A low, throbbing ache settled in my skull as I slowly came to, lying on a ragged excuse for a bed in Varkas's run-down hideout. Morning light crept through the gaps in the boarded-up window, illuminating dust motes that danced on the stale air. My entire body felt like lead, and the previous day's memories came rushing back—hauling ice-cold water from a cursed well, tussling with oversized slum rats, and nearly getting myself killed by street thugs while Varkas looked on.
Yet here I was. Alive. Shaken, but alive.
A tired groan escaped me. Every muscle screamed for rest, but the faint scuff of footsteps across the splintered floor yanked me from the edge of sleep. Varkas stood above me, eyes bloodshot, messy hair plastered to his brow with sweat. Somehow, he looked even more exhausted than I felt, but there was a grim set to his jaw I hadn't seen before.
"Get up," he barked, voice gravelly from too little sleep and too much cheap liquor. "We're going out. Time's running short."
I blinked, forcing myself to sit. "Morning to you too," I managed, my throat parched. "Where are we going?"
His gaze flicked to the sagging door, then back to me. "Somewhere we can test how much you've actually got in you. You think you're tough because you survived one day of my training? Trust me, kid, we've barely scratched the surface." He scooped up a half-empty bottle of some questionable drink, shot me a humorless grin, and trudged outside without another word.
With an unsteady sigh, I got to my feet, slipping on what remained of my boots. The slums beckoned beyond the threshold—filthy, unwelcoming, and in many ways, the perfect place for someone like Varkas to hide. Or to train a desperate fool like me.
I followed him into the narrow alley, the early sunlight painting the crumbling walls in a dull copper glow. My stomach growled, but I bit back any complaint. Asking for food now seemed pointless, especially when my so-called mentor looked like he'd been awake all night. He moved fast, weaving through backstreets and half-collapsed passages that smelled of rot and damp soil. I stumbled behind, only half-awake.
Eventually, we reached a small courtyard—if one could call it that—nestled between leaning buildings. A few stray cats scattered as we arrived, darting behind broken crates. The space was just wide enough for the two of us to stand without bumping into rubble. Sunlight barely reached here, but it was enough to see a curious collection of half-faded symbols scrawled across the cracked ground.
Varkas planted himself in the center, pressing a hand to his temple as though fighting off a headache. "Alright, kid. We're doing something I learned back at the Academy. A little trick they don't teach just anyone. Call it… a Soul-Reflection Rite."
My brows rose. Hearing him refer to the Academy almost sounded like blasphemy. Varkas never talked about those days beyond bitter curses and drunken rants. For him to bring up an actual technique from there meant he was serious.
"So, what's this 'Rite' supposed to do?" I asked, stepping gingerly around a jagged stone. My boots squelched in the mud, reminding me how battered they were.
He glanced at the symbols on the ground, then knelt with surprising focus. "It's meant to reveal what lies buried inside you. Draw out repressed memories, regrets, trauma—whatever your soul's hiding. You can't tame your Essence if your mind's a cluttered mess. And you, my friend, have the biggest damn mess I've ever seen."
A flicker of indignation sparked inside me, but I swallowed it. Arguing wouldn't help. I could still recall how my faint Holy Essence had flared during those life-or-death moments, how it had sputtered out just as quickly. If this was the only way to dig deeper, so be it.
I stepped closer, casting a wary eye on the scribbled symbols—intricate lines forming concentric circles, dotted with strange runes that seemed half-familiar. "And what if it goes wrong?"
"It will," he said bluntly, searching his tattered pockets for something. "But that's the point. You think the Academy folks learned to be top-tier mages with cozy lectures and warm tea? Nah, they risked their lives, sanity, and damn near everything else. Now hold still."
He pulled out a small, rusted dagger—its blade jagged and stained with who-knew-what—and cut his thumb, hissing softly as blood welled up. Before I could protest, he swiped the dagger across my forearm too, eliciting a sharp sting. A crimson line blossomed. I bit my lip, holding back a yelp.
"What the hell—"
"Shut up," he snapped, pressing our bleeding cuts together over a specific rune on the ground. "Blood of the mentor, blood of the student. That's how the Rite starts."
I fought the urge to recoil. This was more intense than I'd expected. A moment later, a chill rippled through the air. The runes on the ground flickered to life, glowing a faint amber color before turning gold. My pulse quickened, and I felt a tug somewhere deep inside my chest, like invisible hands pulling at my mind.
Varkas's voice dropped to a low, commanding tone. "Remember your nightmares, Aleks. The people you failed to save. The regrets you never spoke aloud. The burdens you carry. We're dragging them all to the surface."
He spoke as if reciting lines from a half-forgotten script. The ground beneath me vibrated with a quiet hum, echoing in my bones. Unease roiled in my gut; I recalled the glimpses of Earth's invasion, the screams, the final stand before the angel's bright wings engulfed everything. Memories I tried so hard to bury threatened to burst free.
My vision blurred, and the courtyard melted away like a watercolor painting in the rain. Soon, I was standing in utter blackness. Then shapes flickered—familiar silhouettes. Carmen's face, tear-streaked in the final moments; Nikita's determined grin splattered with blood. My breath caught in my throat as I reached out to them, but my hand passed through nothing but air.
"Carmen!" I gasped. The name tore from my lips. "Nikita…?"
They turned to face me, their eyes hollow, accusing. My chest tightened, guilt wrapping itself around my heart like barbed wire. How could I have survived when they didn't?
Laughter echoed, cruel and dissonant. Antoine's twisted sneer surfaced, the memory of him beating me into the ground, the scorn in his eyes. The scene blurred, jumping from moment to moment—my friends dying on Earth, the desolation of that final battle, the angelic being's radiant wings enveloping me in a swirl of light.
I screamed, stumbling forward, trying to cling to anything real in this torrent of guilt and sorrow. A voice buzzed at the edge of my consciousness, one I recognized as Varkas's, urging me to ground myself. But how?
Then I felt it—a burning glow flickering in the center of my chest, the same warmth that teased me awake every morning, stronger now, almost… divine. Slowly, I breathed it in, letting it seep through my veins, letting the heartbreak fuse with raw determination.
"I… I won't drown in this," I hissed, teeth clenched. My voice sounded distant, as if coming from someone else. I summoned every ounce of will I had left, confronting those illusions of Carmen and Nikita. "I couldn't save you… but I'm still here! So I have to keep going."
Their faces wavered, contorting with the glimmer of the golden light inside me. Something cracked in the darkness, like a mirror splitting. The illusions trembled, and a brilliant corona flared around my body, pulsing in tandem with my racing heartbeat.
Suddenly, everything shattered—shards of blackness fell away, replaced by the swirling gloom of the courtyard. Varkas stood across from me, half-collapsed, his own breathing ragged. The runes and symbols glowed furiously beneath my feet, swirling with frantic energy.
"Kid," he wheezed, voice tinged with both shock and something akin to pride. "Stay in control—"
His words died as I hunched over, my entire being consumed by a surging force that raced along every nerve. My arms tingled, and out of the corner of my eye, I swore I saw the faint outline of shimmering wings. A thunderous pressure built in my ears, drowning out my own ragged gasps. My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through my ribs.
Holy Essence.
Not just a trickle or spark like before, but a colossal wave that demanded release. Raw, scorching, and impossible to contain, it roared through me, fueled by sorrow and longing and stubborn refusal to give up. A strangled cry escaped my throat as golden arcs of light crackled around my body, illuminating the courtyard in an otherworldly glow.
Varkas scrambled away, shielding his eyes with one arm. "What the…?!" he shouted, clearly reeling from the intensity.
I clenched my fists, tears streaming down my cheeks without my permission. Flashes of Earth, of the angel's final words, of the moment I should've died alongside my friends, surged to the surface. My anguish, my rage at the unfairness of it all, coalesced into something pure and ferocious.
The runes under my feet exploded in a shower of golden sparks. Walls around us cracked, the ancient bricks trembling under the strain. A vortex of shimmering essence spiraled overhead, stirring the dust and debris into a frenzied storm. My eyes burned, half-blinded by the swirling radiance.
"Impossible," I heard Varkas snarl, but his voice was distant. "No one can control that much—"
He never finished. The wave of golden energy shattered what remained of the courtyard's fragile boundaries, washing over everything in a deafening roar. My consciousness teetered on the edge, overwhelmed by a bright, searing ecstasy mingled with heartbreak. For a moment, I swore I felt an echo of wings behind me, comforting yet terrifying. Then, darkness smothered my vision.
I didn't recall hitting the ground, but I must have, because when I blinked again, the light was gone. My body lay sprawled among shattered stones, every muscle limp. Tendrils of steam rose from my skin, and I tasted copper on my lips. Distantly, I heard Varkas calling my name over and over, his usually mocking tone laced with genuine panic.
The last coherent thought that flickered through my mind was the memory of a glowing figure, gently whispering, "Live, and remember… you must become the vessel of light."
Then everything went black.
Sensation returned slowly, as though my mind were emerging from the depths of a dark ocean. A dull throbbing pulse hammered behind my eyes, and it took a few painstaking breaths before I recognized the uneven ceiling above me. Judging by the cracked timber beams and the flicker of a lantern, I was back at Varkas's hideout.
I tried to sit up, but a wall of pain pinned me down. My whole body felt stretched too thin, like I'd run a marathon without ever training for it. Memories of brilliant golden light and raw, agonizing power flooded back, making my heart spike with residual panic.
"Easy, idiot. Don't make me tie you to the floor." Varkas's familiar growl drifted from somewhere to my left. I turned my head, spotting him slouched against a makeshift stool. His brow shone with sweat despite the chill in the room, and there were fresh gashes on his forearms.
"How… long was I out?" My voice cracked, barely more than a rasp.
He exhaled, sounding exhausted in a way I'd never heard before. "A couple hours—felt more like years. Brought you back here after you damn near leveled half that courtyard. Shit, kid, I've seen some messed-up stuff in my time, but that…" He trailed off, shaking his head.
A wave of shame and confusion hit me. I swallowed, forcing down the knot in my throat. "I couldn't control it. Everything just—snapped. I… saw them. Nikita, Amina, Daisuke, Carmen… I heard something about being a vessel of light. It was all mixed up, like a dream."
Varkas snorted softly. "A dream? Looked more like a nightmare from where I was standing." He rubbed a hand across his face, studying me with an intensity that made my skin crawl. "Listen, kid. Normal Holy Essence users—at least the ones I've met—can't do half that. Hell, the best mages at the Academy would sweat blood to conjure a fraction of that power. You, on the other hand…" He paused, searching for the right words. "Let's just say you're too damn explosive for your own good."
The dryness in my mouth grew worse, and I struggled onto my elbows. "So… I messed up. Did I hurt anyone?"
He let out a harsh laugh. "No one but yourself and a few street rats who got the shock of their lives when the ground split open. I doubt they'll ever stroll near that courtyard again. But that's not the point." His gaze hardened. "The point is, you're not normal. You're something else."
My pulse fluttered in my chest. "What do you mean?"
He slammed a hand on the crate beside him, rattling an empty bottle. "I mean no half-baked kid from the slums should be able to manifest wings of fucking light—if that's what I actually saw. The shockwave alone tore the runes to shreds, and I barely managed to drag you back." Frustration flared in his tone. "I've got no clue what you really are."
A chill prickled across my arms, goosebumps rising. My memory of the meltdown was hazy, but I did recall a fleeting sensation of something behind me—like ghostly feathers brushing my back. "Wings… Are you sure?"
"Sure as I am about being hungover every morning," he growled, clutching at his temple. "I'm no religious fanatic, but that was too damned close to an angelic phenomenon. Some folks would sell their souls to replicate it. Others would burn you at the stake for it. Either way, we've got a big problem."
Fear twisted in my gut. I thought back to that ephemeral vision—the angel who has send me here 10 000 years later an on my final moment on that battlefield. Shame and longing tangled with the dread swirling through my mind. "What kind of problem?"
Varkas straightened, wincing a bit like his ribs hurt. "The Academy's tournament is a month away, right? But you just lit up Reslau like a fucking beacon. Anyone with a nose for magic must've felt that flare—even a blind novice could sense it. And you can bet your sorry ass the Academy keeps watchers in these slums. They know weird shit happens here."
I clenched my fists, noticing how my fingers trembled. "So… they'll come looking?"
"Count on it," he muttered darkly. "They'll sniff around, ask questions. Maybe they'll try to recruit you or lock you up for 'study.' Depends on who they send first. Either way, you're not ready for them."
Tension coiled in my shoulders as I forced myself to sit fully upright, ignoring the fresh wave of dizziness. "Then… what do we do?"
His eyes narrowed. "We train harder—faster. Or you get the hell out of Reslau before they track you down. But I'm guessing you won't run. Your precious tournament's a month away, and you're dead-set on attending, right?"
I swallowed, my mouth painfully dry. The thought of leaving this city, giving up my chance to reach the Academy's gates—where I might finally find answers about Cealith, about my inexplicable power—felt like a punch to the gut. "I won't run," I said, voice steadier than I expected. "I have to face whatever this is. Even if I… even if I'm not exactly human anymore."
A flicker of unease crossed Varkas's face, but he hid it behind a gruff scoff. "Fine. Just don't blame me when the Academy's goons come knocking." He pushed to his feet, eyeing me critically. "Rest for now. You can't even walk without wobbling like a drunk toddler, so you're worthless to me at the moment."
My cheeks burned at the insult, but I realized he was right. My limbs still felt like lead, and every part of me ached. "Alright," I mumbled, letting myself slump back against the makeshift bedding. "But tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow," he interrupted firmly, "we'll figure out a plan to keep your wings clipped until you can actually control them. Because right now, you're a walking bomb, kid." He grabbed his battered cloak, eyes dark. "I'm stepping out for a bit. Don't try anything stupid while I'm gone. And for the love of all that's holy, don't do that meltdown shit again."
I watched him go, heart pounding with a tumult of emotions—fear, confusion, a flicker of reluctant hope. Because if Varkas was this rattled, then the power inside me really was extraordinary. But extraordinary power without control was a disaster waiting to happen.
As the door banged shut behind him, I closed my eyes, breath escaping in a shaky exhale. My memories spun in loops—earth-shattering golden light, that fleeting sense of wings on my back, the taste of raw anguish. Deep within, something stirred again, just a spark. I clenched my jaw, determined not to let it consume me this time. If I was truly some kind of angelic vessel, I'd damn well figure out how to harness it on my own terms.
But first, I needed to survive. And the clock was already ticking.
Cealith's POV
I maintain little interest in the passage of time these days. The Academy's high spires and their attendant wards have sheltered me from the mortal world for centuries, ensuring my tasks remain uninterrupted. Somewhere below these marble floors, students and scholars chase knowledge they scarcely grasp. Their ambitions amuse me, but only vaguely.
I sit in my private chamber, its walls lined with tomes far older than most kingdoms. A single candle flickers on an ornate table, illuminating the parchments I've been studying. Each page carries half-forgotten scripts describing Essence theory, cosmic truths, and the lingering echoes of a past few remember. Even with ten millennia behind me, there are secrets in these texts I haven't fully unraveled. I suspect few others even suspect such mysteries exist.
A faint draft slithers through the chamber, carrying with it a sudden disturbance. My pulse quickens, though I barely acknowledge it. Something pricks the edge of my consciousness—an immense surge of Holy Essence, raw and unbridled. Slowly, I set my quill aside, pressing a hand to my chest. It's an alien sensation—discomfort, perhaps, or the distant echo of alarm. My breath feels heavier.
For a moment, I recall the day we truly arrived here, uprooted from our doomed homeland. I alone remain who can confirm how this planet came to host our scattered races. It was a passage drenched in cosmic strife. My memory of it never fades, no matter how many centuries slip through my grasp. If Holy Essence has reappeared in such magnitude, there may be another rift in the making—a repeat of devastation we once barely survived.
I rise from my chair, gazing toward the window. Night's shadows cling to the horizon, and yet I sense light flaring somewhere in Reslau, like a beacon to all who can feel it. Another cataclysm in the making? The mortal realm can scarcely withstand one more. But I have lived too long to let silence be my guide now.
I summon a scout with a subtle command. He arrives swiftly, head bowed. I see no point in greeting formalities.
"An unnatural surge," I say, voice calm, almost devoid of inflection. "Locate its source. Bring me all details. We must ensure the balance holds."
The scout salutes wordlessly and vanishes from my chamber. I remain motionless, letting the candlelight cast my shadow upon the ancient scrolls.
I am all that remains of those who once knew the truth. If this Holy Essence is the harbinger of a new rupture, I alone must decide how to guide or halt it. My time may be long, but it is not limitless. And if this phenomenon stands as I fear—then the final secrets of our origin may soon be forced into light.
A single thought crosses my mind as I douse the candle: We do not have another ten thousand years to spare.