When Sorrinn opened his eyes, they opened to a blinding, glaring light. The light enveloped all things and extended infinitely. All he could see was it. All he could feel was its cozy warmth brushing against his skin in cascading waves. A hand plunged into the light and fished him out. In an instant, his senses whipped back into his body. His true eyes eased open, met by the image of his father’s study as he’d left it. But it was well into midnight then. A canvas of jewelish stars and a bold moon adorned the skies beyond the cracked window, pale curtains fluttering softly amidst the gentle, cool night’s breeze.
[+3! Arcana has increased to 50!]
[Passive Skill: Mystic Manipulation has leveled up to level 4!]
Strangely, he was suspended five feet above the ground, uplifted upon a cradle of mysterious, gyrating forces. The Mystic Force, he could sense. He and It were more tightly-knitted than he’d ever been. At the moment, he couldn’t tell where his innate mystic wealth began and where The Mystic Force ended. It welcomed Itself into his body and permeated certain pathways in tandem with what naturally existed within him. Those pathways were unfamiliar to him. They resided on the Creation tree, but the routes being diffused as he pondered weren’t routes of any of the primary elements. Sorrinn found his answer when he directed his focus into the world beyond himself. Three light-constructed lamps containing miniature suns drifted through the space around him, illuminating the night’s darkness. The shadows around him stirred where the light didn’t touch like living fluid. Hisses and snarls emanated from them like chatter beyond a closed door. He could feel their veiled gazes watching him, waiting for the chance to reach him when he was most vulnerable.
“Don’t move,” Izebeus’s voice said. The peculiar feline coalesced into physical form from neon purple strands of raveling energy, perched atop Orrillimmirr’s desk. “You’re safe where you are. Pay them no heed. They’re naught more than mere rogues and ruffians of the End incapable of existing where there is light. They’ll burn beneath The Sustainer’s Radiance if they linger until dawn.”
That was reassuring to learn. Being watched by literal sentient shadows was still disconcerting, nonetheless. The more important and foremost question: “Uhm… How am I floating?”
“Mystic equilibrium.” Izebeus’s chin inclined as he smirked proudly. “You can feel it, can’t you, child? The Mystic Force delving deeper into your vessel than ever before? The boundaries of where you begin and end blurring with the magnificent, beautiful primal energies comprising oneself?”
The boy nodded once. He could. It was weird. It felt incredible.
“Good. Preserve that delicate feeling of a grain of sand balanced upon the tip of a needle you’re feeling now in your memory to be recollected upon later. One toiled quite arduously and adroitly to achieve it in such a limited frame. Whilst in perfect equilibrium with oneself, as opposed to the spell-charting and casting effort belonging solely to you, one will be able to guide you and assist you from the outside-in. Not only shall it lessen the toll of casting spells once mastered and eliminate the need for actualizing gestures, it shall exponentially expand upon the rate you’re able to acquire new spells.”
How Sorrinn existed then did feel easily disturbed. Like if his state of mind and being were jostled even a millimeter, it’d all come crashing down. A grain of sand balanced on the tip of a needle was a good analogy. That was how delicate the state of being felt. He paused in that moment to etch the sensation into his being, brain, and bones. A few dozen minutes later and he felt like he had it remembered, smiling confidently with himself. An assured bounce of his chin.
He yawned where he floated and rubbed his eyes. “How long until I can go to bed? I’m pooped.” The day had been too long.
Izebeus had made himself comfy in a loaf. His eyes were closed, but he peeked one open to answer. “Why not try infusing a little Origin into those lanterns of light? It may get you to your desired destination sooner than dawn’s light.”
Sorrinn’s features broadened knowingly amidst his nods. “Oh, I get it!” If the light from the spell lanterns became transmitters for his Origin, it’d become a sort of faux Radiance. So that was why Izebeus had spent the day acquainting his pathways with light Creation magic?
Izebeus passed the boy a short-lived glance where he rested before closing his eye. He shook his head.
That many-colored flame at the center of Sorrinn’s being ignited, then roared. It dyed his wealth with the colors of all things, and by extension, the light lanterns born of his spell-weaving. A beautiful pearlescence infused into the hue of the light, tangible waves of Origin emanating from their cores in radial ripples. The moving shadows shrieked horrid, shrill sounds as they burned away beneath his light’s influence. In their absence, all that remained was himself, Izebeus, and an iridescent light that penetrated all and cast no shadows for those who dwelled in darkness to inhabit.
“If one is never needed, do not hesitate to call one’s name.” Izebeus stood, stretching his hind legs with an intensity that made them spasm before walking off. He dismantled into a current of energy reminiscent of The Mystic Force and drifted away.
Sorrinn uncrossed his legs where he floated, stretching them and his arms so thoroughly, his body shivered beyond his control. His feet met the floor. Then he dragged them on his way upstairs to his bedroom, smacking his lips. The three light-born lanterns followed behind him, glued to his orbit. There were more fiends lurking, for deathly shrieks sounded from the dark corners of his home while he traveled along the hall for the staircase. Just to assuage his apprehensions, he checked on his parents and his brother once he was upstairs. Thankfully, they were all sound asleep, unharmed. He left one of the lanterns in the corner of each of their rooms, keeping the last lantern for himself. It was left floating in the corner of his bedroom to ward off any foul actors. The moment he collapsed into his bed and curled up all snug in his covers, it was lights out. A soporific anvil plummeted onto him from the sky, thrusting him deep into the land of dreams before he could begin to reflect on all that’d happened.
***
The next day, Sorrinn awoke to both of his parents’ talking amongst themselves as they hovered by his bedside. Confused, he leaned up, asking groggily, “Mama? Paba?”
Maeve dove next to him the moment she heard his voice. She helped him up, the worry palpable in the air. “You’re awake, lovely. How are you feeling? Are you hurt? Are you hungry?” She continued turning his head every which way just to check.
His bemusement only multiplied, brows creasing into all manner of questioning shapes. “Is something wrong, Mama?”
“…Yes. You were asleep in your father’s study for eight days straight. We— We couldn’t touch you or get to you. Something was keeping us away—a magical barrier or something.” His mother hugged him tight. “Oh, I was so worried.”
His eyes bulged in his mother’s embrace. “Eight days…?” It only felt like a couple hours on his end, like waking up from a short nap. Then again, he did have access to two new spell routes from a completely new element. Achieving that in a day was impossible. Achieving that even in eight days of consecutive, uninterrupted concentration didn’t sound plausible. That mystic equilibrium stuff was the real deal. Or maybe he had Izebeus’s expertise as a Muse to thank. “Uhm… I think I’m okay.”
“I told you he’s fine, my dearest,” Orrillimmirr said, his usual image of calm, charming grace. “He is of Asuuriian blood. For us Elves, within the cradle of mystic equilibrium, The Mystic Force nourishes and protects us with the hospitality of a fine host. He could exist in union with It for a year and surface in perfect health. I’ve traveled with Elven ascetics who’ve spent centuries of their life sequestered within mystic equilibrium in some of the harshest and most isolated places of the world. They’d forgone the need for water entirely, sustaining themselves directly off of The Mystic Force’s energy alone.”
Maeve’s head turned toward his father, stupefied. “Centuries? He is still only a child, Ori. A Paragon can’t replace his family.”
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Orrillimmirr showed his palms in declination, shaking them. “I’m not suggesting that’s the path Sorrinn walks. Even for a Luminary, that’s a particularly puritanical way to conduct one’s life. The Nine aren’t religious figures to the majority of Elves. The only one they serve is The Ancestor.”
She looked at Sorrinn’s adorable little face. Consternation whirled in the brown of her eyes, metastasizing to the rest of her expression. Her fingers caressed his cheek. Their pads were chilled with fear and uncertainty. “…Then why now? Why all of this now? Will eight days turn into a month? How long until that month becomes a year? Is this the point where that Ancestor of yours finally steals our son for Themself? Paragon or not, I’m the one who bore through twelve hours of pain. We’re the ones who mourned when we thought we’d lost him. We’re the ones who've raised him—not Them.” She wiped away the emerging tears before they could run, eyes more-so angry parallel to her disheartened frown.
His father remained silent. For once, he didn’t have the answer to that. Who was he to stand in the path of destiny? Who was he as the fruit of The Illumination to stand in the path of his progenitor’s will? What was more vital to the continuity of the world than the sacred cycle of the sowing of the seeds of time-honored knowledge and the flowering of new wisdom?
“Silhouette…” Sorrinn said softly. Things were starting to get too heated. They needed to know the truth.
“Hm? What was that, lovely?”
“Silhouette,” he repeated.
“Huh? What about a silhouette? Did you learn a new word?”
He shook his head hard. “No, Mama, it tried to hurt me. When I—”—a breath—“When I went outside to practice my magic.”
A shadow draped over Orrillimmirr’s face the moment that word fled Sorrinn’s mouth. Whatever grace or calm once occupied his expression melted away like the snow at the dawn of spring. In its stead, hard, frigid lines, anger-sharpened eyes, and an uncharacteristic grimace Sorrinn had never seen his father wear upon his lips. “…We must leave immediately,” he said with a low, dour voice.
Between Sorrinn and Orrillimmirr, she couldn’t decide who to direct her piling perplexity at. “What? Orrillimmirr, what’s going on? Explain. Please.”
“Every Luminary scribed in the old lore has perished at the hand of a lone enemy—The Void’s Silhouettes.” Expression shuddering beneath its veil of shadow, he continued, “The Ancestor embodies the propagation of wisdom of all forms and the evolution it begets. The Void mindlessly hungers for all things to reunify within the nothingness that preceded creation. The dissemination of knowledge bolsters and preserves life risen from Origin, and sapient life is particularly effective at warding off the erasure of all things The Void eternally pursues.
“By nature, The Void is incapable of creating agents to execute Its bidding as other Paragons can and often do. But there exist fallen lifeforms of light who willingly plunge into the abyss and skate the rim around nonexistence—colorless zealots known as self-eroding Silhouettes. Upon forfeiting themselves, their bodies, their emotions, their wisdom, and even their very color to The Void, they embody only two uni-minded goals. The first: whatever profound ambition that prevented them from being immediately devoured by The Void’s influence and allowed them to descend into true Silhouettes. The second: The Void’s will—the return of all existence into nothingness. Luminaries, as Apotheoses of The Ancestor and propagators of arcane wisdom, stand in their aim’s way. They’ve hunted every Luminary to rise from Elvenkind to death without fail for eras.”
The more he clarified, the more her features were soured with disconcertion.
“If one is after our son, it won’t be long before he too—”
“It’s okay, Paba.” Sorrinn crawled from his bed. He grabbed both of his parents' hands and tugged them along, telling them to, “Come see,” with a beautifully easy-going smile.
Curious, they followed their son downstairs to the general room. He left them to observe as he clutched his wand in both hands. His eyes were closed. His mind was focused on diffusing his wealth along the proper route. To his surprise, the new spell routes were butter-smooth to permeate energy through. It wasn’t as immense of a struggle as he imagined. It wasn’t as swift as he’d become with the four rudimentary spells, but considering how complex the spell route was compared to the rudimentary spells, the diffusion rate was beyond expectations.
Before long, The Mystic Force descended to bear witness to the born miracles. The energies of his wealth joined hand-in-hand with It and they twirled an unseen yet graceful and tangible waltz around the general room. Many particles of light materialized from nothing at the tip of his wand at the end of the actualization process. They coalesced into a bright mass which assumed the shape of a miniature sun contained within an ornate, golden lantern. He simultaneously stoked the prismatic flame bright and suffused Origin into the spell, instilling its radiant pearlescence.
By the rounding of his eyes, Orrillimmirr understood immediately. He reached his hand toward the lantern and swept his fingers through the iridescent emanations radiating from the sun-resemblant mass at its core. “The Color of All Things?” He was breathless before it.
“Sure, it’s pretty, but I don’t get it,” Maeve questioned.
His father smiled something loving, grabbing his mother’s hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. He extended it toward the lantern like cold hands toward the campfire. “Don’t you feel it? That warm sensation reaching deep inside of you? So deep, you may not know where the feeling ends or why it moves you so silently yet profoundly?”
She looked at him. A nod. “Yeah, I feel it. It’s honestly incredible.” She was ferried back to her youth, during the days before her mother’s health had declined and her father had disappeared in the night—before she’d ever become enslaved to her talents in a world she was too young to be a part of but had been forced into for the nobility’s interests. Those days were simple and peaceful. What radiated from that lantern felt like perfect contentment and an unpolluted, child-like joy to be a living, feeling, experiencing thing. So many memories of being a curious and innocent child came rushing back to the forefront of her mind. It brought tears to her eyes before she could even fathom what was happening.
“That wonderful thing you feel echoing out is a trace of the source from which all things hail—the true antithesis to Absence; Origin; the possibility of being.”
Moved, Maeve rubbed at her wettened eyes. “So… it’s like a poison to these Silhouettes coming after our son?”
“Better, my dearest. It bestows what teeters toward nonexistence life once more. It returns what treads through the abyss to the light. And what lives can be given death.”
There was one thing it was evident his mother was struggling to understand by the questioning glance she passed to her partner: “If the Elves ’ve known about this countermeasure for so long, why allow so many of your Luminaries to die to begin with?”
Orrillimmirr loosely folded his arms. “Simple: Most living things only harbor dregs of the Origin from which we all came—mere trillionths of the true majesty that is The Origin, scattered across countless forms of life. The most devout and disciplined of us mortals can learn to flare the embers like breath unto firewood and harness its power to accomplish fleeting supernatural feats, but such a negligible amount of Origin is a mild inconvenience to a Silhouette in the grand scheme, who can rival even true Apotheoses of a Paragon.” He had stars in his eyes. He was already starting to vibrate with excitement and fascination the more he discussed it. “But our son was born with a great bonfire within his soul. The Origin he harbors is grand and potent enough to pose a lethal threat even to a deeply hollow existence such as a Silhouette. If one has already made its move against him, I would surmise that’s why he’s still with us to tell the tale of the encounter at all. If not for its protection, I’m afraid he would already be gone from this world.”
Having all of the facts, Maeve was finally able to release a breath of relief. “Okay… Alright, then what comes next. How do we keep our son safe? What’s the strategy?”
He directed his gaze toward her and their eyes met. That was succeeded by an uncharacteristic shrug. “It pains me to say this, but we can’t and there isn’t. Without The Sustainer’s Boon of Radiance and without an abundance of Origin, we’re powerless against the threat at hand. Only he has the power to protect himself, I’m afraid.”
Without word, his mother kneeled to his level, looking Sorrinn square in the eyes as an ardent fire blazed in hers. “Then Mama needs you to fight like hell and win.” She shook her head, voice quavering as she said, “Because I won’t lose you. Not again. Okay, lovely?”
Sorrinn hopped into her arms and hugged her tight. “Okay, Mama. I promise I won’t die.” He placed a kiss on her cheek.
She picked him up, then stood, facing his father. “I’ll leave Asammirr with you. Watch him. He does not leave your side.”
“Leave him to me. But, if I may inquire, where are you off to with Sorrinn at this time of morning?”
“If he’s going to win, he needs to be ready and strong. Training. We may personally be powerless, but swinging a blade isn’t the way for a parent to fight for their child. All we can do is help prepare him and support him in any battles that may come.”
“Breakfast, Mama?” Sorrinn questioned.
“Fruit from The Giving Tree is breakfast today, lovely. Mama needs you to focus.” She was headed out the door a moment later.