My Infinite System.

Mira sat on the edge of the chair like she expected it to bite her.

Finn closed the door and leaned against it, watching her. She was small. Smaller than him, which was saying something. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and her freckles stood out against pale skin. Academy robes hung loose on her frame, the fabric too new, too stiff, like she’d just been issued them.

”You came alone?” Finn asked.

Mira nodded. ”I didn’t tell anyone.”

”Good.”

Lucian hadn’t moved from his desk. His pen was still. His eyes weren’t on his notes anymore. They were on Mira.

”How did you find out about the crystal?” he asked.

Mira’s hands twisted in her lap. ”I was there. In the testing hall. When you did the demonstration. I was the one who’d been told I had no affinity.”

Finn’s memory snagged on that moment. The girl crying. The purple glow. He’d been standing near the wall, watching Lucian walk away, and he’d seen her—a blur of red hair and shaking shoulders, surrounded by officials who didn’t know what to do with her.

”That was you,” Finn said.

Mira nodded again. ”They said I was null. No mana. No affinities. No future. They were going to send me home.” Her voice cracked. ”I don’t have a home. The Academy was my only chance.”

”So you came to us.”

”You’re the only ones who can help.” She looked at Lucian, then at Finn, then back at Lucian. ”Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll work. I’ll clean. I’ll—”

”Stop,” Lucian said.

Mira stopped.

Lucian set down his pen. He turned his chair to face her, and for a long moment, he just looked. Finn had seen that look before. It was the same one Lucian had given him in the alley, when he’d decided to take a chance on a thief with nothing to offer.

”Spirit affinity isn’t like the others,” Lucian said. ”It doesn’t follow the same rules. That’s why the Academy couldn’t detect it. Their crystals are calibrated for the six physical affinities. Spirit operates on a different frequency.”

”Can you teach me?” Mira asked. ”To control it?”

”I can teach you to perceive it. Control comes later. Much later.” Lucian stood up, walked to the window. ”The first lesson is simple. Close your eyes.”

Mira closed her eyes.

”Now listen. Not with your ears. With your chest. There’s a hum there. A vibration. Most people ignore it. You’re going to find it.”

The room went quiet. Finn held his breath. He remembered this part—the frustration, the doubt, the moment when he’d almost given up. He remembered Lucian’s voice, calm and steady, telling him to try again. And again. And again.

Mira’s face scrunched up. Her hands unclenched, then clenched again.

”I don’t feel anything,” she whispered.

”Keep listening.”

More silence. The candle on Lucian’s desk flickered. Outside, someone laughed—a distant sound, muffled by walls and distance.

Then Mira’s eyes snapped open.

”I felt it,” she said. ”A hum. Like a string being plucked.”

Lucian turned from the window. ”Good. That’s your affinity. Spirit. Not mana. Not magic. Connection. You felt the connection between yourself and the world around you.”

”Is that all it does? Let me feel things?”

”No. That’s where it starts.” Lucian walked back to his desk, sat down, picked up his pen. ”Finn will teach you the basics. The meditation. The breathing. The exercises.”

Finn pushed off from the door. ”Wait. Me?”

”You’ve been through it. You know the steps. You know the frustrations.” Lucian glanced at him. ”Teaching someone else will help you understand your own progress.”

Finn wanted to argue. He wanted to say he wasn’t ready, that he was still learning, that he couldn’t teach anyone anything. But Mira was watching him with those desperate eyes, and he remembered what it felt like to have nothing and no one.

”Fine,” he said. ”But if she breaks, it’s your fault.”

Lucian almost smiled. ”Noted.”

---

The first session was awkward.

Finn didn’t know how to explain things. He’d learned by doing, by failing, by trying again. The words didn’t come easy. He showed Mira the breathing technique Lucian had taught him—in through the nose, out through the mouth, slow and steady. She copied him, her freckled face serious.

”Now focus on the space behind your eyes,” Finn said. ”That’s where the warmth lives.”

Mira frowned. ”Behind my eyes?”

”That’s what Lucian said.”

”You don’t sound sure.”

”I’m not sure about anything. I’m just repeating what I was told.” Finn sat across from her, cross-legged, his back straight. ”But it worked. So try it.”

Mira closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed. Her shoulders dropped.

A moment passed. Then another.

”I feel something,” she said. ”It’s... ticklish.”

”That’s the spirit affinity. It feels different for everyone. For me, it’s like a hum. For you, maybe it’s ticklish.”

”That’s weird.”

”Everything about this is weird.”

Mira opened her eyes. She was smiling. Small, tentative, but real. ”Thank you. For doing this.”

Finn shrugged. ”Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t passed the first test.”

”What’s the first test?”

”Not giving up.”

---

That night, after Mira left, Finn sat on his bed and stared at the ceiling. The spider was gone. Its web remained, empty, waiting.

”Lucian,” he said.

”Hm.”

”Why did you agree to teach her? You could have said no. You could have sent her away.”

Lucian was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ”Because she reminded me of someone.”

”Evelyn?”

”No.” Lucian’s voice was soft. ”Someone else. Someone I failed a long time ago.”

Finn wanted to ask more. He could feel the shape of the story behind Lucian’s words, the weight of it, the sadness. But he’d learned that some doors didn’t open when you pushed. They opened when they were ready.

”Are you going to fail her?” Finn asked.

”No.”

”Then what’s the difference?”

Lucian turned to look at him. ”The difference is I’m paying attention now.”

Finn nodded. He lay back, pulled the blanket over his chest, and closed his eyes.

He dreamed of alleys. Dark ones. The smell of rain on cobblestones. The sound of his own footsteps, running, always running. His mother’s voice, calling his name from somewhere far away. He tried to run toward her, but the alley stretched, and she faded, and he woke up with his heart pounding.

Lucian was at the window, watching the street.

”Bad dream?” he asked.

”Same one.”

”It’ll fade. Eventually.”

”How do you know?”

”Because everything fades. Eventually.” Lucian didn’t turn around. ”Go back to sleep.”

Finn closed his eyes.

The dream didn’t come back.

---

In the morning, Mira was at the door again. Earlier this time. Her hair was brushed. Her robes were neat. She had a notebook in her hands.

”I wrote down everything you said last night,” she said. ”The breathing. The focus. The exercises. I practiced until midnight.”

Finn blinked. ”You practiced?”

”I don’t want to fail.” Her voice was steady. ”I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Finn looked at her. At the notebook. At the shadows under her eyes that said she hadn’t slept much either.

”Come in,” he said.

Mira stepped inside.

Lucian was at his desk, already working. He didn’t look up. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

Somewhere in the Academy, Professor Thorn received a report. The outsider was teaching again. Not his student this time. A girl. A null. A nobody.

Thorn read the report twice. Then he set it down and stared at the wall.

He didn’t know what to do.

That was the worst part.