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The Liminal Hall was alive.
After years and years of waiting, Wunder coiled around a cathedral-like room in bright, coiling patches. Here, the beginnings of an almost nest-like pile of wood began to grow, and just across from it, the door holding everything forcing itself to hold in the spectacle of white-gold fireflies binding everything together. After nearly 100 years, a Wundersmith had finally gained approval once more from the divinities. Wunder was delighted, if not a little confused that it had taken so long. No matter, it thought. The room swelled with giddy, breathless anticipation. It continued to work itself into bigger concentration, growing into something so luminous that some snowflakes of light had to return and disappear, every speck wanting to rejoice in having met the newest of their chosen, their special few.
The Kindling, The Hearth, Inferno. Rarely a Wundersmith’s first acquired art, almost never their last. Still, chosen to be this one’s first. It was high time for the hall to dress itself up in finery, and now that it had a party to throw, every ounce of effort was thrown into preparation for theatrics.
He suspected that he knew before she did. Rather, he didn’t suspect, but he simply knew. It appeared that Wunsoc’s knack was still hiding things from people who had every right to know.
The Butcher of Nevermoor had felt it across the Gossamer. A Disturbance, but not quite to the caliber that would herald the second phase of the Age. It wasn’t the falling of a star, nor the waking of a giant. For a moment, he wondered briefly if the tide was rising for her particular prowess and ability to wield his most beloved asset. Quickly, the man shook his head. Rarely had a Disturbance been relating to one person, often opting instead for an event. The relighting of trees was hardly something to create cause for celebration, but The Wundersmith supposed the city had finally put on its pointe shoes and begun to dance an age-old tune that he’d soured years ago.
The gaining of an imprint; the mark of a seal for an accomplished pilgrimage had once been a cause for celebration. He recalled the weeks leading up to his first meeting with a divinity. He’d asked, rather briefly, during one of his lessons. Something on his hand, in his finger, was itching, threatening to burst out. Was it because he’d angered wunder? The boy had shuddered to think of what he’d done to hurt one of his dearest friends, opting quickly to go on the defensive. I’ve been calling Wunder every day ma’am, he’d said, blurting out, is it angry with me? Have I done something wrong? Oh, please just tell me that Wunder isn’t angry with me! I know I’ve just started learning, but it can’t be leaving me already! We’ve only just met!
The man shook his head. He’d been so nervous, so young to have thought for even a moment that Wunder had hated him back then. Quite the opposite, he’d soon learn. The School of Wundrous Arts threw itself into festivities, and for the next few days, the boy was the center of attention. In his honor, Decima Kokomo herself weaved some of his favorite things into water, then continuing, using all nine Wundrous Arts in no particular order to celebrate him, to celebrate the legacy he was growing into. It felt magical, knowing that this was what he could become, what he could be, if he just kept up his studies, if he kept working and becoming what the city needed him to be. They’d told him once that a full-fledged Wundersmith felt a universe inside of them. The boy wondered when he’d feel that too.
At last, the imprint had appeared on his finger. He’d been expecting it, and as he’d stared, the thought occurred to him that the new mark felt just like the little w imprint he’d gained through his admittance into the Wundrous Society. Another tattoo-like image on his finger had emerged, and thankfully, blessedly, he’d been distracted from the itch coming from that finger through celebrations that had been taking up the majority of his days. A few times, he’d been invited to showcase his favorite Wundrous Art to the others. It felt like it belonged to him, and only him. Each time he performed it, Wunder read his instructions, actively and instinctively following his command. The rush of joy he felt whenever it happened was incomparable to anything else. It helped to subside a growing pain that urged the young Wundersmith to scratch, oftentimes being scolded whenever he would. Ezra, stop touching your hand! She’d say, continuing, it’ll appear when the Liminal Hall is ready for you, so be patient! He could remember hearing the giggles that came alongside the scoldings too. Elodie’s bright, tinkling laugh, and Owain’s incessant cackles. They were supposed to be his best friends. Together, the three were the most recent members of a new batch of Wundersmiths! The newest three of a long legacy of nine, stretching back to the beginning of Nevermoor herself. They’d all known that they’d been blessed with a gift, a calling, a bond between summoner and smith that would not so simply pass unnoticed. That was why they had an entire school to themselves! An entire society of people, built to support them and their actions!
He remembered the moment that everything came rushing towards him too. The feeling of touching the new imprint inside the circular lock that kept his destiny waiting. The rush of the Liminal Hall, the vast expanse that greeted him, the silent and most blazing space he’d ever witnessed, glaring sunshine running through the windows of a brilliant light that felt much too close. He walked forward, footsteps silent in the empty, dustless room. Then, he touched his imprint to the only other item in the room, his finger meeting a second circular lock, feeling a spark, shifting the world on its axis for the second time since he’d entered the space. The feeling of realizing that now, he was trapped. When he’d touched that second lock, his exit had disappeared. He was alone, scared, and eight. Then, the boy was alone no longer. In his panic, he hadn’t noticed his surroundings, hadn’t noticed the shuffling of noise behind him, until a tremendous, ancient presence looked back at him. The boy took a breath.
He’d known this was going to happen, he’d known because Miss Kokoro had taken him aside and told him that he’d done something very special, and that a Divinity had recognized his work in progressing through the Wundrous Arts. She’d said that he might be a little scared, but he’d brushed it off at the time, scoffing that something like Wunder would ever try to scare him. Miss Kokoro was right. He’d thought, fear and anxiousness crashing down on him like a hurricane, overwhelmed by the other body in the room. The eyes on the image gazing at him twinkled, and a voice rang out through the room. Your offering, and then your name, Wundersmith. He reached out his hand, and the eyes smiled back at him, reaching out and touching where his imprint had grown.
From there, he faced images, sounds, and feelings all in a blur, loud, unwelcome, and far too much for someone as young as him. Excitement, fear, the beginning notes of a melody all too familiar. The slowing down of what felt like his life on film, and hearing the acceptance of his offering, of what he could do with his gift. He told the Divinity his name, and from there, they had a brief conversation. It asked questions, and the boy tried his best to answer them. When the Divinity had gently prodded the boy to know that their meeting was done, he touched his finger to it once more, and he was back in the Liminal Hall once more. Running through it on muffled steps, he slammed open the doors, cheering as he came face to face with Miss Kokoro. Looking at him cheerily, she wiggled her hands. The same mark on his hand was on hers. He gasped as suddenly, a silver watch appeared in her palms. He looked at her, and she nodded for him to take it. His heart swelled with warmth, and together, the two went to meet the others.
Sighing, the man touched his nose. He looked over, rather briefly, at the pile of papers on his desk, before opening a drawer and grasping something precious within his black gloves. He looked at the small devices around his office, the ones that the fool of a woman thought she’d hidden cleverly, that were unable to be detected by a Wundersmith. Then, he opened the room’s doors and stepped onto the small balcony. He’d only be in Nevermoor for a moment, only through the Gossamer, only through the beautiful, Wundrous, wretched prison he’d built for himself would he be reunited with his incredible city once again. The man, now resolved with his decision, clipped a rusty, battered watch onto the railing. He waited for the whistling of a train, trusting that Wunder would carry him exactly where he needed to go.
The Gossamer Line took him straight to The School of Wundrous Arts, dropping him off at the entrance, just under the battered golden letters and vandalism, a remnant of the anger and hurt he’d left the city to deal with. Walking through the halls of the ancient institution, he felt something to a twinge of regret. Pushing that feeling down, he walked through thirteen dim chambers named for dead Wundersmiths mostly long forgotten, ignoring the ice that threatened to overwhelm him when he passed through the chamber named Kokoro.
From there, leaning in a corner near the entrance of the Liminal Hall, the elder Wundersmith waited for a thirteen year old to have the most enchanting encounter of a lifetime. One of nine first encounters to the nine Divinities of the Wundrous Arts. He stood there, cloaked in Gossamer light, and the thought occurred to him that this was the first time the Liminal Hall had been needed in ages. Neither he nor any other Wundersmith had entered the Liminal Hall for nearly a hundred years. He closed his eyes, opened them, and then sensed the vast outpouring of Wundrous energy from the room. It pooled out from under the doors, sprawling and creating a signature that any well-trained Wundersmith could see. Certainly Miss Crow wouldn’t, she was light years from where she should be in terms of her Wundrous education, which would no doubt be the cause for sorrow during her Divine encounter. The man hummed a few notes, and Wunder swarmed up right next to him, joyful to have met a master. Then, he heard footsteps. Miss Crow was here.
“I knew it,” she whispered, grinning wildly.
The girl pressed her finger to the lock, and the door opened onto a room so peculiar that she’d almost wanted to leave. After a moment's consideration, however, she’d rushed in. The doors to The Liminal Hall closed behind her, and Squall was alone once more. Looking around, he’d begun to notice just how empty everything was. No books lined the hallways, and although there were traces of Wundersmiths all around, their works were missing. The School of Wundrous Arts was empty, save for one singular student, left to fill the institution all by herself. It was his fault, and he knew it. Miss Crow was growing up as a Wundersmith alone, in a city that hated Wundersmiths, and still blissfully unaware of their true job. He’d have to teach her somehow that learning from long dead has-been Wundersmiths was nothing like he could teach her. Was nothing like learning from an actual teacher, who could answer her questions and set paces for her progress, for her to become the Wundersmith he needed her to become.
Squall, The Monster, they’d sneered as society members ransacked and destroyed hundreds of years of Wundersmith history. Monster perhaps, he mused. He looked back at the Liminal Hall, and then to the Gathering Place. The Foxwun inside would be the perfect gift for both of them to get what they wanted. The Wunder slipping out through an overflowing Liminal Hall would make any Wunimal an unfortunate target of the Hollowpox. Miss Crow was about to exit the room, her first acquaintance with The Kindling swiftly drawing to a close. When she’d open the door, the Hollowpox would rush towards the Liminal Hall. When the doors closed, it would run to the Foxwun instead. Unfortunate, but a necessary cost. Ezra Squall needed Miss Crow to become his apprentice, and this encounter would certainly be one to tip the scales in his favor.
The doors creaked open. The train on The Gossamer Line whistled. The Liminal Hall was dead once more.