WAYFARER: CLAIM THE UNCLAIMABLE

Sio had passed the Wayfarer Nexus often enough that Fern didn’t need to tell him where they were going.

The building occupied the meeting point of two of Luminara’s larger terraces, its pale walls rising through gardens that had been allowed to grow with the architecture rather than being trimmed away from it. Vines threaded through warm metal latticework, shallow channels carried collected water between flowering beds, and broad panes softened the afternoon glare before it reached the interior. Sio had known the building since childhood. He had even wandered through its public gallery several times, usually after convincing himself that being near Wayfarers counted as research rather than loitering.

What lay beyond the public areas had changed repeatedly in his imagination. At eight, he’d been convinced dangerous Claims were kept somewhere upstairs. At eleven, he’d upgraded the theory to a hidden archive beneath the building. Somewhere around fifteen, he’d accepted that mysterious organizations probably contained far more paperwork than forbidden vaults.

Walking inside beside Fern and Caspian did nothing to disprove that last theory.

It did, however, make the Nexus feel completely different.

The lobby stretched farther than Sio remembered, opening beneath living trellises and suspended walkways crowded with people moving between levels. Afternoon light filtered through leaves overhead before reaching pale floors worn smooth by years of traffic. Reception stations curved around planted islands, water moved quietly through channels between seating areas, and conversations overlapped from every direction: assignments being discussed, appointments arranged, arguments with clerks, reunions between returning teams.

Sio had always known Wayfarers came here. He hadn’t understood how many.

Fern and Caspian entered the crowd with the ease of people who belonged to it, while Sio found himself slowing whenever something caught his attention. Most of the Nexus was surprisingly ordinary. A field team had sacrificed most of a table to maps and half-eaten food. Someone hurried past carrying enough folders to make Sio wonder whether the building’s greatest threat really was paperwork. At a reception station nearby, a woman was explaining with impressive restraint why filling out the same document three times should not qualify as administrative efficiency.

Then Sio noticed the Scars.

A broad man near one of the field counters had three pale marks descending from his temple and disappearing beneath his collar. He was reading something that clearly irritated him, and as his expression tightened, one of the scars darkened with it. The change lasted barely a second before fading.

A Riven.

Several counters farther along, another sat with her sleeve rolled above the elbow while a medic replaced the dressing around an uneven ring of dark scar tissue. Her fingers trembled occasionally during the treatment, and every tremor sent a faint vibration through a metal clasp lying beside her hand.

Sio nearly lost Fern in the crowd watching it.

Until yesterday, Scars had belonged to lessons, demonstrations and other people. Seeing one respond to something as ordinary as irritation or an involuntary movement made it feel more intimate than any public display he’d watched. These weren’t abilities people simply brought out when they needed them. The wounds lived with them.

And apparently he had one now.

His attention drifted toward his own forearm, though there was still nothing there to see. He’d searched himself the previous night and found no mysterious wound waiting beneath his clothes, no mark that hadn’t already belonged to him.

Perhaps being impossible had satisfied his Scar’s need for attention.

Fern slowed enough for him to catch up. ”Try not to study people like exhibits. The man at the counter noticed you about twenty seconds ago.”

Sio immediately abandoned any temptation to look back. ”I wasn’t trying to be rude. I’ve never watched a Scar react that closely before. The woman back there was affecting the clasp without touching it, and his changed when he got annoyed. I thought they needed to be actively used.”

”It depends on the Scar. Some need to be deliberately used, while others respond before their owners would prefer them to.” Fern’s correction lacked any real annoyance; she seemed to understand exactly why he’d been staring. ”You’ll have plenty of time to satisfy your curiosity after someone makes sure that shoulder isn’t fractured. Until then, try satisfying it without making strangers wonder why you’re memorizing their injuries.”

Sio shifted the injured arm instinctively, and the resulting ache tightened his face.

Fern caught that too. ”You’ve checked that shoulder four times since we came inside. I promise it hasn’t secretly recovered between reception desks.”

”I was hoping for rapid improvement.”

Caspian had been listening from Sio’s other side and seemed to give the possibility more consideration than it deserved. ”Any evidence?”

”The results remain disappointing.”

”At least they’re consistent.”

Fern looked between them with the weary recognition of someone watching a problem reproduce. ”One person ignoring medical common sense was already enough.”

The comment seemed suspiciously aimed at Caspian rather than Sio.

He was beginning to suspect there were stories behind that.

The crowd shifted around them as they crossed the lobby, and another detail gradually became impossible to miss. People knew Fern and Caspian.

Nobody stopped what they were doing simply because the two had arrived. Recognition appeared in smaller ways. Younger Wayfarers made room without being asked. A receptionist acknowledged Fern by name while still helping someone else. Two field members near a stairwell greeted Caspian with the comfortable respect of people who had probably worked under him before.

Sio filed that away.

The clearest confirmation arrived carrying a stack of folders against his chest.

The young man had been weaving quickly through the crowd until he recognized Fern and Caspian, at which point his urgency transformed into the expression of someone who had unexpectedly found the solution to an annoying problem. ”Heliarch Fern, good timing. Records has been looking for him.”

His chin indicated Caspian.

Caspian’s attention settled suspiciously on the folders. ”I’ve learned that people rarely say ’good timing’ when something good is about to happen.”

The young man explained that several field reports were still missing. He tried to keep his tone professional, but the familiarity beneath it made Sio suspect this wasn’t the first reminder.

Caspian seemed considerably less concerned. ”Missing is an unnecessarily dramatic word. I know exactly where they are.”

Fern’s eyes closed briefly. ”Please tell me they’re somewhere more useful than near your desk.”

The pause before Caspian answered betrayed him. He tried to salvage the situation by explaining that the reports were substantially closer to completion than they had been four days ago, which only prompted Fern to ask whether he’d finally written anything or merely gathered the pages into one pile.

”Organization is part of the process,” Caspian said, with the solemnity of a man defending a respected professional principle.

The younger Wayfarer lost his battle with laughter. He promised to tell Records that some form of progress had apparently occurred and escaped before Fern could recruit him into the argument.

”Use exactly that wording,” Caspian called after him. ”It sounds encouraging.”

Fern waited until the man disappeared into the crowd before muttering that giving Caspian authority had apparently been easier than teaching him paperwork.

Sio had barely heard her. One unfamiliar word had survived the entire exchange and was now demanding attention.

”Heliarch,” he repeated, enjoying the way Caspian’s shoulders immediately lost a little of their ease. ”I’ve spent thirteen years trying to understand Wayfarers. You can’t put a new title in front of me and expect me to politely forget it exists.”

Fern’s attention settled on him with quiet amusement. She pointed out that he’d been inside only a few minutes and had already accumulated questions about two Riven, the restricted walkways, Caspian’s rank and the paperwork dispute he’d nearly leaned around another visitor to investigate.

Sio objected to the accusation on principle. He hadn’t cared what was written on the woman’s form; he had merely wanted to know which department had angered her enough to make filling it out three times a matter of personal honor.

”That,” Fern informed him, ”still counts as reading somebody else’s paperwork.”

Sio searched for a respectable defense and came up empty. ”Fine. I’ll postpone the questions.”

The approval on Fern’s face lasted exactly long enough for him to add, ”I’m obviously not forgetting them.”

”I would have been worried if you did.”

Caspian recommended writing them down for later, which prompted Fern to remind him that the Nexus was still waiting for several things he was supposed to have written down days ago.

Sio decided the exact meaning of Heliarch could survive another hour.

Fern guided them toward the rear of the public gallery, where she placed her palm against a dark metal plate beside a set of doors. Fine lines awakened beneath her hand and spread through the surface like veins. The doors separated, and the constant murmur of the lobby softened behind them almost as soon as they crossed the threshold.

Sio had expected the restricted sections to feel colder. Instead, they were simply quieter.

Narrow corridors replaced the open gallery. Moss and trailing plants occupied shallow recesses along the walls, their roots threaded carefully around exposed pipes and strips of warm metal. Daylight entered through high panes and travelled deeper through reflective channels overhead, illuminating the passage without obvious lamps. Technology was everywhere once Sio started looking for it, but little of it demanded attention. He liked discovering machinery tucked naturally between roots, stone and metal, as though the building had grown accustomed to carrying all three.

The people changed with the architecture. A medic passed carrying a sealed case beneath one arm, while two Wayfarers speaking near a doorway lowered their voices as the group approached. Nobody wandered here without somewhere to be.

By the time they reached the end of the corridor, the ache in Sio’s shoulder had deepened enough that he was holding the arm closer to his body.

Fern noticed.

”That looks worse than it did outside.”

”More offended than worse.” Sio had learned enough to leave the shoulder alone this time. ”The wall and I have reached an understanding. It won.”

Caspian regarded the admission with approval. ”Remarkably mature.”

”I had evidence.”

Fern pushed open the examination-room door before either of them could develop the discussion further. ”Tell the examiner about your breakthrough. She’ll be thrilled.”

The woman inside had barely lifted her attention from the desk before the sight of Sio brought her to her feet.

Silver threaded the braids gathered behind her head, and there had been a moment of recognition when she’d seen Fern and Caspian. It disappeared beneath professional concern as she took in Sio’s bruised throat, bloodied handkerchief and guarded shoulder.

”I was going to ask what you two brought me this time,” she said while crossing the room, ”but I think I’d rather hear why he looks like somebody tried to fold him.”

Caspian drew breath to answer.

The examiner raised one finger toward him. ”Any explanation beginning with training can wait.”

Something old and apparently embarrassing passed across Caspian’s face.

Fern almost smiled. ”Vessel attack. Less than an hour ago.”

That ended the familiarity.

The examiner guided Sio toward the central chair and began assessing him while they talked. She had him follow her finger with his eyes, checked the bruising around his throat and asked about the fight without reducing the conversation to a list of tiny questions. Sio explained that he’d remained conscious throughout the encounter and remembered considerably more of it than he’d have preferred.

His stomach had behaved itself. His vision was more complicated.

”Everything looks normal now,” he explained while she checked his pupils again, ”but during the fight I started seeing something that definitely wasn’t there before.”

Her hands slowed against his jaw.

Fern supplied the missing context from beside the examination frame. ”It looked ability-related. He reacted to attacks before they reached him.”

The examiner’s interest sharpened, though she finished dealing with the physical injuries first. She worked carefully around Sio’s shoulder and made him describe where the pain changed rather than simply confirming that it hurt. Sio discovered that everywhere you just touched was not considered a useful medical answer and was made to try again.

By the time she stepped away, nothing seemed obviously broken.

”You’ll bruise badly, and I want imaging if the pain gets worse instead of settling. Until then, stop checking the shoulder every few minutes to see whether it has magically repaired itself.”

Sio stared at her. ”Did Fern warn you about that?”

”I’ve met nineteen-year-olds before.”

Fern looked far too satisfied.

The examiner washed her hands and returned to the more unusual problem. Fern explained that the Vessel had followed Sio through the district, ignored easier opportunities and stayed focused on him even after revealing itself. It had apparently known he was a Veyr before Sio told it anything.

”He thinks the Claim is part of whatever interested it,” Fern finished.

The examiner’s attention settled on Sio. ”When were you last classified?”

Sio had enough experience with that question to answer without thinking. ”Six.”

Her brows rose slightly, which reminded him that the answer needed context. ”That was my second examination. Everyone gets checked at birth, so the first one was basically mandatory. Mine showed Veyr.”

Fern’s expression changed faintly. ”And you were examined again at six because you still hadn’t made a Claim?”

Sio nodded, rubbing his thumb along the edge of Caspian’s handkerchief. ”My mother was worried. Six years with three empty slots and absolutely nothing willing to become mine apparently seemed worth checking twice.”

The examiner had already begun searching for his old records. ”That second examination confirmed the original classification?”

”Veyr again. Three empty Claims, no other problem anyone could find.”

Sio remembered very little of the first examination, obviously. His knowledge of it came mostly from his mother’s retellings and the record she’d kept. The second he remembered much better: sitting on an examination table with his legs dangling above the floor, insisting that the machine was wrong because he’d already tried to Claim nearly everything interesting within walking distance.

The examiner located both records.

”Birth classification: Veyr. No Passage wound recorded.” She opened the next entry beside it. ”Age six: Veyr confirmed again. Three available Claim slots. No Scar signature, no structural abnormality.”

Caspian’s interest sharpened. ”So today makes three.”

Sio regarded the apparatus waiting beside him. ”I’m hoping the third one comes with better news.”