（By the way, to everyone reading this—when do you usually have time to read? Let me know your region and time of day in the comments, and I'll try to post updates to match your schedule!）
Chapter 10 – The Sleeping Vein
Kael woke with sweat soaking through his robe.
His chest rose and fell like he'd been sprinting. Every muscle ached. His fingertips were numb.
He hadn't moved all night.
The Nameless Verse was still clutched in one hand, creased and damp.
He uncurled his fingers slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his knuckles.
The verse glowed faintly.
Not ink.
Not spirit light.
Something else.
Like memory.
Kael stood, slowly.
His legs trembled—not from fatigue, but from something deeper. His body felt... hollowed. Strained. Like he'd burned through something and had nothing left to give.
He stepped toward the basin in the corner, splashed cold water on his face.
In the flickering reflection, he paused.
His eyes looked sharper.
His veins at the neck—darkened.
Just faintly.
He leaned in.
Then blinked.
Gone.
Later that morning, Bren found him sitting outside the novice dorms, staring at a crushed piece of vinebark like it held the meaning of life.
"You look like you saw a ghost," Bren said, tossing him an apple. "Or tried to eat one."
Kael caught it without looking. "I think something changed."
"Oh?"
"I felt... pressure. Heat. Then stillness."
Bren raised an eyebrow. "Stillness is good. That means the verse is starting to settle."
"No," Kael said. "It wasn't like that."
Bren leaned against the wall. "How so?"
Kael hesitated.
Then: "It felt like something else was pushing. Not from inside. From… around."
They sat in silence for a while.
Bren spoke first.
"Some say the verse isn't about you pulling power in—it's about becoming empty enough that something else fills you."
Kael looked at him.
"You think that's what's happening?"
Bren shrugged. "I'm not a sage. I just know that when I stop trying so hard, it sometimes works better."
Kael stared down at his palm.
Later, when he was alone again, he pulled out the bottle.
This time, it wasn't glowing.
But when he uncorked it—just slightly—a faint scent drifted out.
Fresh.
Sharp.
Like herbs cut too early in spring.
He re-sealed it quickly.
Whatever was in there—it wasn't inert.
It was waiting.
He sat back, heart steadying.
Maybe he hadn't broken through last night.
Maybe he hadn't even started.
But something inside him had been stirred.
Not the verse.
Not spirit.
Something older.
Something watching.