Aelin’s POV
The pulse didn’t reach Aelin like it reached the others.
For them, Tempo was a feeling—something primal, in the blood. For Aelin, it was a pattern. Measurable. Traceable. Beautiful in its mechanics.
They hunched over the broken console of an old ore-lifter, their workshop glowing with forge-lamps and steam-veins. The tool was ancient—older than the clan’s exile, older maybe than the Severance. But when Aelin pressed the tuning fork to its metal shell and counted the vibrations, they felt it again: that same four-beat rhythm pulsing under the stone.
Sketch: Aelin
- Age: 13
- Hair: Shaved on one side, the rest tied into a short twist with copper rings
- Eyes: Slate-blue
- Personality: Analytical, intuitive, protective of Kythe and quietly observant of Raya
- Attire: Grease-stained apron, layered linen wraps, brass-knuckled multitool belt
- Quirk: Talks to their machines like friends
Aelin hadn’t slept. Not properly. Not since Kythe started acting… off. Since his eyes would drift in mid-conversation. Since Raya began snapping more than usual. Since Lyra’s skin had gone pale and cold again.
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They knew where the boys had gone. They’d helped them get there. Guilt crawled up their throat every time they thought about it.
Aelin pressed a copper disc into the console, twisting it into a node. The lift engine shuddered. A low hum rose—then broke. The vibration was off.
"You're still lying," Aelin muttered to the machine.
Later that night, they stood on the boundary of the Whispering Wood. The forest was breathing in a way it hadn’t in seasons. Even without Tempo’s calling, Aelin felt the tension. The trees leaned. The roots pulsed. Everything waited.
They reached into their satchel and pulled out the prototype: a pulse recorder, fitted with a dual-core stabilizer and glass-thread speakers. They aimed it at the wood, held their breath—and pressed record.
The needle ticked. The air changed. And something deep within the earth answered back.