Asher was enjoying a rather pleasant dream in which he had secured a new job at a detective's firm.

Suddenly, something struck the side of his unsuspecting head!

He stirred awake, taking in his surroundings. The fireplace crackled ceaselessly, prodding at his throbbing head.

"It wasn't a dream at all! When I find the scoundrel who assaulted me, I'll have his neck!"

Henry, noticing his return to the waking world, laughed before motioning above the door.

There, Asher saw the culprit of his demise: a simple trigger mechanism above the threshold attached to a large log.

"Lesson one: always be aware of your surroundings, tread lightly, and suspect the worst."

Asher felt quite wronged, but in the essence of professionalism, he decided to move on.

"Indeed, I'll treat this lesson as an irreplaceable accessory and wear it every day."

Henry smiled, then walked to a nearby shelf and retrieved an old book. Retreating to his favored spot near the fire, he opened it and located his mark.

"For today, I'll assess your physical capabilities. There are training clothes across the hall. Go collect a set and begin with push-ups; you are to continue until I say otherwise."

Asher was a little surprised. He thought he would be learning to defend himself. This seemed more like his physical education activities from grade school.

Nonetheless, he removed his jacket, carefully hanging it from the coat rack by the door. He entered the storage room across the hall and secured himself a training outfit: a simple white linen shirt and black sweatpants. He changed in the storage room, leaving his outfit there.

Entering Henry's office, he rubbed his head, hoping to chase away the throbbing pain. He noticed Liz had entered at some point, as there was a coffee awaiting him.

He sipped some of the rare treat, delighted by the freshness of the cream.

Then he acquiesced to Henry's request and began to toil away.

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Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

26

Asher no longer felt grateful for Henry's diligent fire-keeping practices. He was already quite hot, and the fire didn't help. Drawing a big breath, he continued.

Soon his pace, which had already slowed, came to a crawl. It took effort just to maintain posture.

Yet Henry did not give him any signal to cease his efforts. Asher took almost 30 seconds to descend and rise, his arms shaking as he did.

"This is the first day! I refuse to accept anything less than my best," he said, steeling his resolve and continuing after another three. Though his determination was admirable, his efforts soon crashed against reality.

Unfortunately, while he wasn't in the worst of shape, he was essentially an office worker. He spent his days assisting professors, procuring documents, and revising and compiling historical information. He wasn't exactly a picture of fitness.

As a result, he soon learned what it felt like to lay on the cold floor of the Consultancy firm for the second time.

Henry seemed disappointed in Asher; in a disapproving tone, he spoke, "Continue."

Gasping for air, Asher felt his lungs were filling with the acrid air of some desert. Whatever that was, he wasn't exactly sure, having only heard descriptions.

Hoping against all hope, he hardened his will and forced his poor body to assume proper posture, then began his descent once more, squeezing all he had.

His muscles were burning, tendons taut on the verge of hyperextension.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed up, counting silently in his head. He continued this way, focusing his mind into a laser; he was nothing if not determined.

Again and again... fall, push, descend... fall, push, descend.

Asher, perhaps understandably, had lost track of time for the most part.

He buried himself in his task and toiled away. Not once did he surrender to his body's demand for respite.

Sometime later, Asher fell to the floor for the last time he hoped. Try as he might, he could not arise; there was no amount of willpower capable of challenging his fatigue.

Henry spoke again, this time his judgmental tone was gone.

"Good, next you can rest for a spell. Afterwards, you'll perform star jumps until I tell you otherwise."

Asher lay sprawled on the floor of Henry's office, soaked in sweat. He felt like he'd ridden a horse all the way to Belgique without rest. Or perhaps been trampled by scores of equestrians.

He felt somewhat embarrassed by his lack of decorum.

"The hell with it; I'm too bloody tired to worry about such trivialities," Asher thought to himself.

Henry had put him through various exercises, never allowing him to stop until he truly could not continue.

Obviously, his performance with each consecutive activity experienced a steep decline. Regardless, Asher never once gave up; he did not accept anything less than his absolute limits.

"Go and get yourself cleaned up. There is a washroom near the lobby, just before the offices. You can change out of your training clothes as well."

"That's it? We're done just like that? He's not taught me anything! Unless you count, 'don't enter the residence of shady old men with a penchant for medieval traps' as a lesson!" Asher muttered under his breath.

Inwardly grumbling, Asher collected himself for a moment, then entered the storage room.

Walking toward his pile of neatly folded clothes, something caught his gaze. He turned toward the object responsible, curiosity evident in his eyes.

It was an old silver ring with only a small, thin crescent opal set. The band was thin and inscribed with letters he couldn't read. In thin and elegant handwriting, the inscription read:

"Somnus Aeternus."

For some reason, Asher could not detach his gaze from the unassuming ring. He reached out to it, almost recoiling at the touch. The ring was cold—too cold. If he wore it, he would probably lose that finger.

Asher realized a moment too late that he had withdrawn his hand, but some of his fingertip hadn't. It froze over in an instant, firmly adorning itself to the ring's band. Asher clutched his hand with the other; he didn't mind the pain—he never had much, really. He glanced back at the ring, noticing a few drops of his blood had landed on the crescent moon. The ring seemed to drink the blood, like a tree hungrily snatching rain after a drought.