They didn't talk on the walk back.
Cyril's burns had finally stopped bleeding, but they still hurt like hell. He could feel the Flow flickering inside him—brighter than before, but wild. It surged too fast, then stalled. Not stable.
Not yet.
They passed under stone arches, down winding halls cut from black granite. The crowd's roar still echoed somewhere above, like a memory refusing to die.
He wasn't sure who they'd been cheering for.
Breaker.
Freak.
Something in between.
They reached the quiet chamber again—the one Miren always chose. A meditative cell of smooth walls, flickering lanterns, and quiet air.
She didn't offer help. Didn't ask how he felt.
She just said:
"Sit. Shirt off."
He obeyed. Mostly because he didn't have the strength to argue.
The floor was cool beneath him. His ribs protested every breath.
Miren knelt behind him. He heard the unstoppering of a flask, then felt the chill of salve against scorched skin. It hissed when it touched the burn.
"You fought recklessly."
"Still won."
"Barely."
He winced but stayed silent.
She applied the rest of the salve, then stood.
The air shifted.
He turned.
And saw it.
A diagram.
The human body, carved into the floor with lines of shimmering silver ink. Not anatomy—Flow. Arcs and pathways traced across the skin like constellation maps. Where the lines intersected, small nodes pulsed faintly with light.
"Pulse points," she said, stepping onto the diagram.
"This is your real body. The one the Flow sees."
Cyril blinked.
"What are the points?"
"Intersections. Where current builds. Where it surges."
She pointed at his sternum, then his spine, then the base of his skull.
"Major pulses."
Then at his wrists, his feet, and behind the knees.
"Minor."
He stared at the diagram like it might whisper something to him.
"Is this cultivation?"
Miren tilted her head.
"Cultivation is the shaping of current. Not just stealing power. Refining it. Aligning yourself with it."
She stepped forward and tapped his chest with two fingers.
"The Flow is everywhere. But it's chaotic. It floods. It fractures. That's why beasts warp and we don't—because we learn to direct it instead of drowning in it."
Cyril frowned.
"And I didn't learn. I just… used it."
"You ripped it open," she said.
"Not the same."
"Way to put a guy down."
Ignoring him, Miren crouched and traced one glowing node with a finger.
"There are five known archetypes among those who survive long enough to master the Flow."
"Conduits. Weavers. Echoes. Fractals. Anchors."
Her eyes met his.
He looked back at the diagram, trying to memorize every line, every point.
"Explain them."
Miren nodded.
"Conduits channel Flow through their bodies. They redirect it, accelerate it, weaponize it. They're batteries. Cannons. But they burn out fast."
"Weavers—like those twins you just fought—manipulate the elements. They thread Flow through the world, not just themselves."
"Echoes sense. They hear the Flow, see its future echoes, taste its memory. Good ones are scouts. Great ones are nightmares."
"Fractals do the impossible. They break the rules. Twist space. Fold motion. Loop time in fragments. Seemingly the most powerful but the hardest to master."
"Anchors don't move the Flow. They stabilize it. When they speak, others Flow cowers. They hold ground against gods."
She stood over him again.
"But you?"
She let the silence stretch.
"You've shown traits of more than one archetype. A real singularity."
She sat behind him again, tending to his burns.
"Oh man, don't get me thinking I'm the chosen one now."
Cyril's eyes glistened as he basked in his own glory—until Miren smacked the back of his neck.
"Agh! What was that for?"
"Getting ahead of yourself. Being unique isn't always a gift. It can be an omen. A warning of something dark on the horizon."
The lanternlight flickered.
Cyril looked down at the diagram again—at his body, mapped in pulses and pressure points.
"Can you show me how to use it? The right way?"
She stared at him for a moment, as if measuring the weight of the question.
Then, finally:
"Yes."
"But not tonight."
She turned toward the door.
"Tomorrow, I'll show you how to align your first pulse."
"Until then…"
Her eyes pearled.
Her beauty mesmerizing Cyril.
"Rest. Or the Flow will rip you apart from the inside."
As she exited, her brownish-caramel hair fluttered in the air.
—————
The next morning…
Cyril awoke to the soft glow of lanternlight filtering through the chamber. His body ached, but the burns were healing—Miren's salve working its slow magic. She stood nearby, calm and still.
"Time to begin," she said, motioning for him to sit on the diagram once more.
Cyril lowered himself into a lotus position. The silver lines beneath him pulsed faintly.
"Focus on your sternum," Miren instructed.
"Feel the Flow there. The current waiting to be aligned."
He closed his eyes. At first—nothing. Then, a flicker. A warmth that bloomed into a steady pulse.
"Good," she murmured.
"Now guide it. Let it flow through you. Not around you."
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he obeyed. The Flow surged, resonating with his pulse point. For the first time, it didn't tear through him like a storm—it aligned.
When he opened his eyes, the diagram beneath him glowed brighter. The lines shimmered, resonating with his own energy.
Miren gave a single nod. A glimmer of approval.
"You've taken the first step. There are many more to come… but for now, rest. You've earned it."