By sunrise, the Aspirants and their teachers had already assembled at the center of the Sacred training grounds. Fawkes had told Hunter to be there too, ruined hand or no ruined hand. They’d be practicing no glaivesmanship that day.
The Aspirants stood in a line, their breaths visible in the cool morning air as they awaited instruction. Elder Wroth began pacing slowly before them, his heavy boots muffled by the damp earth. He looked sullen. Hunter wondered why. A few feet away, Fawkes stood with arms crossed, gaze sharp, watching them like a hawk.
“So far you’ve been tested in terms of strength, of endurance, of mastery with your weapons,” Wroth spoke, deep voice carrying over the misty Training Grounds. He paused, glancing toward Fawkes for a moment before turning back to the Aspirants. “After certain… recent events, however, and with Elder Fawkes joining us, we’ve decided to shift the focus of your training.”
“Put away your weapons,” said Fawkes. “You won’t be needing them today. Settle down in a wide circle, assume your meditation poses.”
Hunter sat cross-legged on the rocky ground, his back stiff as a board, hands rested on his knees, palms turned up. The other Aspirants followed suit. Elder Wroth took a few steps back, as if to concede the limelight to Fawkes.
“Ascension,” she began, her tone sharp, strict, her voice different from what Hunter had been used to. “Our goal here is to prepare you for the Rung of Tin. From what I gather, so far you’ve been led to think of it as merely a process of training to strengthen your bodies.”
She swept her gaze across them, eyes gleaming with a hard, distant light.
“A fool’s thought. One that I will strip from you.”
She paused, letting her words linger in the stillness, as if daring someone – Wroth, Yuma, anyone – to disagree. Nobody spoke. Even Hunter felt somewhat taken aback. There was an edge to her he barely recognized, a humorless harshness he’d hardly even seen before.
“You think that swinging a glaive a thousand times will bring you power?” she went on. “That building muscle or mastering technique alone will prepare you for what climbing the Rungs of Ascension demands?” She scoffed, her lip curling into a thin sneer. “If you do, you are no better than children. And if that is what your Elders preach, then they have forgotten the face of their Ancestors.”
Wroth shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other and his expression darkened, but he said nothing.
“Your bodies are nothing more than vessels. Crude skeins of flesh, when it’s all been said and done, bound by gravity. The true strength of an Aspirant lies in their inner power – their Essence.”
Hunter knew what Essence was – or at least what the System referred to as Essence in his character sheet. It was the inner power he could tap into, the energy he instinctively drew upon to fuel Abilities like the Mystic’s Eye or the crafting of Spirit Charms. Interestingly, it was also the name given to the wispy remnants of slain monsters, such as the Essence of It That Whispers.
Was that what she was referring to?
“Essence,” Fawkes repeated as she paced around the Aspirants in a wide circle. “Mana. Ki. Force. Madra. Pneuma, the Goddess’s Breath. Li’ir, the áeld used to call it. Over the millennia, it’s had more names than the Dark One in Old Talharic. Different forms of the same thing. But since we’re no loremasters fussing debating the nature of the Transmundane in the spires of Usdeneau’s High Academy, we’ll do away with meaningless pedantry and simply call it that; Essence.”
She stepped closer, the distance between her and the Aspirants shrinking until her presence loomed over them like a storm cloud. For all his roaring and drill sergeant act, Elder Wroth’s had never managed to feel quite so ominous as hers felt right now.
“The concept of Essence,” she went on, “is deeply tied to Mana. Mana is the unseen force that flows through all that is, the very heartblood of life and creation. It is ambient. Ever-present. Older than the world itself. But Mana is a primal thing, a wild thing, chaotic and untamed. It is through cycling that you bring order to its chaos, that you weave its raw power into a force you can wield, that you make it your own. That force is the raw power of your spirit, distilled and purified.”
Fawkes raised a gloved hand, and strands of a faint silvery light started emanating from her fingertips, like ribbons luminous vapor. Without even twitching, she willed them to weave a mote of pale luminescence on her open palm.
“That force is… Essence.”
She paused, eyes shifting from one face to the next. Then she closed her fist around the silvery mote, and when it opened it again, it was gone. Inago gasped with marvel – which drew a sharp glance from Elder Wroth.
“Each of you possesses a spirit with a unique nature, a predisposition towards a particular aspect of Mana,” Fawkes explained. “Your spirit naturally absorbs Mana from the world around you, and weaves into your very own Essence. For most folk, the amount of Essence they hold is just a smidgen, barely enough to notice. But if you’ve got your sights set on climbing to even Iron, the first of the Rungs of Ascension, well, you’ll need to be a damn sight more than most people.”
She began to pace again, tracing a circle around the Aspirants, each step slow and deliberate.
“Ascension, in case you didn’t know, was originally an áeld practice. In áeld tradition, the Rung of Tin was considered a children’s Rung. In some sects, áeld children started training to reach Tin at the age of four or five. Tin is merely the foundation level for what comes after, and the first step to laying that foundation is learning to cycle. That means to control the flow of Essence through your Channels – your spiritual veins, if you like.”
She stopped, crossed her arms, turned to face them.
“The Rung of Tin was also considered one of the most important, and maybe one of the most challenging,” she went on. “And for good reason. In most cases, the practice of cycling one’s Essence cannot be taught. Each practitioner, each Aspirant has to figure it out on their own. You learn how to do that, and all else will fall into place.”
Fawkes took her place on the ground beside the Aspirants. She crossed her legs fluidly, settling into a meditative pose with practiced ease. She straightened her back, hands resting lightly on her knees, and closed her eyes.
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“Elder Wroth?” she asked. “Would you be so kind as to join us?”
Wroth offered nothing in way of reply. He simply found a big enough gap in the circle and plopped down on the ground, crossing his legs with a grunt.
“The simplest way to get your Essence flow under control,” Fawkes went on, pausing for effect, “is through your breathing. Same way you can steady your heartbeat with a few deep breaths, you can guide the Essence in your veins. It’s all about focus. Harmonize your breath with the inner rhythm of your Essence, and you’ll soon be able to take charge of it.”
Hunter had come across many variations of… all that, of course, though only through fiction. Meditation was one thing. Cultivation, or whatever it was supposed to be called in Elderpyre, was quite another.
“Close your eyes, all of you,” Fawkes went on. “Clear your mind of all thoughts. They are but needless distractions.” Her tone grew softer, yet somehow more commanding. “Take a deep breath through your nose. Focus on its flow through your windpipe. Feel your stomach expand. Feel your chest fill out with air.”
Hunter did so. He kept his eyes shut and listened to her voice, low and steady, trying to quiet the clutter in his mind. Errant thoughts kept popping in his head. He paid them no heed. Instead, he turned all of his attention inward, feeling the cool morning air filling him up.
“Exhale slowly through your nose. Let yourself deflate. Feel how your stomach contracts, how your diaphragm moves upward.”
Again, Hunter did so.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Slowly but surely, he slipped into a comfortable breathing pattern, a serene, rhythmic pace. Moments stretched into minutes, his heart rate slowing down.
“Now shift your focus on your Essence,” Fawkes said softly. “It’s there. See it with your mind’s eye. Feel it as it flows through you along with your breath. Do not try to control it. Just feel. Observe. Imagine what it looks like.”
Hunter envisioned his Essence flowing through his body. To his surprise, he realized he already had an intuitive grasp of what it felt like; a slow, steady stream of cool, semi-translucent mist winding through his Channels.
He’d felt it again in the past, used it time after time without even fully realizing what it was. Every time he’d cast Conjure Familiar or Mystic’s Eye, every time he’d crafted a Spirit Charm, it was this very Essence that had powered his Abilities. This time, he made no attempt to control it. He just watched it, felt it, content enough to simply let it flow.
Somewhere far, far away, a stream of notifications appeared on his HUD.
A breakthrough, then. He must have been doing something right. All that mindfulness and introspection he’d been practicing as part of his Mort-guided therapy were finally paying off in terms of Skills, too.
His thoughts began to wander, curiosity tugging at the edges of his mind. Maybe if he kept at this, he could push his Meditation skill even higher. If he could 20, maybe he'd unlock a new Ability. What if –
His focus wavered as his excitement took over, and the cool, steady stream of Essence faltered. The calm slipped away, and his concentration went with it. The more he tried to force it back, the more elusive it became, slipping through his mental grasp. He opened one eye, taking a peek at what the rest of the Aspirants were doing.
Inago looked as if he’d fallen asleep and was dreaming of something pleasant. He seemed perfectly at peace, his body loose, his breathing soft and rhythmic, a faint smile painted on his wide face.
Tayen, on the other hand, looked like his polar opposite. Though her breathing followed a steady, controlled cadence, her posture was taut, and the air around her almost hummed with intensity.
As for Yuma, he looked anything but relaxed. His brow was furrowed, and his jaw clenched, as though the very act of sitting still was a battle in itself. His eyes flickered open, and for a brief moment, his gaze locked with Hunter’s. His scowl deepened, and he quickly shut his eyes again, refusing to acknowledge the connection.
“Asshole,” Hunter hissed under his breath.
Fawkes, eyes closed, seemingly deep in meditation, picked up a small pebble and flicked it at him. It struck him square on the forehead.
“Ow! What the –”
“Silence,” she chastised him.
Hunter rubbed the spot where the pebble had struck, feeling the skin warm and begin to flush, then closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate. He focused his will on his HUD notification settings, trying to disable them. The System responded almost instantly. Another notification popped up at the edge of his vision, star-bright against the darkness behind his closed eyelids.
Good. Skill progression notifications for Meditation were kind of defeating the purpose anyway.
He slowly slipped back into a state of concentration, breathing perfectly in sync with his envisioned flow of Essence through him. As he became more accustomed to that sensation, though, a subtle disturbance began to nag at him. Something felt… off. There was an eddy in the stream, a blockage, right where it flowed through his mangled left hand. The energy stuttered there, swirling aimlessly, unable to pass through as smoothly as it should. That should be expected, Hunter supposed. He could barely move without his hand pulsing with dull ache. He made a quick mental note to ask Fawkes about it later, then tried to empty his head and focus on his breathing.
An hour passed, then another. Time gradually lost its meaning for the deeply focused Aspirants, the world beyond their concentration fading into nothingness. It was Wroth that pulled them back to reality.
“Alright, enough,” he said, slapping his bent knees and climbing to his feet. “Open your eyes.”
Hunter obeyed, and he saw the other Aspirants do the same. They rose as well, eyes bleary as they tried to adjust to the morning light. Fawkes remained seated, eyes closed, legs crossed, gloved hands resting on her thighs.
“So, how was it?” she asked. “Did any of you manage to get a feel of the Essence inside you?”
Inago and Tayen exchanged uncertain glances, and Yuma shook his head, sullen.
“Apologies, Elder,” he muttered.
“Do not worry,” Elder Wroth said. “Learning to cycle your Essence is not –”
“Hunter?” Fawkes interrupted mid-sentence, fixing him with one eye open.
Hunter nodded, drawing a surprised glance from Wroth.
“Describe it,” she instructed.
“It felt like mist,” Hunter said. “Thick, cool... like the haze that drifted off the ground in the mornings back in the Vale of Ghosts. I could feel it moving through me, like it was flowing through imagined veins – what you called Channels, I guess. But...” He hesitated, raising his left hand and gesturing toward it. “There was a blockage, right here. The flow was steady everywhere else, but when it hit this spot, it stalled, almost like it couldn’t properly get through.”
“I see,” she nodded thoughtfully as she absorbed his words. Then she rose to her feet too, her expression unreadable.
Wroth studied Hunter with narrowed eyes, as if weighing whether what he’d just described was genuine. Inago and Tayen were looking at him too, curiosity painted clearly on both of their faces. Only Yuma tried to appear indifferent, though his clenched jaw betrayed him.
“I suppose we should be expecting as much,” the Elder finally said, scratching his beard. “You Transients, born of strange magics. No wonder you’d have some kind of affinity.”
Hunter fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course the old goat would dismiss it as something tied to his Transient nature. God forbid he ever proved to be naturally good at something. Though, in this case, Wroth might actually be right. Not that it made much of a difference. In the Elder’s eyes, he’d always be the red-headed stepchild.
Fawkes stood, brushing the dirt from her knees, and turned to the group. “You three,” she called. “Work on your glaivesmanship with Elder Wroth. He’ll push you as he sees fit. After that, back to meditating. And you,” she shifted her attention to Hunter, “You’re coming with me. Let’s see what we can do about that hand.”