The Conduit’s voice, always a disembodied whisper in the back of Ethan’s mind, crackled with a new urgency. "Your Atonement must be… amplified. The Voidborn's influence thickens. A grander gesture is required."

Ethan, hunched over a greasy diner breakfast of lukewarm coffee and a petrified donut, groaned. He'd spent the better part of the last three days struggling to control his newfound, erratic magical abilities. Illusions flickered and died, objects levitated and crashed, and his dreams were haunted by fractured realities and whispering shadows. The "public apology" had been mortifying, yes, but it also felt… manageable. This felt different.

"What do you mean, 'grander'?" he asked, speaking aloud to an empty booth. A waitress, sporting a nametag that read "Brenda," eyed him with a mixture of pity and suspicion. He mumbled something about a bad dream and took a large, regretful bite of the donut.

"Public… performance," the Conduit continued, the word echoing in Ethan's head. "Penance requires vulnerability. Exposure. Humiliation."

Ethan's stomach churned. He pushed the donut aside. "Humiliation? What, am I supposed to streak through Millennium Park?"

"Sing," the Conduit stated flatly. "Sing opera. In the subway."

Ethan nearly choked on his coffee. "Opera? I don't… I can't sing opera! I sing in the shower, and even I try to get out of earshot."

"That is irrelevant," the Conduit said. "The discomfort, the exposure… that is the key. Choose your aria. Prepare yourself. And perform. The City awaits."

The Conduit’s connection severed, leaving Ethan staring blankly at his reflection in the greasy window. Opera? In the subway? The thought was a monstrous absurdity, a cosmic joke played at his expense. He was a struggling artist, not some Pavarotti reincarnation. His vocal range extended from a slightly off-key hum to a mildly enthusiastic yell, neither of which were conducive to bel canto.

He spent the next few hours in a state of bewildered dread, flipping through YouTube videos of famous opera singers. Placido Domingo, Maria Callas, Luciano Pavarotti – their voices soared, filled with passion and power. He, on the other hand, could barely carry a tune in a bucket.

The pressure mounted. The Conduit hadn't specified when, only that it must be done. The knowledge that he was a lone bulwark against an interdimensional invasion did little to assuage the sheer terror he felt at the prospect of public singing. He was more accustomed to being ignored in public, his artwork a silent plea for attention that usually went unanswered. Now, he was being asked to demand attention, to put himself on display in the most embarrassing way imaginable.

He settled on "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini’s Turandot. It was famous, relatively short (mercifully), and its message of hope and victory, however ironic in his case, resonated with him. He spent the afternoon torturing himself and his neighbors with his butchered rendition, his voice cracking, straining, and occasionally emitting noises that could only be described as inhuman.

By late afternoon, armed with a crumpled lyric sheet and a rapidly dwindling supply of courage, Ethan found himself standing at the entrance to the State and Lake subway station. The air thrummed with the rumble of approaching trains and the cacophony of city noise. Commuters rushed past, their faces a blur of hurried indifference. He felt a familiar wave of anxiety wash over him, the same feeling he got before displaying his art at a local fair, only amplified tenfold.

He took a deep breath, trying to remember the Conduit's words: Penance requires vulnerability. Exposure. Humiliation. Okay, then. He was about to become the poster child for all three.

He moved towards a relatively open space near a support column, hoping the acoustics would be… well, less terrible. He cleared his throat, ignoring the curious glances he was starting to attract.

"Ahem," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I… I will be performing an aria. From the opera Turandot. By Puccini. It’s called 'Nessun Dorma'."

A few people paused, their expressions ranging from amusement to mild concern. A teenager with bright pink hair pulled out her phone and started filming. Ethan closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and began.

His voice, initially thin and reedy, gradually gained strength. He stumbled over some of the Italian phrases, butchering the pronunciation in a way that would make any opera purist weep. He forgot lines, repeated phrases, and generally made a complete mess of the performance.

But something unexpected happened. As he poured every ounce of his being into the song, struggling with the high notes and fighting the urge to simply bolt, he felt a shift within himself. The anxiety didn't disappear, but it became a strange sort of fuel. The vulnerability he felt, the sheer awkwardness of the situation, became a conduit for something else. He was exposed, utterly and completely, but in that exposure, he felt a burgeoning power.

He focused on the meaning of the words, on the hope that lies beneath the darkness, on the possibility of victory against overwhelming odds. He sang about stars and dreams and the dawn that would inevitably break. He sang about enduring, even when everything seemed hopeless.

And as he sang, he felt it. A surge of energy, not just in his own body, but in the very air around him. It was subtle, a gentle hum beneath the surface of the city’s cacophony, but it was undeniable. He was drawing on something more than just his own voice, something ancient and powerful.

When he finally reached the last note, a shaky but surprisingly sustained high B, the subway station was silent for a moment. Then, a smattering of applause broke out. A few people clapped politely, some even cheered. The teenager with the pink hair gave him a thumbs up.

Ethan, breathless and sweating, bowed awkwardly. He felt utterly ridiculous, utterly exhausted, and… strangely invigorated. He had survived. He had sung opera in the subway. He had lived to tell the tale.

As the applause died down, a new sensation prickled at the back of his mind. It was subtle, a faint whisper, but it was there. He closed his eyes, focusing his attention, and realized what it was: a distortion, a warping of reality, a flicker of something… alien.

He could feel the Voidborn's presence, not just as a vague sense of unease, but as a tangible disturbance in the fabric of the city itself. It was faint, localized, but it was growing stronger. He could sense it near the train tracks, a cold spot in the warm air of the tunnel.

The Conduit's voice echoed in his mind, faint but clear. "The Atonement… has sharpened your senses. You can see them now. You can feel them. They are here. Watching. Waiting."

Ethan opened his eyes, his gaze scanning the faces of the commuters. Were they among them? Were they disguised, hidden within the throngs of people rushing to and from their lives? He couldn't tell. But he knew they were there. He could feel them.

He thanked the small crowd, mumbled an apology for any inconvenience, and hurried out of the station, his mind racing. The opera performance had been a trial, a source of intense embarrassment, but it had also unlocked something within him. He could now sense the Voidborn. He could feel their influence on the city. And that meant he could fight them.

As he walked down State Street, the city lights blurring around him, he felt a new sense of purpose. He was no longer just a struggling artist, a hapless victim of circumstance. He was an Arcanist. He was a defender of Earth. And he was about to get a whole lot better at singing opera. He just hoped Brenda at the diner wasn’t recording his next practice session. The fate of the world might depend on it.