The Apprentice

Eiden and Bela sat below an oak’s shade and atop a hillock near the Winding Brook. The wind of the afternoon ruffled the amber sea of wheat to the West, practically howling as it passed through the trees to the East. The Whistling Hillocks.

It was Saturdas, the seventh and last day of the Wheelen Week. Seven such weeks had passed by since the second Trial. Eiden rested as best he could, not delving into any psionistry or arcanistry. He needed rest and respite, time for his psyche and soul to mend their stress-induced fractures.

To his inner sight, the sphere that was his Mind’s Eye was covered in webs of cracks. The semi-rigid covering that bound the basin had cracked, unbound shards falling inward into the vortex of psychic energy. Though the Eye was veiled in argent mana that was not broken, the natal semi-rigid tissue in between the basin proper and the casing was indeed wretched. Argent mana was for arcane threats, the kind of thing that warped the spirit not inner stress. It resisted the transfiguration of arcana, not the force of a psychic storm churning like an inferno.

Spending time with Bela was pleasant, and gave Eiden perspective. Perhaps training wantonly and without any sort of rest was foolish. Fin left him mostly to his own devices as the Exorcist had his own contracts to perform. His mentor seemed to know that any sort of strict discipline would likely fail. Eiden was too wild, too impulsive. If he found a thread worth unraveling, he would follow it into the ends of the Earth. The Prime-Material Plane of Terra was no limit to Eiden’s glut for knowledge and magick.

“Eiden,” Bela poked him in the side, eliciting an unconscious chuckle, “show me another one of those little spirits you conjure.”

The Apprentice smiled back at her, a knowing look on his face. He knew that she had seen him in some sort of contemplation and chosen that exact moment to expunge his awareness from his thoughts. Yet, he gave her no grief. Eiden needed reminding that was mortal and flawed. He needed to remember he too was just as human as the person to his side. Otherwise, his confidence would sour into arrogance, bringing him to delve too far and fast into any of the Paths. Dark corners best left unearthed as only flesh-warping and mind-flaying terror dwelled within.

Empty Breath.

The mageling’s conscious mind became empty of all transient thoughts. The winding river of rumination had run dry under the power of his unwill. The Empty Breath drew not on cognizant choice and free volition. Instead, the creed that he harbored and cultivated was one borne of the quiet. He only had to focus on his breath, and the rest would melt away given enough time.

World’s Breath.

Eiden breathed out, expelling the pneuma from his spirit and lungs. Streamers of green mana coalesced into an orb, spinning with a bright beacon at its center. A seedling of something greater, molded by the exertion of his aura. The malleable spirit-membrane pulled together the mana, holding it no different than water in one’s cupped hand.

Bela’s eyes widened at the simple spirit magicking, her wonder evident. It brought a smile to Eiden’s scratchy face. Nine-damned beard. Hairs coarser than a horse’s brush.

Eiden wanted nothing more than to be able to teach Bela magicking such as this. Why not let people learn of something so beautiful? Sure, it could be abused, but that was in certain cases such as Eiden’s, given his sorcerous Awakening. Could swords also not be abused? And what about one’s own body? Eiden himself had slowly transformed into a veritable weapon. Even without his chimaeric transfiguration and magicks, he could kill most humans, be they serf or guard in a one-to-one confrontation. Only a group of enemies or well-trained individuals such as noble retainers and protectors would stand a chance.

Magick was no different than any tool, and limiting it so much as the Cornered Kedweni had done was wrong. Profane.

Most magicks were of the spiritual kind, the stuff of pneuma and of ether. There was no harm in learning simple spiritry. It was primitive and took time to manifest strongly. Yet, he knew why all forms of the magicking arts were forbidden.

Power.

The nobles hoarded it, greedy dragons atop their piles of true and raw and unfettered power. But, just maybe, he could fell them. The very Will of the World had bestowed him a sword to do just that.

Aedan, the blade to raze tyrants and bring them to heel. I can feel its history, like an aftertaste. The sword has drank the blood of gods, dragging them back into the mortal coil kicking and screaming. It has turned the higher into basal, a bringer of entropy to the corrupted order of stagnant power.

Eiden shook his head. Maybe after he had gathered more strength and finished a few contracts. Hells, he hadn’t even finished the damned Trials of the Three yet. A single test was left. One he did not dread. Much.

Pain has always followed me. Why should I fear it? At this point, the abyssal thing has become a close friend.

The aeromancy sputtered and died, its pneumatic essence dissipating back into the greater ebb and flow. Entropy took its claim and inexorable quarry, bringing back balance.

“Awwwwhh.” Bela said, drawing out her disappointment. “Why’d ye have to dismiss your spriteling? Conjure another! This time, give it to me. I wanna hold it.”

Eiden sighed before evoking the vital breath from his lips. He silently mouthed the word for the gestalt essence, and, surprisingly, it carried forth. At the edge of Eiden’s awareness, he felt strands connected to himself and all. A tapestry so great and grand, it bound the Heavens and Earth in twain. A veritable spider-web made of invisible and intangible gossamer thread.

“Pneuma.”

The aeromantic orb resonated, the word emanating deeply from its core. In the single echo of utterance, Eiden heard the beating of a butterfly’s wings. He heard the striking of a hammer upon a white-hot blade. And, finally, the chiming of a Kedweni church bell.

Each sound seemed as clear and crystalline as a spring pond, yet they were interwoven atop each other. Like how a seamstress braids sweaters from a sheep’s wool. Above and below. Sympathy of the mundane kind.

He shook his head. This was getting close to wizardry, something too grand for his abilities. At least, at this stage. Later he could combine words of power with his spirit arts.

“Oooohh. It talks! Make it say something rude! How about a ribaldous jest? Or maybe-”

“Hold on there, Bela. I don’t want to use my magicking to make crude jokes-”

Bela frowned, pouting slightly before she shook her woes away.

“Fine. It is yours, after all. Just wish I could learn it meself.”

Eiden felt some of his pent-up rage smolder in his chest, the emotion threatening to burst. He was not mad at Bela, far from it. His impotence to change the ways of the world stoked the embers that slumbered.

“Here, take the orb. For now, it’s yours.”

Eiden forced himself back to a calm state of mind with the Empty Breath. The whirring orb of condensed wind stayed stable, not turning tempestuous in the slightest. His years of training kept his emotions from bleeding into his magicks unless he willed it so.

Bela smiled, a grin splitting her face from cheek to cheek. The haunting hollowness of her eyes had long since melted away. Forever locked in the dark corners of her mind.

Eiden handed her the orb, willing it to use only the mana contained inside its core. That way, it became like a candle. It would only live for a time, and then vanish away into the sea of wax that was the Ethereal Tide.

Bela giggled as the magickal sphere made her brown hairs ruffle and whirl about.

Eiden smiled as he whispered something childish and ribald. The orb repeated after him.

The sound of laughter increased tenfold.

Bela said her goodbyes once the dusk came to claim the White. Or day, as most called it. Though, Eiden did like the simplicity of calling night and day as Black and White.

Time to practice the new technique.

The Apprentice walked over to the Winding Brook. The dying light of the day bled onto its canvas as the Whistling Hillocks carried the name of the wind. Amber and amaranth colored long strokes upon the shimmering waters.

Water. Two atoms of hydrogen and a single atom of oxygen. Their molecular make-up makes it so that they bind together like chains. They are wont to never let go.

Surface tension and molecular cohesion. The will to hold all together in a greater link.

Eiden pulled at the ether in his surroundings, condensing water mana from the Tide. There was resistance at first, but once that invisible membrane was breached, ether was wont to follow the vacuum. A blob of liquid slowly shimmered into being above his extended palm. Tiny, barely noticeable arcs of electricity danced atop the undulating sphere, charge accumulated through the friction of planar-transference.

The Forgeling of mana was suspended by his aura, sympathetic lashings binding kinetic energy to do his bidding. A phantom of the spirit made manifest, semi-physical enough so that it could manipulate condensed and Forged ether.

Fin had taught him how to subtly use his aura, condensing it just enough to coax the ambient vital breath in his surroundings. Even at range, he could cause a gust of wind to manifest by a simple flex of his spirit. If he spun his Center, generating momentum, then he could transfer that spin through his aura to form eddies in the Tide. These foci points were only able to be manifested in areas coterminous to his auric domain.

The Apprentice studied the orb, letting its arcana wash over him. He felt the laws held within as he played around with the Forgeling. Primary elemental aspect of water. Secondary physical aspects of liquid, force, flux, pressure, cohesion, and transference. Tertiary primal aspect of passive change. As Eiden recited the Arcana of Water, he used his aura to constrain the mana into myriad shapes, making it dance around the air.

From a Forged blade wrought of water to a dome of shimmering liquid. From an amorphous silhouette of man to the figure of a hound. Forging was a magicking art not unlike wood carving or the stone-work of marble statues. It required an intense and unbending mental image and the practice and sight to bring it forth through the medium of mana. And as any art, the knowledge of how to use its materials was paramount.

Wind mana, for example, was much easier to control and manipulate than its twin, aquai. It held much less weight, and together with his affinity for it, aeromancy was practically second nature. Yet, Eiden knew he would have to learn things he found difficult. Things he had zero rapport and compatibility with. Otherwise, he’d create weaknesses for all elements were connected.

Without the element of fire, there could be no wind. There needed to be heat differentials to create imperfections in Terra’s atmosphere so that wind could be borne. Without earth, there could be no opposite to air, and thus no wind could manifest. If all was simply writhing air, then there could be no wind.

And without water, the transference of thermal energy would also be without the proper conditions to form the gust that brushed through his scarlet-auburn mop of hair.

And so, he practiced, Forging and shaping the mana in myriad configurations. Eiden flexed his aura, forcing the ether into a solid for the briefest of moments. It was not unlike ice, a crystalline structure with inherent stability. Yet, the solidified ether was not as cold as actual ice.

Sure, he could imbue an arcane aspect to entirely crystalize the ether, but practicing pure mana control with one’s aura was important. No muscle could be left unconditioned.

After dusk had fully turned to dark night, Eiden stopped his Forging practice. It was more of a warm-up, really, as he intended to execute a more advanced spirit art.

With an application of the Empty Breath, Eiden condensed an auric shroud. Manifesting a shroud increased an aura’s ability to interact with the physical in exchange for higher mana expenditure.

Eiden’s form was bathed in white mist shaped like flame. Shrouds were the expelling of mana without much more to hold the energy back other than will. Auric cloaks were the next step, a barrier of mana congregating to stop the leakage of spirit. The nomenclature was practically interchangeable as most mages didn’t care enough for the nuance.

In a snap of his will, the mist coalesced into a proper vestment, his spirit enshrouding him in a cloak. It ebbed and flowed like water but instead of heeding to gravity, the mana fell in reverse and in spite of the will of the Earth. A trail of wispy auric energy flew upwards, turning the mageling into a candle’s flame wrought of white.

The Apprentice stepped forward into the Winding Brook. His right foot hovered just above the waters, an inch before actually touching the surface.

Lumenari in the form of Alba reflected across the brook, Her image rippling as whispering wind blew through from the East.

His right foot came fully down, his aura repelling at the water below. The physical spirit-skin was stretched out horizontally, emanating from his soles. Together with the rest of his aura being spread out in the Ethereal like a sail, the surface tension kept his foot aloft.

Then came his left foot, his shroud digging into the body of liquid so that he wouldn’t slip.

All together, walking this way was incredibly taxing and a surprising challenge. It was a great reminder to Eiden that the spirit arts were not just raw and unfettered power, but also subtle and oblique skill.

Eiden walked forward, each step taking all of his focus and radiating small waves. He wobbled a bit as he tried to stabilize his center of gravity.

And then fell, face first, into the waters.

Splat.

The mageling sank to the bottom of the placid brook.

Thank you, Phineas Luciean. A hit of water like that without an auric shroud would’ve stung. And not just my face. Pride would’ve been torn now that I got someone always looking through my senses.

[Amusement.]

Forget it.

As his auric shroud was, essentially, a warm and insulating bubble, Eiden still had access to air. And a good chunk of it too as most of any shroud was manifested with a good deal of aeromantic ether.

Breathing in magickal air had every little in the way of manacarnofication. So, Eiden wasn’t risking an increase in his mana-flesh density. His projection magicks would suffer no decrease as the physical ether in the form of oxygen and other gases was cycled out. Besides that, the spirit itself had its own defense system against the process of matter-to-mana transcendence. Otherwise, a single cup of Forged water mana could turn any person into a mage.

The technique Eiden had attempted was one of pure mana control. He could’ve plane-melded instead, and would be able to accomplish the same much easier. But, there was a better way, one rooted in the simple principle of progression.

Before one carries the pail, they must learn to walk with their own burdens. Power comes from within. Anything from without can be taken, be it limb or extraneous magicking. Plane-melding is no different. What happens if I find myself without it? It’d be easier to just dig my own grave preemptively.

Besides decreasing his dependency on the planar magicking, his empowered state would also drastically improve when the fetters were released. His internalized skill with auric manipulation would easily translate to him in his plane-melded state anyhow, amplifying his natural strength.

The Apprentice clawed his way up through the waters, his aura briefly condensing the surrounding liquid and giving him purchase to climb.

Once atop the surface once more, Eiden plane-melded with the Tide. His aura donned the Etheric Plane like a glove.

The water under his feet felt no different than solid ground. The Apprentice walked unimpeded back to the shore of the Winding Brook.

Eiden looked down to his empty left sleeve.

Aye. There’s the problem. Where in the Hells does the damned thing go? I Forged it with earth mana as well, how’d that merge with the Tide?

Once the mageling reached the shore, he sat down on the ground, thinking.

The Tide is analogous to the Ether, but both planes, as they are conceptualized, are slightly different. A bit like two swords of different cultures looking vastly unlike, but both are still swords.

Nether. Ether. Aether.

Firmament. Tide. Depths and Astral.

Novigorod and his contemporaries in the Aardweni Guildam Arcanum prefer to use the Three Ethereal Planes theory rather than the more ancient nomenclature. Mana is spread through the Three Planes, built like a cyroshi pyramid or the electrons orbiting an atom. The bottom layers must be filled before the higher planes receive any essence.

Nether is mana made physical, the anchor for the spiritual essence of the world. Ether is a distorted echo, a simplified mirror-image of the physical Nether. Aether is pure energy, the stuff of souls, more akin to intangible spirit-light than palpable substance.

Before even the advent of the Vitaen Empire, ancient mages used a similar concept for planar stratification. The pyramid motif is the same, but each plane has an affinity for certain elements. The Tide has affinity for air and water. The Firmament has affinity for earth and flame. And the Astral and Depths have affinities for life and death; heat and cold; light and dark.

These seem to have roots in the Draoi of the Alder Folk and other shamanistic practices. The problem is the variations. Sometimes, the Firmament has affinity for metal and earth instead of flame, but the Tide is always a constant. It is always wrought of air and water, a sea where spirits dwell.

Eiden spent a few minutes in the semi-quiet of croaking frogs and chirping crickets before he returned to the town of Goldenforst.

Where does the spirit of earth dwell?

Eiden returned to the inn where his found-sister resided. The creaking of the floor-boards rebounded off his sensitive senses, the tenuous vibrations in the air as loud as dropped pans.

After the Trials, his magickal and corporeal senses had merged. From two separate sets of senses, they became a gestalt—greater than the sum of their parts. Eiden could still focus on specific auric or physical perceptions, yet he could no longer unlink himself from his spirit as he had done when first plane-melding.

Eiden said his greetings to the various patrons and the innkeep before he made his way up the stairs to the rooms.

The light song of bards and the rare strosunian skald was soothing but not without a bit of pomp and festiveness. The Leaden Day it was, yet that did not mean that Elaridas had yet to end. Drink of wine and ale and spirits ran like the Winding Brook under the influence of a raging monsoon. On the morrow, a good deal of men and women alike would be nursing a hangover as great as Daedulus’ beard.

With his spirit-enhanced hearing, Eiden became prescient to the creaking that would come with his steps. No noise came from him as he climbed the stairs, the only thing to alert to his presence being groaning of the building as his weight pressed down upon it.

Chimaeric exorcists weighed a ton, the calcium of their bones replaced by far denser elements and its structure turning crystalline, like gemstones found in raw ore. Yet, that did not mean they were hulking and bumbling giants.

“Grace like a cat, lad, that is what you must have. No exorcist stumbles around, for we are hunters of agility and dexterity. With the enhanced abilities that come with your chimaeric body, there are no excuses to be had.”

The Apprentice pulled from within, lightening himself by use of his spirit. His ethereal muscles drew himself up, more than halving his weight. Lightening was a technique without much drawback except mana expenditure and spiritual strain. Too much weight too fast could rupture a spirit-tendon, causing backlash in the corporeal body in twain.

The groaning in the building ceased as the Lightening took hold.

Eiden approached a door, focusing his senses. Breathing, relaxed and waning like the fleeting tide, came from the other side.

He removed the heavy, iron key from his pockets and unlocked the door to his shared room with Bela. The inn had not many rooms available since it was summer, many merchants occupying the establishment.

He made his way quietly so as to not wake Bela. Eiden sat cross-legged on his bedding by the floor. Compared to the inn back in Arvenpyre, this room was a hovel. The marble-wrought inn had beds, wooden frames with mattresses filled with goose feathers. This one was just a bit of cloth over straw and a thin blanket.

Hells take me. She’ll freeze over during the winter like this.

Eiden got up and removed his exorcist’s coat, putting it over Bela. In her unconscious state, she pulled it closer, wrapping herself tighter to conserve warmth. Though it was still summer, the nights had started to turn chilly, the nip in the air strengthening as Mortus inched closer to claim his due.

The Apprentice returned to his spot, delving into the magicking arts. He sat, cross-legged with his hands joined together in the gesture of a prayer. Yet, it was no act of faith and instead of individual power. The nodes and channels of his arms and hands joined as one, turning into a circuit. Eiden pushed the mana in his meridians, constricting the etheric vessels by breath and will alone.

One cycle, then two, then ten, then twenty. Finally one hundred cycles of ether through his channels.

Mana coursed through him as his body became a living lodestone of crackling electricity. The roaring wave of ether that he pushed throughout his spirit was unstable, too much in a single spot or too little in another. Thus, balance needed to be achieved, mana flooding in from high and low to bring back the origin state of lowest energy. Charge from between the planes came in twain, arcs of fulgur flitting around his form as his hair danced to the strum of an unseen hand.

From a roar to a whisper, in the eye of the storm, cometh the calm timbre.

Eiden controlled the flow of ether through his middle-spirit. Then came his high-spirit, his mortal soul stilling as it transformed from a turbulent grey river to a laminar flow of damascene steel.

Meditation such as this was boring and tedious, like body-weight training or endurance conditioning. Yet, like both, it was a paramount part and parcel of the magicking arts. Eiden did cycling exercises such as this every day, increasing the durability of his channels and their ability to withstand etheric pressure.

Brick by brick, sealed by the mortar of my effort, I will build my spirit into a fortress fit to protect those without strength of their own.

An hour’s time passed before Eiden switched to the next part of his routine. He cycled vital breath through his meridians, letting the pneuma ease his spirit. The accumulated strain of his months of incessant practice had left his mana-channels sore and raw.

Three hours passed before his spirit had recovered enough to continue. His body, be it soma or ether, also ached. He had studied enough spiritual anatomy to know that it wouldn’t cause him any lasting damage. At least not yet. His chimaeric body was resistant to strain as it had been forged to content with rampant mutation and structural decay.

Still, just to be sure, Eiden entered his mind.

Warm lights floated in the greyen abyss of his psyche, lanterns of his mortal soul.

Yet, these were not what the Apprentice quested for. He looked for the dark blotches that surrounded these glowing embers. The shapes slithered to and fro around the light, coming close just enough to the living flames to form fleeting shadows.

Water Servant’s Balm.

With the single calling of the mental construct’s name, Eiden summoned a spriteling.

Its form was that of an atlxolotl wrought of a transparent and gelatinous substance, glowing ethereal white like an auric shroud. The material was like molten glass, but without any heat and color, and with the elasticity of wet clay. Steam emanated from the spriteling’s form, essence dissipating into the nothingness of the mind. Yet the salamander apparition did not wane, the ether of its body as infinite as the depths of the mind.

The atlxolotl was technically not a salamander at all as it did not mature into its land-dwelling form. It was barred forever from its metamorphosis, bound to the waters of its birth. As such, the creature was hailed as a herald of innocence and purity.

The water servant danced around Eiden’s mental form, causing a white glow to emanate deep within his own mental form. It swam like a sea serpent, dragging itself forward by coiling its body and tail from side to side.

Eiden opened his eyes to the real world. Stepping outside of his Palace Above the Waters was jarring. Like stopping instantly after spinning for far too long.

An hour went to the sands of Aetheon as the Water Servant’s Balm did its due. In the outside world, nothing was apparent enough to signal the technique’s presence. It was entirely internal.

The mageling felt his spirit mend and relax, like he had bathed it in a hot spring. But instead of heat, he felt a radiating coolness like condensation formed in the cold of night. The knots in his ethereal muscles and the strain of his channels were eased so thoroughly, he almost forgot how they felt.

Yet, Eiden knew that the technique wasn’t a panacea. He had recovered from strain and overall structural damage of his channels and nodes. Not fundamental damage. Arcana changed mana at a foundational level, and such a change could only revert through rest and time. Or through excisement of the affected tissue.

Cut the limb to spare the body.

Besides the downfall of not healing fundamental change, Water Servant’s Balm could only be used once a day. The technique was surprisingly complex as Eiden had to bind a mental construct to it. The water salamander essence required down time to coalesce much like the dew of a spring morning before it could be used.

No delving in arcanistry proper for a good long while. Don’t wanna lose another arm. It’s not even the pain that scares me, but the long bout of physical therapy I’ll have to go through again. I do not want to learn to walk again.

Eiden breathed out slowly as painful memories resurfaced.

He quickly rotated to the next exercise.

Eiden placed his hands atop his crossed legs, his spirit no longer a circuit.

World’s Breath.

The Apprentice donned the Tide, turning the plane into a vestment for his spirit. An orb manifested in front of his heart, a vortex of viridian green eddies and gusts. His eyes were closed, yet his sight was not. Silver shone through his eyes, the Whitemoon Visage not to be denied.

Slowly, the whirring sphere of pneuma entered his lungs, unraveling into streamers that made their way through his nostrils. A fourth of the essence was partitioned to his aura, two-fourths for his ether-core, and the last fourth lost back to the world.

Auric and ether-core tempering functioned by slowly changing the composition of the respective spirit-constructs. Mana came in many flavors and purities. Purity was simply a function of how much of a single aspect an essence type belonged to. The rarified pneuma Eiden condensed was devoid of superfluous aspects such as hunger or combustion. It could not bring forth mana to his will as well as his blood-fire and it could not power a flame as well as phlogiston. Though, to Eiden, that was a good thing. In return, the essence became stronger and carried more force behind it.

Strike by strike, I will forge my spirit into blade fit to be called Aedan.

As the spirit tempering progressed, Eiden’s aura became vaster, more tangible even. Such that it became harder to retract his aura back into the Ethereal, the mana bleeding through like a fat man’s belly through their breeches. If Eiden had entirely manifested a shroud instead of a partial shadow, his aura would turn his surroundings into a tempest with him as the eye of the storm.

His ether-core had not grown in size, but in depth. The added pure pneuma weighed more heavily on his spirit, burrowing deeper into the Ethereal Realms. Winds ravaged the surface of the spirit-planet’s waters as swirling whirlpools and waves battered a thousand-thousand argent roots that came from the heavens above. At the core of the spirit-planet, a volatile ether dwelled, promising destruction and the spreading of ash.

An echo of primeval hunger stirred within the alchemical ether, the remnant arcana of blood and voracity forming eddies in the shape of eels and leeches.

Phantoms of a soul found fighting itself.

Dawn came in three hours, the inkling light of Solaria bleeding through the roughspun blinds of the window.

Eiden left two silver bits for Bela atop a table in the corner. The two bits equaled a quarter of a talent, enough for a farming family of three to live comfortably for four months. Barely enough for a promising merchant household to break their fast come morning.

Now. What the Hells am I supposed to do?

Fin was to return to imbue the rest of the mutagens, but he was a week late. The Exorcist could contact Eiden and vice-versa through the bronze watch, yet neither had done so.

Firstly, Fin could handle himself as only small armies or extremely powerful beings could pose a threat. If Fin found himself in dire straits, what good would Eiden be of? He had yet to finish the Trials as the third was still left. The second Trial only counted inasmuch as granting an exorcist a chimaeric body—a scaffolding or foundation for future mutagenic imbuement. The mutagens were superficial, being added and removed over time.

The Apprentice made his way through the inn, passing by early-waking patrons and staff. Eiden browsed the local markets as they were being set up.

Maybe I’ll do some good. Either someone desperate will get a break in the form of coin, or a killer will lose their worthless life. Either’s good.

His Empathy quested for a mixture of emotions. Jealously, greed, want, hatred, desperation, and malice. The things he associated with a shakedown. Eiden walked through the greatest clouds that held these negative feelings, spending his coin wantonly.

To get a fish, you gotta have some worthwhile bait.

After some time, yet still a few hours before noon, four rough-looking men eyed him, whispering to themselves and shadowing him from afar. The mageling weaved through the town, exiting through the western gate to the forest.

A savage grin that showed his large white canines split his face from ear to ear.

The Whistling Hillocks was an excellent place for a daylight robbery or murder. The howling wind distorted sound, and trees blocked sight from Goldenforst. No one would hear the screams.

Eiden sat down in a meditative pose, his eyes closed as he prepared his spirit.

“Glad that you could make it.” Said the Apprentice, opening his eyes. “I worried you lost your way.”

The mageling stood up, his posture relaxed. He donned a simple, grey sleeveless tunic of quality cloth along with brown breeches that came to his knees and then were tied by leather to his shins. His feet were bound in cloth-slippers prefered by martial masters in times of peace.

A fat coin purse dangled on the mageling’s right hip, yet no dagger nor dirk nor blade was by his side.

“You thinkin’ this a jest? Eh, you soulless vagabond?”

If only you’d known how right you truly are.

The man that uttered the words was barely a man proper, his height staggered and his beard unkempt. The pungent odor of alcohol clung to him as he was wont to cling to the bottle.

Both he and his three other cronies held wooden clubs that could split a skull given enough force. The leader even had a shoddy dagger tied to his hip. It was without embellishment with a wooden handle and a double-edged blade.

“Come at me, and pay the price.” Said the Apprentice. “I’ll give ye a thrashing so thorough, the parish priest will think the Nine-Hells were set loose upon the Earth.”

The jibe gave the group pause before the liquor-leaden oaf gathered his dwindling wits and called bluff.

“Get ‘em! He’s a single one. We got four of us, and he got no weapons.”

Eiden smiled, his sharp teeth poking through just enough to glint in the morning sun.

The two lackeys charged while the drunkard flanked around to get Eiden from behind, unsheathing a dagger.

Bloody idiot actually wants to kill me.

Instead of anger welling in his heart, anticipation and a bit of perverse glee sang true.

Eiden stood his ground, waiting for the three to reach him, all while he kept the tricky one in his sight.

The Apprentice plunged into the Cat’s Paw stance, striking the one on the right with a palm-thrust while he performed Fowl’s Eddy with his left hand to deflect his other assailant. His palm-thrust caught his foe on the side of the temple, ringing his skull louder than a church bell and rupturing his inner-ear.

A glorious splash of blood ensued as the lackey let go of the club and clutched his head.

The Fowl’s Eddy technique was slightly off-center, and as it was an unarmed Form, it was at a disadvantage against a weapon without proper magicking. The club struck a glancing blow on his Forged arm, causing it to ripple like a flimsy waterskin.

A body may lose its flesh, yet the still waters of the Ether run deep and everlasting.

Eiden’s arm continued forward from the deflection, grasping the lackey by the neck and pulling him in. A headbut broke his nose and a kick to the knickers sent him rolling.

A club struck at his back, winding Eiden. Yet, he needed no breath, for the pneuma in his spirit was more than enough. He ducked with the blow, rolling away and gaining distance.

The roll was executed with practiced ease, his hand coming down to turn him back around as he came to his feet.

Now, only half of the original four remained standing. The last lackey left standing and the alcoholic leader whispered to each other. But, the world’s wind was Eiden’s domain, and his aura grasped at their fleeting words.

“Avoid his left. He likes to defend there a bit much. I’ll flank his right.”

The two came closer, circling Eiden, waiting for a moment of inattention to strike.

The lackey rushed in, feinting a high, vertical blow, but instead sweeping from low to high diagonally. And away from his left.

The Cat’s Paw Form was nothing if not its namesake: fluidity and grace. Eiden switched his striking palm to a deflection, pulling the wooden club away from him. He was sure to not strike it, as that would only cause him damage, instead using its own momentum to make his opponent over-commit.

Eiden side-stepped and lashed out with Serpent’s Cauldron, catching the sneaky drunkard on the wrist, knocking his weapon away into the grass. A well-placed snap-kick to the unmentionables sent the man to the ground, wailing like a cheap whore.

The still-standing lackey was dismantled with a single back-step and then another kick to the groin. This time, it was a roundhouse.

Eiden surveyed the groaning men that clutched at their wounds. They weren’t used to pain, yet, most of them were starting to rouse. Likely, they wanted to bolt.

He released his aura, causing the air to stagnate and congeal atop the bandits. Along with the physical bindings, the mental pressure kept them down.

Can’t have you running on me.

He walked leisurely to the dagger and picked it up, twirling it in his hand. He slit his own wrist, dousing the blade in blood. The shallow wound healed in a breath.

“For the crime of attempted murder of a foreign diplomat and vitaen exorcist, I sentence you to death.”

Scarlet flames danced upon the dagger, bathing it in profane ruby-red.

The drunkard paled, soiling his breeches in piss as he saw the magicking before him.

“No, no, no. Please, please. Please, no. Gods.”

The pleading fell on three deaf ears.

“I have a family. We’s needs the coin. We—we got debts. We—”

“A price must be paid. Blade begets blade, and blood begets blood. Would you not have buried your dagger to the hilt in my gut given the chance?”

“Please, I won’t ever hold a blade to anyone no more! I won’t thieve or threaten. Please mysir, spare me!”

The scarlet flames sputtered and died, leaving the weapon coated in rust colored black like coal from the Nine-Hells.

The Apprentice let the blade fall to the ground. The dagger pierced the soil, staying upright as if a grave marker.

“Very well. Your life is not forfeit, but you shall never hold a blade again.”

“Thank you, mysir! Your kindness and mercy know no bounds!”

In a burst of inhuman speed, the Apprentice picked up the rusted dagger and cleaved through the man’s left hand.

The edge had been corroded by the unholy flames, so it did not cut true. Instead, the blade rent through the man’s flesh like a jagged claw rather than a forged weapon.

Blood spewed through his stump as the drunkard looked down in numb horror and incomprehension. A blood-curdling scream ensued, so loud and strong and unhindered that its power would render the man without a voice for some time after. The blood vessels in his eyes and face burst from the display, dousing him in red pinpricks of all sorts like miniscule pock marks.

A back-hand slap knocked him unconscious. Azure fire cauterized his wounds and burned away at the encroaching necrosis caused by the previous attack.

The Apprentice looked down at a severed hand melting as it was digested by living blood-fire. No ash would be left, only rust and the scent of spilt scarlet.

“A price paid. And a lesson learned. You shall never hold a blade again for fear of losing your remaining hand.”

The remaining conscious men were still stuck to the ground, the very air around them as heavy as lead. It shimmered like the Winding Brook at noon, and held the weight of the depths.

The Apprentice looked into their eyes, his own shinning white like Alba Herself. Yet inside them was no beacon to guide the lost amidst the Black. Only piercing cold fit more from Mortus rather than the lighten form of Lumenari.

“Take the fool with you. He needs no healers. He’ll not die. I care not for your tongues, yet if you soil my name with falsehoods, I will claim more than just his hands.

“I’ll take yours too.”

That same day, Eiden walked towards the townhall where the Elder and Mayor and Lord alike did their dues. He donned his exorcist’s coat and twin blades and showed them his seal of Fatalis. It was an amulet of the Order, a stone disc wrapped in metal guilding in the form of a twin serpents sucking on each other’s tails. The Web of Wyrd, a strosunian symbol for fate, was etched upon most of the disc’s surface. A leminscate in the likeness of a snake forever consuming itself was embellished boldly in the middle of the Wyrden Web.

“There need be no more justice nor reparands made to me. I have dealt the perpetrators a proper lesson.”

The minor lordling, Byomir Ydden, and the bailiff nodded. This was a small agricultural town, so his status was above theirs, even if Eiden was not of noble lineage. He was a sanctioned magicking practitioner, they would dare not to insult a mage to his face.

“Where do their families reside?” Eiden asked, eliciting wide eyes and fear from the assembled counsel of leaders before him.

“I hope you mean not to exact punishment on the son for the sins of the father.” Said the town Elder. His long life had endowed him with brass bollocks, it seemed. That, and a conscience.

“Much to the contrary. Depending on their financial situation I aim to compensate them. Let’s start with Reylef. Did he have dependents?”

“Yes,” answered the Elder, “He did. Two sons, a wife, and his mother. Reylef’s a wood-worker. And without his left he’ll not find work for some time. Besides that, he’s an indentured worker given his debts. If he does not pay come winter, his house will be taken, and his family will be bereft of hearth and home.”

Another man came forward, his features common, though his garb was a bit pampered with dyed cloth and a green hat with a peacock’s feather. The Mayor, marked by the sigil on his left breast, coughed.

“If you’ll excuse me, sirs.” He said with practiced ease. “The Gaeyan parish priest Tedden has foretold a long and harsh season of Mortus this year. Reylef and his kin will not survive the winter solstice.

“Druids of Gaeya do not lie in matters of Mortus, lest they incur the Writ of the Grave.”

Eiden nodded, thanking the Mayor for the timely information. Though, even if the family would survive the winter, Eiden would still pay them his due in full.

The lordling, Byomir, his clothing much more rich than the Mayor’s, stepped forward with a haughty posture. The Mayor was elected for middling matters among the commonfolk, and as such, was inferior to the noble Lord proper.

The Mayor got his cap’s feather from your arse, I’d reckon.

“We can arrange to give the coin on your behalf, sir exorcist. You need not sully yourself with such minor labor. Reylef was a serf, a woodworking peasant. Him and his ilk will need not more than a few shills and no more than a talent. Much less are they fit for your presence”

Eiden breathed out slowly, yet still felt himself ready to burst. His anger leaked in his voice as it left his lips, yet he did not yell. His tone was a mixture of disdainful growl and haughty confidence bordering on arrogance.

“I almost killed a mother’s son, and the father of two boys. They at least deserve my presence. I’ll not have them think they have no recourse and leave them to a cold and horrid death. You lordlings already leave them powerless enough.”

The last sentence ruffled Byomir’s feathers. Eiden felt the roiling waves of anger pour from the man’s mind.

The town lord began to open his mouth to speak, yet stopped his tongue before he could doom himself proper.

The Apprentice’s posture did not change, and yet his presence did. It felt like a storm had been given life, writhing with boundless rage and fury. The wooden planks that made up most of the building groaned as if soundless wind battered the townhall.

None in the town were spared its wrath as the invisible pressure wormed its way into their minds. Tyrannical and unbending as steel hardened and quenched in blood, acid, and oil alike.

Eiden quickly reigned in his aura. It was a deliberate show of power as he had not manifested it fully physically but instead mostly mentally. The groaning of the building were instead focused gusts of wind generated through deliberate coaxing of ambient mana rather than an auric manifestation proper.

“Take me to Reylef’s home.” The Apprentice said with a voice like the calm before disaster. It made his previous display much more impactful as the encroaching silence hammered upon them a single fact.

They could not foretell what he would do. Was he to be a savior, or a savage? That was scarier than any magicking he possessed.

Reylef’s house was humble, made mostly of wood with dirt flooring. Such could be seen through its open door. The little plaster that reinforced the walls was enough to keep the cold away with the hearth.

I’ll have to change that. A few shills should be enough to pay for a new roof that isn’t made of rotten thatch and enough plaster to keep warm come winter.

Reylef’s wife Eyara was washing clothes in a wash-tub. Bubbles frothed in its waters as she scrubbed the cloth atop a scrub-plate, a contraption framed with wood and made of metal plates. By rubbing soapy clothing atop them, any stains and dirt were wont to wash away. Unfortunately, it also damaged the cloth a bit every time.

Eyara wore simple clothes, a shawl covering her hair. She was a pious and wed woman, so she kept her features guarded. A charm hung on her neck, made of wood and painted with purple lacquer and yellow paint. A dual symbol of Elaria and Solaria, the Sol-Mother and the Heavenly Bride.

She stopped her work once Eiden and his entourage consisting of Sunforst’s Elder and bailiff approached.

“I am Eiden Luciean, Apprentice-Exorcist of the Vitaen Order of Magi. I come bearing horrible news and a bit of good news.”

Eiden let the statement hang in the air, before he continued.

“May we talk inside?”

Eyara nodded, a frown worming its way on her face. She avoided looking the men in the eyes as kedweni women were seen as lesser in station in their culture.

Eiden entered the house, and prompted Eyara to sit as he delivered the information as compassionately as he could.

“Your husband, Reylef, attempted to end my life. The appropiate punishment for attemped-murder of a vitaen exorcist is death by hanging then quartering. Instead, I removed his left-hand, and will not press further price for I have deemed it paid in full.”

Eyara, to her praise, did not react much. She did not cry, and only nodded. From her mind, came feelings that felt as old and ancient as a standing stone. Helplessness and acceptance of oppression. She had been pressed under the heel of nobility and men all her life. This was not new.

“Now that I’ve done away with the horrid, let me tell you of the good.” Eiden said after some time passed. “Your husband will suffer greatly in his craft. As such, I will be paying you and yours a stipend so that you’ll live the rest of your lives as if Reylef still had his left.

“On top of leaving the Mayor a predetermined sum, I will personally pay for renovations of your home. Your walls with have more plaster, so that you’ll not shiver come night. And, I’ll pay for a new hearth as yours is cracking and crumbling as is. So too shall your roof no longer drip come the monsoon season of Gaeya.”

The statement shocked Eyara visibly. She looked at Eiden with confusion apparent. There had to be a hidden threat or gimmick behind the apparent charity.

Her expression was quickly reigned in, as if understanding something.

“Am I to be taken as your wife then?”

It made a sick sort of sense. Eiden would be essentially taking the role of provider for her family.

I bloody fucking hate this nine-damned world.

“No. I do this to pay my own price, and I want nothing in return. Neither coin nor favor nor gratitude.”

This confused Eyara even more, something the mageling did not think possible.

Eiden sighed, a long and suffering-ladden thing that hinted at a troubled past not yet resolved.

“The world is no simple black and white, but instead wrought of countless greys. I stopped a would-be murderer in his tracks. Yet, I otherwise doomed an innocent family. Sure, I could’ve ignored Reylef and his cronies, but that would’ve led to a perhaps worse set of events.

“He would’ve killed another. And he would be hanged, and your family would be in hard times just the same. And though I don’t condone his actions, I understand where they stem from.

“He resents not being able to provide for you and yours, so he steals and drinks with the coin plundered from his marks. He resents the well-off and the nobility, but why, I am not entirely sure. I will not pry, so suffice it to say, this has been building for a long time.

“I provided the needed straw that would break the horse’s back. I spent coin wantonly and presented myself as a would-be target to draw out any thieves.

“Though, I did not do this as some sick game.”

I did.

“I was not hunting for bad men.”

I was.

“I quested for the desperate, the kind of people that had no choice other than to steal. I would’ve given Reylef and his cronies a full silver haft if he had not drawn his blade.

“And yet, he did. Reylef did not do it out of desperation. He did not do it out of a need to protect. He did it because I represented all he hated in his life. And that was his crime. Letting blind hatred draw steel. I don’t condemn his feelings, but instead his blindness to them.”

By the time Eiden stopped speaking, he did not entirely know if he talked of Reylef or of himself. At that point, they seemed one and the same except a single thing: power.

“I will not preach to you any longer. I bind specters by oaths, I do not curry and spread faith.” Said Eiden. “I think my words have been enough and then some. Reylef is probably with his friends somewhere, nursing his wounds. He is not in any danger, so he’ll not need a healer. It’s best if he learns from the pain.”

Eiden paused for a breath.

“Tell me Eyara, can either you or Reylef read?”

Eiden ended up also paying for letter lessons from the local town scribe for both Reylef and Eyara. Though the man could no longer work as a carpenter, he would be able to learn some scribe-based trade. Eyara could also help as scribing was a fine job for any person no matter their gender in kedweni society. Though, to Eiden, baring a person from plying a trade because of their sex was just plain stupid. Besides that scroll-work and writing was always in demand, especially when people wanted to write wills and inheritances.

After leaving the scribe’s house, Eiden stretched his aura through the town. He quested with his mindsight, looking for the particular signature he had memorized.

There. Resentment as hard as stone and hatred as red as the Dragon Herself.

The Apprentice made his way through Sunforst, walking from the central square where most crafts and trades like scribery and bartering were done to the residencial outskirts. Among the rickety houses with barely any plaster to keep them through the winter, he found his quarry.

Reylef Half-Hands

Reylef had stepped on the proverbial hidden serpent. He thought the mark would be an easy one, and it had even come with the added-benefit of being some lordling.

Why’d he have to be here? Why here of all places, damnable nobles and their power. They break even the laws of Gaeya with their magicking.

A series of knocks came from the door. Tregor got up from the stool at his side and opened it ever so slightly to peak outside.

The door came open in a burst as the man fell on his bum, whimpering at the side.

There he stood, the red-haired exorcist.

“You and I need to have a talk. I mean you no harm, much the opposite. Lie to me and I’ll know.”

“I need to talk to Reylef alone. Leave us and return when the evening burns amber.”

The three men, friends of Reylef, hesitantly left. They avoided Reylef’s gaze, their shame of abandoning him apparent.

“What’s it ya want?” Asked Reylef in drunken courage. He consigned himself to death, as losing his left hand had sealed his and his family’s fate. They would be on the streets come winter. And they would not last through the cold.

“First thing’s first.” Said the Apprentice. “I want you to know that I will be paying a stipend to your family so that they do not starve nor freeze come winter.

“They do not owe me anything, be it coin or favor or gratitude. I will not punish the son for the sins of the father.”

Eiden let the statement hang in the air. He let the man realize he still had a life, still had something worth fighting for. And for him to realize there was a gimmick.

“Though they owe me nothing for the financial help I will give them, you do owe me a price for the attempt on my life. It has been half paid with the loss of your left hand and your livelihood. To pay it in full, I require you to answer me a few questions and then swear an oath of silence.

“Heed my words, because you did not heed them before. I will know truths from falsehoods. Understood?”

Reylef nodded, opting to not speak. Now that he and his had a future, he had something to lose.

“Good. Now, why did you decide to kill me?”

Reylef took his time, thinking of the best way to frame his answer. Of course, he chose to answer skewed truths.

He opened his mouth to answer.

The mageling’s eyes shone silver-white, like the whitemoon had been split in two and trapped in his head.

“Again. You do not heed my words. I know not just if you lie. I know if you choose to omit certain facts. Be very careful, my mercy is at its limits.”

Though his eyes seemed like holy beacons to guide the lost, they held something other in them. Like the glint of steel under a crescent whitemoon, his sight beheld an edge. With the mercy there was also an equal and opposite cruelty. A willingness to spill blood without hesitation.

Reylef nodded.

“I had a wife before Eyara. I had courted her sister, Wyna. She was a winter younger. Both me and Eyara are twenty seven winters each…”

Reylefs gaze was distant. A scowl constricted his face, hatred so dense and fiery, it was blinding.

“The local lordling, Byomir Ydden, invoked the right of the ‘first night.’ Really, it was just rape. Wyna died a week afterwards. The fiend ploughed her without regard to pain or injury, or basic fuckin’ human decency.

“He did in it our last house. In me own bed. I can still remember the screams as I stood outside. I burned it down shortly after…

“She… she didnae make it. Internal bleedin’.”

Eiden’s muscles screamed from the inside, his posture turning tense as his digits twitched. Howling rage mounted inside his spirit, yet it was stopped in its tracks with the creed of nothingness.

Empty Breath.

“Reylef.” The mage commanded, his voice behelding the authority of an ancient stelle. The half-hand man could almost make out glyphs and strange symbols forming inside the black of his mind.

Reylef looked in the exorcist’s eyes. They shone profane red, an inferno of fury raging just beneath.

“Byomir Ydden will die a death more horrible than any other. Your prayers for retribution will be answered. I will even let you look him in the eyes while you gut him.

“I need to make some preparations, follow me.”

It was late-evening, bordering on dusk. Alba and Erebus hung low on the horizon, Their gaze almost anticipatory. There would be retribution, there would be balance.

Eiden bound both himself and Reylef in his aura, covering their spirits in the Ethereal. Slowly, he imbued the aura with the half-step Arcana of Nothingness, letting the Empty Breath hold sway. The difference between half-step and full arcana was purity and function. Half-step arcana was also known as a creed or concept, something that could be cultivated in the mind and then brought forth through the medium of mana. Creeds held not the depth of power that arcane noesis held, instead being a shadow or pale imitation of arcanistry proper.

The magicking Eiden employed was a primitive hybrid technique, requiring him to hold the Empty Breath and not execute any extraneous magicks through the entirety of the channeling.

They walked through the streets, invisible to all, eyes seemingly slipping from their forms like they were coated in ocular oil.

“Do not talk to anyone. They cannot see us under my magicking. Do not stray from me, else the spell will break. Act only if I say so.”

The duo made their way through the town towards Ydden Manor. It was walled off by stone half over Eiden’s height.

“Jump on my back, I’ll carry you over.”

“I ain’t a wee tyke! I’m nae gonna jump on some man’s back. Can’t you gimme a hand?”

“Can’t, my magicking will fail to shroud you up there. I need close proximity and, besides that, It only works in crowds and mundane places. Otherwise, there’s too much strain on the illusion and breaks apart under scrutiny.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, Hells take me. Do you want to kill Byomir or not?”

A fire lit in Reylef’s eyes. He jumped on Eiden’s back without any reservation.

The Apprentice bent his knees, the weight of a full grown man not hindering him in the slightest. He soared, sailing over the wall in a smooth arc.

To any observer, they were just a blur or a gust of wind.

Eiden landed with a thud only he could hear. His spirit strained as it held both his weight and Reylef’s added burden. He dropped Reylef unceremoniously as his strength waned.

Too much. Gods, that’s too much. Felt like I broke the legs and back of my spirit.

Eiden’s ethereal muscles were strained to the breaking point, an influx of aether flooding into them as interconnective tissue of the spirit was ripped apart and ragged.

From a roar to a whisper, in the eye of the storm, cometh the calm timbre.

Along with the Empty Breath and his stilling mantra, Eiden’s spirit ebbed, its flow stabilizing and slowing. The braided membrane between his middle and high-spirit mended over, a thin swathe of spiritual scar tissue sealing the wound.

Can’t strain meself anymore than this. Else I won’t be able to jump back over.

Eiden went forth, Reylef following closely behind. With the Trace and Empathy, the Apprentice easily avoided any servants, ducking behind walls and furniture and waiting for them to pass.

Thankfully there were no battle mages proper in Goldenforst, only a minor parish priesthood. Specifically, Gaeyan in nature. The bunch of glorified magicking farmers wouldn’t be able to pierce through Eiden’s veil.

Slowly but surely, the duo went deeper and deeper into the manor. Eiden still remembered the particular psychic signature of Byomir, so it wasn’t too difficult. Unfortunately, the damned place was filled to the brim with latent psychic energy left behind by Byomir. It was his house after all, and the man seemed to love imprinting himself on every piece of damnable decoration.

Who needs so many cyroshi vases and pottery? Only psychopaths need twelve portraits of themselves painted on black alabaster.

Eiden followed the fabric of the mental realm, questing for the particular weight that nestled upon it.

There.

The Apprentice and Reylef reached the town lord’s study, only to find it empty save for five more instances of Byomir portraits painted on cyroshi clayware.

Gods. How does he afford these? The damned things have to be imported and the sheer tax the Holy Kingdom imparts on them must be grand. Unless they were smuggled.

Probably smuggled.

Eiden skimmed through the room in both body and spirit, not finding much but a dent in the fabric of the psychic plane. It was like a stone nestled in a river that didn’t belong there. It was hidden away deliberately, yet where the other mental energies were smooth and mundane, this one was pitted and heavier than the rest.

He has no mages in his employ and he is no mind magicker himself. Probably an unconscious use of primitive spiritry and psionistry. There is something he is hiding and wants no one else to find out.

The Apprentice followed the psychic weight to a wooden wall to the right of the desk. He strained his senses, not knowing exactly what to expect and thus leaving them as open as possible.

Reverberations like the hollow echoes borne inside a lute when it’s lightly tapped. Of course there’s a secret murder dungeon. There always is with these pricks.

Eiden skimmed through the latent mentai of the room once more, looking for another discrepancy that could lead to opening the hidden door.

Finding none, the Apprentice walked to the desk in the middle of the room. It was the heaviest weight in the mental realm, and so it probably obscured anything of import near it.

Strange. It’s bolted to the floor, and is too heavy and thick to be a normal piece of furniture.

He tapped its surface looking for any hollow cavities. He didn’t find any besides the drawers.

The machinery is likely muffled by goose feathers or cloth of some sort bolted to the walls of the desk. There are no key-holes and no exposed pieces that can be twisted, turned, pushed or pulled. But, there are too many drawers and too many of them are empty. The opening mechanism is definitely related to this.

“What are we lookin’ for?” Whispered Reylef.

“Byomir is hidden below the manor, somewhere. The desk is the key to opening the door down to his den of iniquity.”

The answer only worked to confuse Reylef even more.

Eiden opened and closed the drawers, listening with rapt attention. Each opening and subsequent closing gave way to a series of turning gears and finally a small sound like a key fitting into a lock—a distinctly mechanical click.

Can’t manifest a physical shroud to amplify my hearing, else the veil will be canceled. And I doubt I’ll be able to pull it back quickly nor easily into my spirit proper given the practically gaping wound on my inaetheric membrane. Gotta brute force the combination.

A good twelve minutes later, Eiden found the correct pattern. The shifting of gears groaned from below to his superhuman hearing. Reylef spooked as he saw a panel to the left of the desk open up into a downward tunnel with a ladder. It slid on well-greased gears and railings, barely any sound to accompany it.

“Com’on now. Don’t get the spooks. We got a bastard to kill.”

Reylef’s nerves melted away into the fires of his wrath.

Eiden climbed down first as Reylef followed. The tunnel was wrought of stone bricks not clay, their surface grey and smooth.

Quarry stone. Expensive, the nearest quarry is two miles east at Trigoztar. It’d take some good amount of coin and time to build this. This is much older than Byomir, and the man’s no older than thirty. Either an ancient familial escape route or vault or both.

There was a good ten meters of ground above them when they reached the bottom of the shaft. By that point, there were no stone bricks but instead just plain stone. The dungeon was built into an already existing cave-system.

Dammit, should’ve studied more of those damn geography and stone treatises. Could’ve had more information like elevation and structural integrity. I’ll have to limit my magicks, else even I’ll die under the resulting rubble.

The rock of the cave was supported by thick wooden pillars and suprisingly dry with barely any condensation or even moss. It made some amount of sense to Eiden’s rudimentary knowledge of aquifers and earthly waters. The manor was built on an elevation and there were deep wells all around the town. Those would probably dry the dungeon up like a thirsty man in the desert.

Eiden and Reylef trotted carefully down the small passage until they reached a closed wooden door reinforced with a steel frame. The chemical tang in the air suggested the wood had been treated to ward off rot and the steel was slick with iridescent oil to protect against oxidation.

Can’t tell the type of steel. Looks strange though. High carbon content as there’s a heavy degree of earth mana rather than just metallic essence. The oil is some type of hayseed or grain-based production.

Eiden extended his aura into the room beyond. The Trace was inundated with life-aspected mana, peculiar given there were no roots that extended into the stone nor any moss to cover it. A single mental signature pulsed within. There was nothing else of much note as the Flux couldn’t sense much except give Eiden the general location of Byomir. The Apprentice held off on summoning the Whitemoon Visage, lest he alert Byomir of his presence.

“Stay behind me and let me bind him first. Then he is all yours.”

The door opened as slow as the wading through thigh-high water. It did not make a single creak or croke as it was inundated with oil and grease.

Smart. The echoes would rebound and be heard from the study above if it weren’t this silent.

Candle light warmed the interior of a medium-sized room wrought from cave. A door to the left headed to gods-knew-where.

Byomir had his back to the duo as they crept forward. The man was checking bags of some sort. There were tables with various scales and weighing paraphernalia and tools all around. Journals and books of myriad sorts littered the furniture.

I’ll need to take a look at those later.

Eiden took his time observing the man. Byomir was tall compared to most commoners given he never missed a meal. Yet, he was not corpulent, but instead only possessed a moderate belly the size of a small mound. His moderate physique suggested swordsmanship and dueling training as was common for kedweni nobility. The Ydden lordling had brownish hair and green eyes bordering on blue. His garb was vibrant and dyed with hues of viridian and amber, colors of his family seal.

After seeing that nothing of note would happen, the Apprentice let go of the obscurity veil. The creed that possessed his soul vanished, dissipating into the sea of spirits.

As he let go of the arcana of nothingness, Eiden surged forward. The loop of chain tied to his hip was now in his hands.

The noble turned as he heard the footsteps echoing inside the room.

A roundhouse kick to his lower back sent him reeling to the ground. And as the noble writhed and twisted, Eiden sat atop him, pressing his chimaeric weight upon him.

Manacles snapped around the lordling’s wrists and ankles with a click.

“Breath slowly, else you’ll faint.” Eiden said with ease and calm. “If you pass out, I will wake you up with a blade to the foot.”

The eerie stillness that pervaded his casual speech served only to unnerve the lordling further.

“Now. You will answer me truthfully. I will know if you spew falsehoods. Lying to an exorcist is not just impossible.

“It’s ill-advised.”

Eiden waited a spell, looking straight into Byomir’s eyes before continuing.

“Did you rape Wyna, daughter of Jutta and once-wife of Reylef?”

The chains tightened around the noble’s limbs, cutting off circulation painfully. Spurs started to form atop them, digging into his skin but not yet drawing blood.

These were no simple chains, but instead Aedan in the form of links. The blade was malleable and its true appearance was a heap of molten silver. In the current state, only half of Aedan’s total mass was present.

“No.” The lordling croaked out with ragged breath.

Eiden looked to Reylef and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“I will give you a blade forged from my own soul. Its wounds will scour the spirit and hurt like the Nine Hells themselves.”

The Apprentice held his hand over his heart as quicksilver poured from his chest. It bled through the fabric of his tunic, forming a hilt that Eiden grabbed a hold of. With a flourish, he unsheathed the blade in a single bound, its edge singing with anticipation.

Eiden flipped the blade with a twirl, holding it by its edge as he offered the hilt to Reylef.

“Can I cut off his prick?” Asked Reylef with a vindictive gleam in his eyes.

“Aye, ye can. That’d be hellishly poetic, wouldn’t it?”

Reylef could only agree.

The noble’s screams didn’t leave the confines of the hidden vault. Eiden used the man’s pampered clothes to make a gag, so there wasn’t much noise that could escape.

Between the whimpers and sobs, and before the gag, Byomir pleaded.

“Why? You exorcists hunt monsters and specters, not man!”

Eiden could only smile, a mocking rictus on his face.

“Why, am I not doing just that?

“You violated a person, and left them for dead. You ignored—no, I doubt that. You enjoyed their pain and helplessness. You reveled in it.

“We are no different in that regard. Monsters that enjoy the pain of others. The difference is that I hunt our kind and your ilk.

“I’ll not let you ask nor say anything else. The only thing I’ll hear from you shall be wails of pain.”

Reylef’s vengeance was cold as was his fury. The man methodically broke down Byomir, cutting off pieces of his flesh morsel by excruciating morsel.

And Eiden felt it all. Aedan the Greyen Sword was an extension of his soul, body and spirit. It projected his aura through it, and thus also his auric senses. Empathy let him taste the pain first hand. It let him experience the despair and the resentment. And the regret.

The regret of not killing Reylef in the first place. For the monster in human skin did not regret his sins, only being caught.

And through it all, understanding came. Before, Eiden couldn’t rightly understand what made Byomir do what he did. Now, the blissful ignorance was lifted. He knew and felt why the lordling had committed such atrocities. Eiden himself would’ve done the same had he been born in the same twisted mind and reared in the same circumstances.

That was what most scared him, the closeness of monstrosity that all were near.

Each strike made Eiden grimace as the wounds echoed through his mind. The blade was truly double-edged, and its purpose was of just arbitration. Its price was that the wielder could not avoid feeling what they did upon others. Lest they become exactly what they hunted. Paradoxically, the blade also desired the wielder to understand and even become similar to their quarry. The artifact wanted its bearer not to be inundated by hatred, but by compassion.

By accord.

Reylef plunged the blade into Byomir’s chest, cleaving his blacken heart in two. No blood splattered on the room nor on his clothes, for Aedan drank it all. The lordling shrivelled like a grape-turned-raisin before he crumbled to ash that fell into a mound.

Argent chains fell to the floor, etchings like read-wound threadings burning with redden pyrelight.

The runes on the blade of Aedan shone vibrant carnelian in sympathy to its chainbound form. Hints of azure ember broke through the scarlet, turning the etchings on both halves purple and then pure afternoon-sky blue.

A word reverberated inside Eiden’s mind and together with it came a glyph.

Heartskewer.

A red circle with a horizontal line bisecting it. A diagonal stroke pierced it, bleeding over its boundaries.

Rend the core and drink the marrow. Let smoldering hatred bathe the blade of the soul.

Reylef dropped the blade in surprise, its metal clattering on the stone floor.

The twin halves of Aedan melted into a pile of slag before slithering back to Eiden. The liquid wound around his foot before plunging back into his heart. It seared its way back into his spirit, bringing with it the condensed vitality of a lifetime.

The pain was middling, Eiden’s steelborn heart having endured worse by his own twisted soul.

A black and ragged hole was left in the fabric of his tunic, letting the scar on his chest bare. It was jagged, stretching from left to right like a mixture between burn and claw mark.

A pulse rippled when Aedan met with his Heart of the Bodies, like two bells synchronizing to an unseen and arcane rhythm. Another set of whisperings and a glyph came as well.

Heartseeker.

A blue circle with an open eye inside and a dowsing rod above it.

Seek the core and bear the spirit. Let unclouded eyes of cold fury rinse the sight of the soul.

Eiden’s eyes burned, blood welling in his lids like salty tears. A thousand-thousand pinpricks tore his sight from the inside out. The glyph for Heartseeker branded itself upon his irises. The pupil for the etching coincided with his own as the glyph danced inside his eyes.

No screams or wails of pain came from him, nor did his eyes close. They stayed open as Eiden waited for the branding magick to pass. Aedan hung heavy in his spirit like lead weights used in the balancing of scales.

A price paid in full.

A balance of black and white.