The commendations were finally given. The gremlins did not return. A small mercy. Then came the Choosing: Each student must declare a primary branch and an ancillary. The primary is the heart of their studies, the lens through which they will view magic. The ancillary is the counterweight, the perspective that keeps them from becoming narrow. I knew my primary before Teacher Ot finished asking the question. Cascade Bearers. Not because they are like me. Not because their methods feel familiar or their philosophy echoes my training. Precisely because they are not. The Cascade Bearers are researchers, experimenters, questioners of established truths. They do not preserve old magic—they test it, break it, rebuild it into something new. My way has not worked. The village’s way, the ancient way, the way of patient listening and inherited wisdom—it has led me to a silent Apparition and a tradition at risk of unraveling. If the old answers were enough, the other midwives would have solved this by now. Or yesterday. Or a hundred yesterdays ago. They did not. So I must seek new answers. Uncomfortable ones. Ones that make my spider-skin prickle. The Cascade Bearers scare me. Good. Fear means I am at the edge of something I do not understand. That is exactly where learning begins. Then they asked for my ancillary. I had not thought about it. I had poured all my consideration into the primary, into this difficult choice, and had nothing left for a second. My mind went blank. The silence stretched. And then, unbidden, came the memory. The Uzunjati. Their stories. Old Mage Jetembe sitting beneath the tree, speaking not spells but truths, and the spirits finally listening. The way they did not test us but simply asked us to tell. The way I felt, for the first time in weeks, that I was doing something that mattered. Those who carry the power of what was, and pass it on. The words left my mouth before I could stop them. “Uzunjati.” Not logic. Not strategy. Something deeper. My soul, perhaps, speaking when my mind had nothing to offer. And as soon as I said it, I felt comfort. A warmth spreading through my chest, quiet and certain. The same feeling I get when Belesh settles on my knee. The same feeling I used to get, long ago, when the Silent Chord was not yet silent and I could feel its presence like a hand on my shoulder.
Belesh Note: She clucked three times when I returned. I choose to believe it was approval.