoxes. Students argued in languages they did not know. Professors lectured empty air, their words forming runes that took root in soil. A blind woman sketched visions of disasters that hadn't happened—yet.
This was a place where **knowledge was currency**, and **ignorance was the first lesson**.
---
Aether was led to his assigned quarters by a golem composed of thesis scrolls and wax. The room was modest: one bed, one desk, one mirror. But even here, subtle wrongness seeped into the corners.
The mirror showed two reflections.
His own, and something else.
A shadowed figure seated calmly on the bed, reading from a book with no pages.
He did not acknowledge it. Doing so would be a declaration, and Aether knew better than to declare things here.
Instead, he opened his satchel and removed three items:
1. A journal bound in barkskin.
2. A coin that landed differently each time it was flipped.
3. A feather plucked from a raven that did not cast shadows.
These were his **tools of identity**—anchors that maintained his false persona under scrutiny.
> "I am Aether Valen," he whispered. "I am *not* Umbrael. Not here."
The room dimmed, as if accepting the lie.
---
The next morning, classes began.
The first was titled: **"On the Ethical Weaponization of Truth."**
The professor, a tall woman with no eyes and lips sewn shut, projected knowledge through an interpreter automaton. She welcomed students with a phrase that was not a greeting, but a **contract**.
> "You have come to learn. That means you are already broken."
The students laughed nervously.
Aether simply nodded.
He took his seat beside a half-elf girl who smelled faintly of burnt scripture. She turned to him, eyes gleaming with layered curiosity.
> "You're new. What's your specialty?"
> "Linguistic Reconstruction," Aether said smoothly. "The recovery of lost truths through fabricated context."
Her expression sharpened.
> "So you're a liar."
> "Professionally."
She smiled, but her hands made a subtle sign beneath the desk. Not a threat, but a ward. She suspected him. That was good. She would live longer.
---
**That night**, beneath the Seminary, in a room that did not appear on the blueprints, Aether stood before a circle of mirrors. Each one held a reflection of a different reality.
From the shadows behind him, five figures emerged—hooded, masked, loyal. They knelt without a word.
The **Hollow Star** had begun.
> "We are not a cult," Aether said, his voice cold and absolute. "We are a correction."
---
**To be continued…**
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