“Whoyh-yo? Ah… yes… The Astral Adept returns saturated in knowledge, power and fortune. His legend grows, which title will he own I wonder? Which of those titles must he hide? Bondweaver? Duælist? …Progenitor? Gasp. I speak too soon, yes too soon, far too soon. He has still yet a bit of living and a bit of killing to do before then. I wonder…”
Ori materialised in the stone room beside the lifewell fountain. With Harriet's and Poppy's recent faces etched into his mind, and anxiety over their fates paramount, Ori ignored Crucible's inane conjecture and plunged into Freya’s library of knowledge, his gut twisting with worry.
> High Queen Harriet, Anoriel Thalionwen Luinilthar of the Lunaesidhe High Elves, often referred to as High Queen Harriet the First, ascended to the throne under extraordinary circumstances. Her rise to power was precipitated by the untimely death of her mother, Queen Iris, who perished in a duel against Rufus Terradi’del Osson, the contender for the Elven Overlord. This event thrust Harriet into the limelight as one of the youngest briar queens, a title she assumed without the benefit of a regency period, earning her the moniker 'Infant Queen' due to her ascension before reaching the elven age of maturation.
>
> Queen Harriet's transition to the status of High Queen occurred amid a whirlwind of mystery, rumour, and controversy, particularly highlighted by the name of her unique class; ‘Herald of the Bondweaver’. This class title, which came to public attention during her official ascension, fuelled widespread speculation regarding the identity of her consort through Taurna'diem, the declaration of which preceded her ascension to high queen by only minutes. The nature of her ascension and the subsequent mystery over her personal connections have since become a pivotal aspect of modern elven history, inspiring many illicit tales of seduction, and salacious exchanges of power.
>
> Despite relinquishing the official title of High Queen following the ascension of subsequent briar queens over the centuries, Harriet's early elevation to an Immortal rank solidified her legacy as the ‘Briar Prodigy’. With a reign marked by a complex legacy of innovation and controversy, she commands enduring respect among her contemporaries for her precocious rise to power, though her personality—often described as aloof and flippant—has occasionally clashed with the expectations and solemn decorum expected of her station.
>
> To this day, she continues to govern the Lunaesidhe as a divisive figure with a tenure characterised by a lack of familial alliances, typically forged through marriage and heirs, which, coupled with her isolation due to her mysterious and premature ascension, shapes a reign many consider just as groundbreaking and inspiring, as it is precarious.
Ori doubled over in relief.
“Yeeeeaaasss!” Ori roared, relief turning into elation at the completeness of his success. He had suffered no losses as far as he could tell, no detrimental consequences; they were still alive and despite rumours about his own nature, his involvement and anonymity remained intact. A deeper, darker part of him revelled in the absence of any lovers or political engagements, having feared learning about Harriet finding another suitor or gathering a harem of her own during the long centuries since. But with nothing in the records suggesting that she'd found new lovers, official or not, Ori felt a weight he never knew he was carrying lift off his shoulders. Poppy was also frequently mentioned, though any word of her in connection to the ‘Bondweaver’ or being in Taurna’diem seemed, thankfully, absent.
He summoned Seraphine’s Beacon into his hand, its crystalline weight and soft silver light, both a comfort and a reminder of all that was left to do. And then he summoned his Dreamwalkers’ Ward, an equal reminder of all that he’d accomplished, a record of survival and overcoming challenges.
He drank and splashed his face with water from the Lifewell, curing himself of the momentary thirst and dizziness caused by his teleportation and spike of anxiety. Had it only been weeks? He wondered, taking in once again the feel, smells, and textures of the near featureless room to which he had once become accustomed.
From one blink to the next, a second door in the Lifewell chamber appeared as if by apparition. Its location, Ori realised as he approached, was some distance from the chamber's walls, as if floating within the room.
“Crucible?” Ori asked in mild alarm.
“Ah, it seems our too-big-to-deign-to-acknowledge-my-existence, Astral Adept, has forgotten the entire point of these trials. Three by Three symmetry: three of the mind, three of the soul, and three of the body. Through every trial, you gained something—catalysts, wisdom, bodily fortunes—having been shaped, imbued, and inscribed by fortuitous experiences and opportunities many could only dream of. This all ends with refinement.
"I have observed your transformation from a lowly mortal to the one whose quickened vision instigated the age of blindness much to my surprise and amusement I must add. You are now a being even those old dragons must acknowledge. Yes… yes. You have honed your mind into a blade ten times sharper than when you had arrived, with a Mana Nexus crystallised to a state many Nascent rankers would be proud of. Though your physical enhancements may seem modest in comparison, you now stand at the apex of human mortal ability in every characteristic with the knowledge and experience to rebuild your body and rebuild it better.
“It is time, Boy-o, to refine these achievements and crystallise your gains, scorch away all superfluities, and purify your mortal physique, your Awakened mind, and your Nascent soul. You shall be my magnum opus, my first complete flesh enchantment, one fitting for my guardian and an enduring legacy to my patience and your prodigious will. And after we have done what we are to do, you shall Quicken by induction into the Library of Fates, or die in the attempt."
“Tell me what we need to do next, and let’s get it done,” Ori said, his mood grim, his mind recalling that final aspect of the Crucible; Refinement.
“There’s the door. Prepare yourself, and when you’re ready, step through and enter my namesake.”
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Refinement was a fundamental aspect of enchanting and other crafts such as alchemy, spellcraft, and healing. Traditionally, it involved intense heat or alchemical reactions such as reduction, oxidation, or distillation to eliminate impurities. In enchanting, refinement required a medium, typically fire, alongside catalysts, mana, and intent. This medium created the necessary environmental change to activate the catalyst, accelerating the transformation of the material under treatment. The specific instructions for refinement were guided by a continuous stream of mana, aspected with the crafter's affinities and intent.
Understanding this, Ori felt that stepping through the door would be like undergoing his first trial all over again, a purifying flame engulfing him—not to destroy but to validate his progress. Refinement was inherently subtractive; it purified and crystallised but could not add. Everything Ori had gained—catalysts, insights, and powers—would face this ultimate test. Only the elements deeply integrated with his soul would endure; the rest would be discarded as unfulfilled potential.
This phase was more than a trial; it was a chance for synthesis and crystallisation. Ori speculated that experiencing refinement firsthand might unlock the knowledge to create a new spell, one that embodied the principles of enchantment and extended beyond personal transformation. Lacking a specific refinement spell and without an affinity for fire, Ori had considered adapting Purifying Light—a celestial affinity spell received during his Journeyman trials from Lady Jasmine. Predominantly an offensive spell used for banishment and cleansing, he recalled using it in the Battle for Astor to transform light and mana into a purifying force that cleansed Eltitus's soul and the battlefield of metaphysical corruption.
Taking a deep breath and clearing his mind, Ori learned from his past trial errors and visualised the best-case scenario as he approached the floating doorway. Opening it revealed a grey emptiness beyond. As a maker of his own fate, Ori was eager to uncover the truths this phase would reveal, embracing refinement as the capstone to all his achievements, aiming to solidify all that was good within him and eliminate any lingering weaknesses or vulnerabilities.
“What should I expect? Will this be another soulcrafting?”
“Yes, and unlike that petty charlatan saint Donna and his little blast furnace, if your strong enough, if you have the ability and desire that I’ve glimpsed from you, my Crucible will allow you to make yourself. To choose what crystalises and what gets burnt away, if you can handle it that is?”
“Bring it.”
[As an unAwakened mortal adept, you have been granted access to the maximum nine trials of the Crucible and have chosen all aspects: Mind, Body, and Soul, to be refined.
After a maximum of nine attempts, the trial has ended and the unAwakened mortal adept must now step into the Crucible to be refined.]
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Ori stepped through the floating doorway and immediately experienced a dislocation of self that was weightless and profound. It was as if he had stepped out of his own body, and for timeless moments, he was adrift without breath or heartbeat to anchor his senses—only the terror of disorientation remained, a sense of centre stolen away, leaving him in a grey, homogenous void that he was paradoxically a part of. Then, suddenly, understanding dawned. He existed in a sea defined by his will, where his mental, spiritual, and physical traits were abstracted in the haze—his twenty-two affinities, his catalysts hard-won from the first six trials swam amongst atomised flesh, blood, soul, and bone. He was the volume, the quantity to be refined.
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A howling gale swept through the vast formlessness, a cutting wind, a killing wind that carried the raw force of entropy and discord’s relentless wrath. It ruthlessly cleaved through his being, slicing away diamond-hard shards of himself, elements he had failed to properly integrate, abilities and spells that had once seemed crucial but now proved incompatible with his path. These remnants of his softer, past self, now unfit for the future he was to forge, were painfully carved from his metaphysical whole, his essence a churning tumult, restless against the force of the refining medium.
Then, from the depths of nether realms, cold, malevolent winds of the underworld surged forth. Cruel winds, killing winds, each gust laden with the bitter chill of misery and pain, existing solely to serve entropy and feed the furnace of discord’s wrath. These winds extinguished the darkest horrors of Eltitus’s memories, the nightmarish remnants that had once haunted him, leaving behind only a useful cynicism and a tempered weariness of the world.
The assault escalated as scorching winds of hell itself encircled him. These burning winds, these killing winds seared through Ori’s form with unyielding ferocity, breaking off boulder-sized pieces of his essence. Like their predecessors, these winds had no intent other than to enforce the chaos of entropy and fulfil the destructive desires of discord.
Simultaneously, under the burning winds of hell, Ori's Arcane Hand's, a spell granted by Freya, fused with polydexterity, sealing that pathway of advancement as the spell quickened with his soul. It crackled with transcendent energies, transitioning between incorporeal and corporeal states, its shine reflecting the formidable potential of his Vision of the Progenitor and hinting at a future where all within his reach lay under his dominion.
Among the fragmented remnants of his spells and abilities, Ori discovered something previously unseen. It was the gift from Harriet's song, her soulcrafting upon his very being. This was her bloodline ability transformed into something extraordinary by the Aether rift and the perfect moment of enlightenment during her ascendancy—a seed of Aethermancy. This nascent power, coveted by many but never mastered, throbbed with the promise of unexplored arcane potential, by offering control over Aether as if it were Mana.
He clung to it, even as the refinement process sought to strip it away, its utility not yet proven or fully integrated into the person he was becoming. Yet, Ori knew that if his conscious presence was to hold any value, it would be through the discovery and securing of this immensely precious seed, a dream conjured in the wildest fantasies of thaumaturges, now within his grasp due to an extraordinary confluence of fate.
Throughout this ordeal, Ori’s bonds—threads connecting him to beings and places across realms—were not only tested but refined, becoming stronger and more efficient with liberated essence from his soul restoring a portion of his capacity for new bonds.
Yet, the pain of refinement was beyond anything Ori had anticipated. It surged through every fibre of his being, tempting him to succumb to the agony and lose himself to oblivion. Beyond that, was the formless terror of an uncertain existence, this form was not himself, not how he envisioned himself to be shaped.
Ori had begun to discount divinity, having interacted with Sovereign rankers and Immortals, and possessing abilities at the Transcendent rank, known to be beyond the realm of the gods. But he now understood that the vast difference between possessing abilities and wielding divine power was profound. To be disassembled and refined by the forces of discord was to experience divine power. The entity known as Crucible was god-like, and Ori was nearly powerless against its whims.
Yet, he clung on to the weak and poorly integrated fragments he wished to hold—his Quintessence Affinity, his seed of Aethermancy, his innocence, and humanity. Each moment stretched endlessly, a lifetime of pain, revelation, and euphoria. Through it all, Ori clung to what was dear, not merely surviving but being reborn stronger and more complete. The memories of his bonds, the promises made, and the faces of those he vowed to return to were beacons guiding him through the storm of malevolent winds and madness. With each indescribable moment, he shed the remnants of his former self, and from the ashes, emerged an entity tempered by trials, refined by loss, and empowered by an unbreakable will to live.
As the process drew to a close, Ori stood aware of his profound transformation. Vision of the Progenitor glimmered with subtle light, his irises a galaxy of stars superimposed upon an impossibly black void. His newly quickened Arcane Hands were profane quasi-corporeal presences floating beside his naked form. His domain, instinctually activated, crackled and condensed into a nimbus that combined grace, aether, and mana into a vapour that burned from his skin like an auroral fire.
With every muscle twitch and every heartbeat, reality seemed to spark and contort, as if his unhallowed presence was an anomaly it urgently needed to rectify, his every motion a reminder to fate that his presence could no longer be counted as mortal.
“What am I?” Ori’s voice seemed to resonate through the room.
“You are... in transition. The specifics matter little; suffice to say you're no longer merely mortal.”
“Am I even still human?”
“You clung to that part of yourself hard enough to be so, though in time, it will be a wasted effort in the end,” Crucible said with mild reproach. “Though I suppose I should be impressed with that seed you managed to hold on to, even if it will kill you if you fail to figure out how to germinate it”
“How do I do that?”
“No idea, boy-o, that’s for you to find out and for me to find amusement in watching your struggle. After you leave this place, I intend to go dormant, so expect no aid or timely advice from me on the outside. Honestly, though, I do hope you succeed to germinate that seed, just for the look on those dragons faces as they fret over you when you pull it off.” Crucible chuckled. “Do you feel it? That subconscious pull towards something greater, that need to lift up and rise beyond. That, my boy, is the Library of Fates demanding your awakening.”
“Is this normal? For Awakened, I mean.” Ori said, gesturing to his two set of ghostly hands and the neon nimbus around him.
“Hahaha, good lords no, boy-o and you have not even Awakened. One clear thought, one display of intent, and you could awaken just like that. They’d swoop you up with open arms, and even without the Peritia needed to fully awaken your soul, those librarians could make a special exception, one that would put you in their debt. Or…”
All six of Ori’s fists clenched. A part of him knew Crucible was playing him like a fiddle, but as he could feel through the narrowest of bonds between them, their goals were aligned, he listened. He could feel blood racing through his veins, his heartbeat a slow, inevitable rumble as cool air filtered out hot with every breath. A corona hummed with an energy radiating from his skin, one Ori didn’t quite understand, while Arcane Hands that felt more real than ever manifested and reacted without conscious intent. “Or?” Ori asked, taking Crucible’s bait and shoving the possibility of instantly awakening to the back of his mind for now.
“Or, earn your Peritia. Kill all that lies in your path. Kill with a clear mind but make no mistake, they've no longer trapped you in to feast on you, oh no boy-o, you shall be the one that feasts. You’re close, the both of you should be near the thresholds required for your goal. And... should you happen to fashion the demise of a powerful entity, perhaps you’d awaken with all the Peritia needed to racially evolve.
“That’s to say, you now have options, boy-o.”
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Ori had dressed, wrapping his Dreamwalkers’ Ward around his forearm with a strip of cloth torn from his jeans, and refamiliarised himself with the wands he had taken from the armoury. These once wondrous artefacts which were the stuff of legends, now felt like simple tools well within his crafting capabilities as he could now likely fashion better versions given the same materials. He considered doing just that but thought against it, time and lack of reagents being the key determinators.
He secured his Greater Channelling Wand of Light around his ankle, allowing skin contact to facilitate communication with the artefact's will in the rare instance he was unable to consciously cast on his own. Alongside his own healing magic and the wand's inherent spells, Ori felt well-prepared in terms of healing and dispelling curses.
The mortal wands of force, less likely to be used unless in an emergency, were bundled together. His own Arcane Hands (if it was still thus named) could exert far more force at greater distances than the modest shove delivered by a force wand at ten paces.
His primary offensive tool was the Nascent Channelling Wand of Lightning. This wand, endowed with a will fragment, enabled him to cast potent lightning spells. With his own mana source, Ori could passively recharge the wand or allow the will fragment to draw directly from him to cast a formidable bolt of lightning. Holding Seraphine’s Beacon in one hand, and the Lightning Wand in the other enhanced the range, power, and accuracy of his attacks; in the confined space around the Lifewell fountain, the sharp crack of the bolt and the resultant ozone dazzled him, despite his post-mortal status.
“How many are outside?”
“Funny you should ask. A week ago, when your escape caused an uproar, nearly a hundred were encamped outside the entrance. With you frolicking in the land of the elves, they grew bored or assumed you had perished. Now only a dozen Awakened and a Nascent imp spellcaster remain—a particularly nasty one fond of lobbing curses and partial body transmutations.”
“Let me guess, he likes to melt eyeballs?” Ori groaned.
“That’s the one.”
“Any tips on how to deal with him?” Ori asked, realising he had almost no experience in magic combat beyond ambushes or when severely underestimated.
“You are a student of Modern Warfare are you not? What does that affinity say?”
“To fight asymmetrically, range against melee opponents and melee against ranged. To fight on my terms, not theirs. To use movement and terrain to my advantage and narrow down their available sight lines while maximising my own.” Ori said dipping into the concept as he sort to apply his affinity to the battle ahead.
“This curse imp has defenses but is unaccustomed to being challenged by other casters and won’t expect the first strike from a mortal. Hit him as hard as you can as soon as you can from the start, exhaust the Nascent Wand immediately and let it recharge passively. Then, keep your distance from the Awakened until you can finish them off. Don’t rely on your Ward, especially against physical attacks, and don’t forget to use Purifying Light to dispel curses. You are stronger and faster than you realise, so don’t be hesitant to use fancy hands to crush tracheas—they’re only Awakened, after all. Oh, also consider aspecting your lightning with your inherent affinity; it couldn’t hurt to see what integration with a transcendent affinity looks like in an offensive spell. Or at least, all that’s what I would do if I had half a brain. But I’m sure what ever you’ll come up with will be entertaining nevertheless.” Crucible chuckled.
Ori simply grunted. “Is there any cover?”
“I can create a wall within a hundred paces of the entrance.”
“Make one just here…” Ori said, while Split Mind reviewed his spell-crafting options and visualised how the fight might go. Thirteen Awakened, mostly melee combatants with one ranged caster who likes to transmute bits of flesh. He could cast Channel Lightning—a direct, single target attack spell, Chain Lightning—a weaker area of effect spell, and Call Lightning bolt—an indirect single target spell Ori wasn’t sure could work under ground. Beyond those spells, he would be able to cast Purifying Light, Cure Wounds and Lesser Regeneration, and up to four instances of his upgraded Arcane Hands Ori no longer seemed to require mana or conscious thought to activate.
He was anxious, not from fear of demons or pre-combat jitters, but from a competitive curiosity to see just where he measured up. After all this time spent learning and growing through various trials and conflicts he'd mostly passively experienced, he felt compelled to understand his newfound capabilities, this intermediate peak of mortality, and how it compared to the rank beyond. Meanwhile, the prospect of dispatching sentient beings as if they were mere pests—albeit larger, tougher, and at least as powerful as he was—was something Ori considered, weighing it with a pragmatic morality born from his human, white mage sense of rationality. Ultimately, he judged that their deaths would likely lead to more living, and that was that.
He clenched his fist around the Nascent wand of Lightning in one hand, and Seraphine’s Beacon in the other, its warm glow now merging with the flux of his own nimbus as he stepped through the door to the outside.
It was time to return to Ghigrerchiax.