The spiritual storm faded like a receding tide, its weight lifting slowly from the ridge. Arthur remained still, his arms slack at his sides, breath slow and even. He didn't speak.
"You are learning," Aquan said, stepping beside him, voice quiet so it wouldn't disturb the balance. "Not to dominate—but to coexist."
Arthur didn't nod. He just inhaled again, letting the breath slide deep into his chest, then exhaled in a rhythm that didn't belong to any technique—just his own.
Tiara was sitting cross-legged nearby, her hair tied back and her hands resting gently on her knees. The shimr around her body was faint now, like moonlight on water. She looked peaceful, but her eyes opened the mont Arthur moved.
"You look like you just wrestled a mountain," she said, smiling faintly.
"I did," Arthur replied, stepping off the ridge and walking back toward the camp. "Except the mountain was inside ."
Ali followed a few steps behind, arms folded behind his back, nodding with his usual sage-like approval. "A very apt taphor, Sir Arthur. The mountains within are indeed steeper than any range outside."
Arthur gave him a sideways glance. "You always talk like a monk who lost his temple."
"I did, in fact," Ali replied with a grin. "You'd be surprised how literal that statent is."
They walked quietly after that. The plains were still warm with the sun's breath, casting long shadows across the earth. The dragon above Nexus hadn't moved. It was watching—though Arthur wasn't sure if it was watching *them*.
Back at camp, Aquan guided them to a new section—a training ground embedded with faintly glowing symbols. They looked like ancient runes but responded to presence rather than touch.
"This is the breathfield," Aquan said. "Stand at the center. It reads your spiritual rhythm."
Arthur stepped forward, careful not to let his energy spill. The mont his foot hit the inner circle, the symbols reacted, pulsing once in ti with his heartbeat.
"It's stable," Aquan muttered. "That's… impressive."
"You sound disappointed."
"Not disappointed," Aquan replied. "Just… curious how long it'll last."
Arthur exhaled slowly and stepped out.
Tiara went next, and the symbols lit up in a gentle wave—soft and consistent. Ali followed, his pattern more scattered but still coherent.
Aquan clapped once, drawing their attention. "You now have form and rhythm. But that's only the skeleton of control."
"There's more?" Arthur asked.
"There's always more."
He pointed toward the horizon, where a jagged formation of crystalline spires broke the earth like broken ribs.
"You will each take one," he said. "And make it yours."
"Make it ours how?" Tiara asked.
"Your spiritual energy must harmonize with the land itself," Aquan said. "If you cannot attune to the spirit of a place, you will never be able to bend spiritual energy in combat."
"You want us to form a bond with a rock," Arthur said.
Aquan smiled. "No. I want you to understand that a rock is never *just* a rock."
***
By midday, they had each chosen their spire. Arthur's was a tall, pale obelisk half-subrged in dust. It had cracks running across its surface like veins, and sothing in it humd quietly, just beyond hearing.
He placed his palm against the surface.
No response.
He closed his eyes and tried again—this ti reaching outward instead of inward. Instead of forcing his energy into the crystal, he let it drift, like mist slipping through gaps.
The hum deepened.
Then it pulsed.
Arthur opened his eyes.
A faint image appeared in the air between him and the spire—a mory not his own. A great battle. Shattered stones. Blood in the earth.
He pulled back instinctively, but the vision lingered.
"You're a grave," he muttered. "That's why you're humming."
The spire said nothing. But its silence felt heavy.
Arthur sat down and crossed his legs, breathing with it now. Matching the hum.
Tiara's voice echoed faintly from sowhere nearby. She was humming too—but hers was a song. A healer's lody. Calming, persistent.
Ali was chanting in so ancient tongue, syllables falling like droplets on stone.
Arthur let the rhythm settle in.
Then he whispered—not aloud, but into the spiritual energy itself.
"I don't need you to obey ."
He breathed.
"I just need you to walk beside ."
Another pulse from the spire.
The cracks began to glow.
***
Night fell.
The seekers returned from the ridge. The camp lit up with candlelight and fireless flas.
Arthur sat alone by his spire.
Then Aquan approached, cloak fluttering behind him.
"You attuned faster than I expected."
"I didn't force it."
"Exactly."
Aquan knelt beside him, pressing a hand to the stone. The cracks flared brighter.
"It's listening now," he said. "You've earned its mory."
Arthur didn't ask what that ant. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
He just stood up, wiped the dust from his pants, and turned toward the camp.
"Tomorrow, we leave for Nexus."
"Are you ready?"
"No."
Arthur looked back at the glowing spire.
"But I have a place to begin."
---
The halls of Nexus were too bright for her liking.
Polished stone reflected light from the hanging crystal lanterns, casting long geotric shadows along the floor. It was clean. Too clean. A city built on spiritual energy, yet it reeked of old power trying too hard to stay relevant.
Gala walked softly, her boots making no sound. She didn't need to be silent—but she preferred it that way.
The guards at the throne chamber didn't stop her.
They never did.
The tall double doors opened with a low groan, revealing the lord's chamber. High ceilings, old banners stitched with fading runes, and a cold throne carved from crystal-infused basalt. The man sitting on it watched her with tired eyes.
Lord Halstren.
One of the few rulers who had never died—and never aged.
"You sent for ," Gala said. Her voice carried just enough sharpness to remind him that she ca by choice.
"I heard rumors," Halstren said, his hands steepled. "Spiritual storms outside the third ring. A do of sigils, and sothing that tore through abyssal spirits like parchnt. Was it you?"
Gala smiled faintly. "If it was, do you think I'd still look this tired?"
Halstren chuckled once. Dry. "Then who was it?"
She stepped further into the chamber. The light dimd behind her, as if respecting her presence.
"A seeker," she said.
Halstren raised an eyebrow. "There are many."
"Not like this one." She stopped a few steps from the throne. "He walks like he doesn't belong here. Like he rembers sothing the world forgot."
"Vague as always," Halstren murmured. "You speak of him like he's a ghost."
"No." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Ghosts fade. He makes the world hold its breath."
Halstren was quiet.
Then, "What does he want?"
Gala tilted her head. "To breathe."
"That's it?"
"Isn't it enough?"
She turned her gaze toward the eastern window, where the dragon still floated above the city. Unmoving. Watching.
"He's close," she added. "You'll feel it when he steps through the gate. The air will shift. The city will shake. And when he speaks…"
She looked back at Halstren.
"Even the dragon will listen."
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