When he first opened his eyes, much of his left leg was reduced to a stump.

The second time, he saw a gilded flask being emptied on his leg. The sensation was akin to being within the flowing veil of a waterfall back home; yet there was an underlying prickling that scrambled his senses.

The third time he saw bandages wrapped on where much of his left leg used to be.

The fourth time, he was staring at the ceiling of a corridor. The fifth time, he found himself in his room. The next day, he opened his eyes for the sixth time. Numisley was being fed soup by a [Servant], mixed with medicinal ingredients as Malanyari was sitting across his bed. Fever and fatigue made the blanket and his new cotton clothes heavier for Numisley. Even the light stung and the air chilled him.

“Escribanorr had the soup mixed with lightning ginger and wiseweed to regain your energy. Speak, or spit if you could understand me.” Malayari instructed.

“I…hear you.” Numisley exhaled.

“Good. Although Lord Naveirei had instructed me to tutor you in etiquette, speech, and history, I deemed it appropriate to give you an initiation in the Six Energies of the world first for it might make your recovery faster.”

The [Servant] who had finished feeding him quickly left the room, as if she was not allowed to hear Malanyari’s coming words. The court scholar stared at the closed door for a few moments, as if making sure that no one was behind that door.

“What do you mean?” Numisley asked, confused, made worse by his fever.

“Tomorrow, if your condition alleviates, I shall give you lessons in etiquette and language. But now, this lesson is more relevant to your healing. Do you know how healing potions work?” Malanyari asked another question.

“They…use mana to heal wounds.”

“Close. But not exactly. The most common type of healing potion is those that accelerate the natural healing of the body. The magic in the potion–at least for most potions–does not directly induce this effect in the body, but rather boosts what is already there through a process of transmutation between energies at the cost of your vigor. What is there is Ki, or simply what the commoners call lifeforce: the energy of the body.”

“I thought it was mana?” Numisley perked up, moving an inch upward, only to fall back on his bed. There were mentions of these energies in the brown book, but it was mainly focused on using these to gain the specific functions of the world. The book was clearly written at a level of knowledge far beyond Numisley.

“Mana mainly permeates the world around us. Yes, we all have mana reserves, but what people call a ‘mana reserve’ is how much mana their body can safely absorb within their body. One’s ki mitigates the risk of mana poisoning, and too much of either can make using ki or mana difficult–not impossible, mind you. An analogy my late teacher liked to employ is that, imagine the concept of mana reserve as a skin, or a coat, while ki is the body. Magic is the manipulation of mana, physical and metaphysical, and ki is the manipulation of one’s health and body. Those magically inclined have more mana than ki, and those physically blessed have more ki.” Malanyari explained.

“I think I get it somehow.” Numisley pieced together the knowledge from his book and the court scholar’s explanation.

Numisley wished that he had a piece of parchment or paper right now so he could take note of this. He remembered lines in the brown book similar to what the scholar had mentioned.

“Do not fret if you do not comprehend this fully. Like I said, this is an introduction, but a relevant one for your swift recovery. Be grateful that my liege had given you this knowledge that he paid for.”

This reminded Numisley of the two books he and his brother kept and brought them much danger, yet brought them much wealth and influence by applying the rules of the world to their benefit. He can see the value of this scholar clearly, and even now he is thinking about how will he gain access to more of his knowledge.

“I still don’t understand how this helps me recover, even with this knowledge.”

“Your body already converts thimbleful amounts of mana into ki, and ki into mana. Among all other techniques that make this process more efficient, meditation is both the easiest and the hardest. [Warriors] meditate for both respite and replenishing their ki, and [Mages] meditate to replenish their mana. Meditation helps you focus on your own body. Close your eyes, sit upright, and imagine your body absorbing the mana around you. Imagine redirecting this energy throughout your body. Imagine it healing your fever and halting the bleeding in your leg.”

The leg. Numisley almost forgot that he had an atrophied leg. Yet it is now a stump, wrapped in bandages that needed to be changed when its white cloth painted itself a fresh red every few hours. Yet he could feel it was still there. It itched. It ached. It stung. It numbed–

“Sit upright and close your eyes.” Malanyari spoke instructions empowered by one of his Feats, which Numisley groggily followed. “Inhale. Exhale. Breathe calmly. Breathe.”

That seemed to halt Numisley’s panic attack before it even happened. Malanyari had to exert a significant amount of effort for his [Instructional Commands] to work, for Numisley possesses a potent Aura that only talented nobility has. The scholar continued to talk to distract Numisley.

“Your mana reserves are lower than average, and your ki is even lower than I had expected. Yet your Aura almost neutered my [Instructional Commands]. I see you already have one or two Aura Feats. When you are able, you shall undergo Aura training.”

“Thank you.” Numisley was gratified to hear that.

“I’m afraid that this phantom pain will continue. Regardless, remember that this pain is a phantom. If this pain is unbearable, request for a tincture. Continue your meditation.”

Numisley meditated until supper arrived at his bed. He wasn’t sure if meditating had healed his body somewhat. He did not see any immediate effect on his body. His stump bled, but it only stained the bandages. The fever became more bearable. Yet the phantom pain grew so intense that Numisley gave up meditating and called for a tincture to soothe his mind and ease this intangible aching. For Numisley, this was more unbearable than his toes being cut off. What makes this pain different?

Such was the relief induced by the tincture that Numisley slept soundly that night until the pain let itself be known again before the sun rises.

In the mornings Numisley learned to speak Torregornian in the refined way that his uncle wanted him to, and was informed of the history of his family and the many noble families within the kingdom. In the afternoons and evenings, he was allowed to rest and heal. Night after night, he struggled with the phantom pains, and he had to consume the same tincture that eased this pain and made him sleep. The day before the expected arrival of the Ichorvators he was taught to lie or obfuscate the truth, but little did they know that Numisley is already experienced with twisting his words. Still, many of their tips helped. When Numisley woke up, he was made to consume an energizing potion so that he could at least stand up and present himself in front of the Ichorvators.

Numisley was dressed in a formal doublet by the [Servants] of the castle, and he joined Escribanorr and Anteojor at the front of the castle. From the streets of Ascolitica a sanguine-colored carriage with a grey trim emerged, guarded by armored men on horses. Everyone in the city was prompted to gossip about it, for they had heard that these carriages were harbingers of change among the nobility or royalty, for better or worse.

The ominous carriage stopped short of the castle’s entrance, and its contents revealed itself. Five grey-hooded masks emerged from its doors, and their red-lined cloaks barely touched the ground, but covered their shoes, creating the illusion of levitation. They were almost the same height and the same posture, slightly bowing in the presence of Escribanorr, hiding their hands on each sleeve. This is in line with what Numisley’s uncle had told him, that Ichorvators will arrive in a red-grey carriage, and they wear identical clothes so that they would not suffer the consequences of the ire of the nobility and royalty from their judgments.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Lord Escribanorr Naveirei. We are grateful that you have received us.” The one at the center spoke.

There were no faces to read but the eyes beyond the silts of their ivory masks, but Escribanorr and Numisley guessed that they were surprised, judging by the way they glanced at each other.

“To what do I owe this visit?” Escribanorr prodded.

“We have heard of a new potential member of your House. A scion close to your line.”

The masks turned towards Numisley, before returning their uncanny gaze to Escribanorr.

“We shall investigate this matter of holy heritage. We shall speak with the words and intent of the Sanguine.”

The Ichorvators were now within the throne room of the castle. Escribanorr sat on the throne, ready to listen to his audience. Yet the five Ichorvators prayed and chanted in his presence, holding different objects with the exception of one, who is leading this short ritual.

One held a medallion of stone, its inlays stained with ancient blood. Another held a glass vial of blood that did not dry nor coagulate, and Numisley felt it beckon him. One held a scroll so aged that its parchment turned into the color of dried marrow, and it was practically a miracle that it did not disintegrate when it came out from its gilded container. The Ichorvator that held it traced his clothed finger as he read aloud the ten generations of the Naveirei House, stopping at the names of Numisley’s mother and father. Another held a stone idol that made Numisley’s blood run cold, reminding Numisley of the [Priests] back home who invoked the gods of the land, and the visiting Satyr [Shamans] of friendly tribes who called upon spirits and ancestors.

This was the same sensation he felt when he sensed someone watching him; the same stir that arises in a split-second when he knows there is someone behind him–yet magnified tenfold. The presence of a god that he was not permitted to see and not even nobility like Escribanorr and his son were allowed to see this divine manifestation.

The Ichorvators talked among themselves in monotone whispers; not even their voices were permitted variety. They remarked Numisley’s lack of resemblance towards his mother, and how his father’s sandy curls, thin stature, and fox-like eyes had mixed with his mother’s striking heath-colored irises and the copper pigmentation of his skin. In the few words and minutes of observing Numisley’s gait, posture, and manner of speaking they had instantly deduced his character and possible abilities.

They whispered amongst themselves that he had inherited the intelligence of Jascias, the legendary and infamous [Spymaster] of Torregorn, and the determination and strength of character of Marhyiana the hero and champion of Torregorn. Yet they spoke of the physical characteristics of Numisley’s father as if they were flaws, an out-of-place crack in a perfect sculpture, a blemish in a vibrant painting. Hearing these barely-whispered slights irked Numisley to no end that even his cousin Anteojor and Escribanorr felt his Aura curl and simmer. Of course, the Ichorvators noticed this, and noted the potency of Numisley’s Aura and compared it with Marhyiana’s own, which was more potent and refined; a sign of her heritage.

“Numisley Gildin.” The one in the middle spoke as they finished their deductions. “How did you know that you are the son of the late Maryhiana Naveirei and Jascias of House Ehvreto?”

“When we were attacked by bandits in our home, my father left me a note that I would be safe here. That I have family here. That is when I left my home of Renimburg.” Numisley spoke, saying as little as possible, omitting details that would endanger his narrative.

“Are you aware of your father’s past as a [Spymaster]?” The Ichorvator holding the blood-stained medallion asked.

“He mentioned it in the letter.”

“Are you aware that there are rumors that he is not of noble blood, that he had faked his filial records?” The Ichorvator holding the ancient scroll asked.

“No.”

This is a piece of information that is new to Numisley. He kept his face level, knowing that they could read every twitch and tiny gesture that might appear under his skin. He feared that his pores might betray him, that they would appear like dew and proclaim the truth. He wore the same mask he used to confound those who attempted to read his face behind his cards when he played in the gambling den in Renimburg. Now, this is a game where his future is on the line. His white lies between his words and his omissions of small significant truths are his cards. The players he played against are the [Priests] in front of him, their cards being the god they invoked and the artifacts they held.

“Your leg. Tell us what happened.” The Ichorvator holding the vial demanded.

“I was kidnapped in my travels. When I attempted to escape, they cut it off.” Numisley cut off many details in his statement.

A moment of silence. A pregnant pause. The Naveirei present did not hear their adjudication, but they spoke once more, turning their gaze to Escribanorr.

“How did you find this Numisley Gildin, and how are you sure that he is a Naveirei?” The Ichorvator holding the idol asked.

“He was in Ascolitica as a [Merchant] who supplied fish to the celebration of the opening of this city’s library. When he saw the statue at the plaza, which is imbued with the Maestro Terenta’s Feat. Which, as you had may or may not known, it is written in our annals that it is imbued with [Evoke Emotion (Sculpture): Ancestral Awe]. This is witnessed by my son.” Escribanorr added.

“Yes.” Anteojor continued. “He was moved in a way that no other person could aside from those of our kin. I made the judgment to bring him to my father, and he determined that my hunch is true.”

“Considering the line of succession of House Naveirei, in which you are heir apparent, why did you take this possible scion under your wing? Especially one who is theoretically–much purer than your son.” The Ichorvator holding the ancient scroll asked.

“We had heard that you had proclaimed him as the son of Marhyiana Naveirei, yet the late Torresso Commerro had embarrassed him and you in front of your Matriarch.” The Ichorvator holding the blood-stained medallion asked.

“I believe that inducting Numisley as a Naveirei would be a benefit to the entirety of our House. He is shown to have a talent and the Feats for acquiring money, and we need someone we can trust with our treasuries. His experience and his knowledge that is…admittedly, outside of our privileged lives would prove valuable to our future ventures. Your concerns of succession, I assure you, will not come to fruit. We have agreed that he shall be a minor member of our House and that the succession plan remains to be the same.” Escribanorr answered two of the Ichorvators.

“A cripple would tarnish the image of Human perfection all Human Houses embody. Consider. Are you still willing to induct Numisley Gildin through the Ichoricon Rite?” The Ichorvator who held nothing impassively asked, each blatant slight without regard for Numisley’s presence.

“A disability has never stopped the Voice of the World for giving the blind sight, nor had it ignored the pleas of the mute, nor did it not speak to the deaf. There are many greats of history that rose and transcended from their afflictions because of their will; such as the Unseeing Tyrant and the Blind Blade of ages past, and I know you see the potency of Numisley’s Aura, though latent and lacking refinement, is a sign of his pedigree. Naveirei or not, Numisley is a useful individual that I shall add to my court.” Escribanorr stood his ground.

The five Ichorvators silently made judgments on what had been spoken in this hall. With their Feats and their Miracles empowered by the authority of their god, they had analyzed the meaning and limited truth behind each word, spoken or unspoken. They found flaws, but nothing worth the disqualification of Numisley for the Rite. The Ichorvator materialized a slip of ivory from his sleeves, and then it appeared at Numisley’s palm.

“You are permitted to undergo the Rite of the Ichoricon in ten days' time. Our priesthood shall invite peers of the realm to judge your heritage.” The Ichorvator who held nothing declared. “You shall swear by the God of Bloodlines and the Divine Decree he joined, that no fraud shall occur or had occurred before your trial. Swear your blood on the bloodline of the Naveirei that your heritage be true, and should any fraudulence regarding this rite be discovered you shall be smitten on the spot. Swear to the Sanguine and the Thousand Bloodlines of Man that you agree to be judged by peers of the Torregornian realm that we deem appropriate and that you agree for your blood be spilled on the altar where the Ichoricon shall take place and be examined. Swear to the Lord of Covenants that you shall accede to the judgment of our priesthood and the Rite without resistance, or your life shall be forfeit.”

Numisley had been already subject to many contracts in the past, but this was different yet familiar. His blood ran cold, and his veins pondered on the oath. His lips held back his words like a dam. This was like his [Bloodbound Contract], with the ancient weight of bloodlines, and not the paltry power of his blood compacts. His mind, tried and tested by trials, faced a greater challenge. There is no going back once he speaks.

“I swear.”