Mark stands still, staring at the flaming skull embedded on the back of his hand. The spectral fire writhes in hues of silver and red, flickering like a living brand that refuses to be extinguished. The pain is gone, but the sensation lingers, as if something foreign has settled beneath his skin.

  Ashburn watches him with quiet amusement. "You have taken in the Essence of Vatre successfully. But gaining it is not enough, you must now learn to wield it."

  Mark flexes his fingers, watching the faint glow pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. "Alright, what now?"

  Ashburn gestures toward the balcony. Mark turns instinctively, expecting the view of the endless wasteland beyond only to stop short. The table is gone. The open expanse has vanished. Now, a higher stone wall blocks the external view, sealing them in.

  Mark blinks. He hadn’t even noticed the shift, yet it is absolute. The air feels heavier, charged with unseen intent. Ashburn watches his reaction, a knowing glint in his eye. "You are beginning to understand. This place will shift to meet your purpose. Now, let us begin."

  Mark stands on the transformed balcony, the air thick with a strange, heavy presence. Ashburn stands before him, the silver flame still flickering in the jar between them. Mark flexes his fingers, still feeling the phantom burn from when he first absorbed the flame.

  Ashburn adjusts his gloves. "Before you attempt to wield it, you must understand Flux; the energy that binds your soul to your body. It fuels all invocations, including this one. If you exhaust your Flux, you will pass out. It regenerates slowly through rest and meditation. If you do not manage it carefully, you will collapse before learning anything."

  Mark exhales. "Got it. Don't burn out."

  Ashburn nods. "Now, we begin. First, speak the Words of Power and perform the Gestures precisely. If you fail, the invocation will either fizzle or lash out unpredictably. Watch closely."

  He raises his right hand, fingers curling into a sharp, deliberate sequence of movements. His posture remains controlled, his wrist twisting with precision as he speaks, his voice carrying the weight of command:

  "Ona A NexVa LihEmbe Vansan Qus Azy Cho Chs Aflub!"

  The air hums. A ghostly, silver-red flame erupts into existence above Ashburn’s palm. It flickers unnaturally, not like normal fire, but a living thing bound to his will. The heat radiates, yet it does not burn his skin.

  Mark watches, his fingers twitching. "Alright. Let me try."

  He takes a steadying breath, focusing on the Words of Power. His muscles tighten as he mirrors Ashburn’s Gestures, his hands cutting through the air with intent. The words leave his lips, vibrating through the space:

  "Ona A Neksu... uh... LihUmba... Vasan Qis Azzy Cho... Chubs Aflab?"

  Nothing.

  Mark frowns, glancing at his hands. "That didn’t feel right."

  Ashburn sighs. "That’s because it wasn’t."

  Mark exhales and tries again, adjusting his stance, this time focusing more on his hand movements.

  "Ona A NexFa Lim-Hembe Vasan Qooz Azzay Cho... Chss Afflubb?"

  A spark flickers in his palm and then erupts outward with an uncontrolled burst, sending a wave of heat rushing past his face. He yelps, stumbling back as the unstable energy fizzles into nothing. The air crackles, the remnants of the failed invocation dissipating into the ether.

  Mark stares at his empty palm. "The hell was that?"

  Ashburn doesn't so much as bat an eye. "Ah, splendid. You've managed to completely butcher both the pronunciation and the gestures in one fell swoop. A truly remarkable display of incompetence. Do take solace in the fact that you were only mildly singed. Were it worse, I would have had to summon a mop."

  Mark groans, rubbing his face. "Alright, alright. Let’s try again."

  He flexes his fingers, breathes deep, and resets his stance, determined to get it right this time.

  "Your gestures are rigid," Ashburn states. "Your form lacks fluidity. And you are still mispronouncing LihEmbe. Again."

  Mark scowls but nods. He resets, breathes deeply, and this time lets his natural rhythm take over. He’s always had a knack for lyrics. Maybe if he treats the spell like a hook, he can lock the flow into his brain.

  He mutters under his breath, testing different cadences. "Ona A NexVa LihEmbe Vansan Qus Azy Cho Chs Aflub... yeah... like that."

  His voice steadies, the words rolling off his tongue with more ease:

  "Ona A NexVa LihEmbe Vansan Qus Azy Cho Chs Aflub!"

  For a moment, nothing happens. Then-

  A spark flickers in his palm and then vanishes with a sharp crack. A pulse of heat brushes against his skin before disappearing. He growls in frustration, flexing his fingers.

  Ashburn tilts his head. "Your movements are stiff, like a marionette handled by an amateur. Your form lacks grace, and your pronunciation of LihEmbe is an affront to language itself. Again."

  Mark scowls but nods. He resets, breathes deeply, and this time relaxes into the movements. His voice steadies, the words rolling off his tongue more naturally:

  "Ona A NexVa LihEmbe Vansan Qus Azy Cho Chs Aflub!"

  For a moment, nothing happens. Then-

  A spectral flame ignites in his palm. The heat licks at his skin, but he feels no pain. It hovers there, waiting. A slow, creeping exhaustion seeps into his limbs. Somewhere in the background, faint clapping can be heard it is so subtle that it almost goes unnoticed, a light disruption on the edge of his concentration.

  "The flame exists as long as you will it to remain," Ashburn states. "But it does not come without a price. The longer you hold onto it, the more strain it places on your body and mind. It is a slow pull at first, subtle, like holding your breath for just a moment too long. But ignore it, and you will find yourself drowning in exhaustion before you realize it."

  Mark narrows his eyes in concentration at the fire. "Feels... manageable."

  "Then move."

  Mark shifts his stance, stepping forward. Instantly, his exhaustion spikes. His breath hitches, sweat forming on his brow. His limbs feel heavier.

  Ashburn observes. "As long as you are in motion, you will feel the strain grow rapidly. The longer you move with the flame active, the more it will pull at your body and mind. If you continue like this unchecked, your own strength will fail you before the flame does."

  Mark grits his teeth. "So, if I stop moving, it eases up?"

  "Correct. But be mindful. The moment the flame moves, whether in your hand or through the air, the strain on your body intensifies. It becomes an active force, demanding more from you to keep it alive."

  Mark stops, catching his breath. The fatigue eases slightly, giving him a momentary reprieve. He shifts again, and the sensation of exhaustion immediately presses down on him, like a weight settling over his limbs. His mind scrambles to make sense of the pattern, realizing the act of movement forces the strain to spike, while stillness grants brief relief.

  "Alright," he mutters. "What about throwing it?"

  Ashburn nods. "Try."

  Mark steps forward, shifting his weight. He hurls the flame at a target across the chamber. The instant it leaves his hand, he feels his exhaustion spike sharply. His knees nearly buckle.

  The flame collides, dispersing in a burst of silver-red embers. His head spins.

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  Ashburn clasps his hands behind his back. "Throwing the flame counts as movement. If you do not restore your Flux, this will incapacitate you within hours."

  Mark rubs his temples. "So how do I recover?"

  Ashburn gestures for him to step inside. "Come. You need to recover before continuing."

  Mark hesitates but follows him back into the room. The setting chair near the window remains, but now, beside it, sits a small table holding a glass of cold water and a bowl of pretzels. He hadn't noticed them before, but then again, this place seems to shift when he's not looking.

  Ashburn gestures toward the chair. "Sit. Hydrate."

  Mark sinks into the seat, taking a sip of the water before popping a pretzel into his mouth. The saltiness is grounding, a small reminder of something normal in a world that keeps rewriting itself.

  Ashburn clasps his hands behind his back. "Meditation is the key to recovering your strength. Close your eyes. Breathe. Do not think of the flame, do not force it. Simply exist in this moment. The energy within you will return if you allow it."

  Mark chews slowly, then sighs. "So, sit still and breathe. Got it."

  "More than that. Feel the energy moving through you, but do not grasp at it. Let it come as naturally as an exhale."

  Mark follows the instruction, inhaling deeply, letting his mind settle. He has meditated before, once, when his ex had dragged him to a yoga class. Back then, it had been nothing more than an exercise in patience, something to humor her. But this time is different. This time, he feels something. The stillness isn't just emptiness; it carries a pulse, a faint current beneath his skin. Then, a slow trickle of energy stirs inside him, small but undeniable, like something waking up.

  "Good," Ashburn murmurs. "In time, this will become second nature."

  For five days, Mark trains.

  He learns to sustain the flame, to manage his movement, to throw it only when necessary. He experiences firsthand the drain of overuse, the sharp toll it takes on his body and mind.

  By the fifth day, he no longer struggles to summon the flame. It obeys him now, flickering between his fingers like a loyal beast waiting to strike.

  Ashburn watches his progress, then offers one final lesson. "This place, the Goddess’ Embrace, is attuned to Termina. It amplifies certain aspects of your power but weakens others. Every environment will affect you differently. Learn to recognize when a place strengthens or hinders you."

  Mark exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Got it. Anything else?"

  Ashburn smiles faintly. "Yes. Do not pass out mid-combat. It would be... unseemly."

  Mark smirks. "No promises."

  Mark exhales, rolling his shoulders as he steps into the bathroom. Five days of training have sharpened his control over the Spiritual Flame, and though the invocation still pulls at him, it no longer feels like a struggle.

  He pauses. The bathroom has changed.

  The sleek, gothic tiles remain, but now there is a soaking tub beside the shower, already filled with steaming water. A bath brush rests on the edge, and on a small ledge sits a bar of soap, the cheap kind he used to pick up at the local stop-and-rob down the street. The shampoo bottle has changed too, its scent unmistakable. Lavender.

  Mark snorts, running a hand through his hair. "Seriously?" He glances at the tub, considering.

  "Fuck it."

  He strips down and sinks into the hot water. The heat wraps around him instantly, working its way into his sore muscles. The last five days have left him aching, but as the water eases the tension in his body, he lets himself relax. His eyelids grow heavy. Just for a minute.

  Mark drifts.

  He floats in a river, staring up at an endless sky filled with constellations. The stars shimmer in unfamiliar patterns, and he wonders and not for the first time if he’d ever want to go visit the gods.

  The water carries him effortlessly, lapping against his skin. Hands soft and warm move over him, soothing his soreness. A passing thought surfaces in his drifting mind. Weird. But the hands aren’t enemies. They’re comforting, washing over him, scrubbing, kneading the tension from his muscles.

  His hair is being washed. Gentle fingers massage his scalp, working through the strands in slow, careful motions. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips.

  "Fuck it," he mutters in his dream. "At least I can dream about being some rich guy getting washed by hot chicks."

  The hands continue, and he lets go, sinking deeper into sleep, into warmth, into peace.

  Mark wakes up in bed.

  He blinks at the ceiling, inhaling deeply, the smell of lavender and cheap soap lingers. His skin feels refreshed; his hair clean. The dream lingers in his mind, but only faintly, slipping away like mist under the sun.

  Morning light filters through the gothic archways leading to the balcony. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stretches before catching the scent of food.

  Stepping outside, he finds breakfast waiting.

  Orange juice, coffee, biscuits and gravy, a pile of bacon, and several fried eggs.

  But it's not just the food that catches his attention.

  The scenery has changed again.

  This time, his balcony is surrounded by clouds, floating above an endless expanse. A shimmering aurora borealis stretches across the horizon, its colors shifting, pulsing, alive. In the distance, he hears the faint sound of movement, a rhythmic churning of wheels on tracks.

  He looks closer.

  A train, spectral and vast, moves through the sky, transporting souls and mortals alike.

  Mark picks up his coffee, watching the train pass, the hum of its presence vibrating through the air.

  "Guess it's morning."

  Mark stands on the balcony, staring at the open space before him. The aurora borealis still stretches across the sky, but the train carrying souls and mortals alike has long since passed. The air hums with an energy. He has started to recognize the weight of something beyond reality pressing in at the edges of his perception.

  Ashburn stands beside him, a small satchel in hand. "It is time you learned the Ritual of the Nexus Shift. This will allow you to transition into the Astral Plane. However, given your current limitations, it will take you significantly longer to complete. I, on the other hand, will demonstrate it properly first. Pay attention."

  Mark folds his arms, watching as Ashburn kneels and begins marking the ground with practiced ease. The chalk dust swirls in the air as he inscribes precise circles, triangles, squares, and interlocking gates. Each movement is deliberate, each stroke flowing effortlessly into the next. The symbols seem to hum with latent energy even before the ritual is complete.

  Mark glances up from the ritual preparations, only to realize something has changed again. The balcony has expanded, stretching three times its original size. The stone railing now curves outward, encompassing a wider space. He hadn't noticed it shifting while he was staring at the expanse, sipping his coffee. Now, it is undeniable.

  He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "Figures."

  "These inscriptions form the foundation," Ashburn explains, his voice calm. "They dictate the flow of the essence, the stability of the passage. Without them, the ritual collapses before it can even begin."

  Mark studies the patterns, recognizing symbols tied to Illumination, Termina, Botanic, and Meudachd. He sees the lantern placed at the circle’s edge, the vine curling around the square, the attunement crystal at the center, its glow faint but steady.

  Then, Ashburn stands, brushing the chalk from his hands. He takes a breath, centering himself. His fingers move fluidly, forming complex gestures in the air as his voice rings out:

  "Lux Infinitum Iter Pandit – Mortuis Porta Aperta Est – Nex Nutrit Vivum – Iter inter Spatia."

  The air vibrates. The symbols on the ground ignite in soft, flickering light. The space within the inscriptions ripples, distorts, and then opens.

  For a brief moment, Mark sees beyond. A void of shifting silver and black, a passage leading somewhere unknown.

  Then, just as quickly, Ashburn exhales and the energy collapses inward, sealing the rift.

  "That," Ashburn says smoothly, "is how it should be done. Took me five minutes. It will take you hours."

  Mark sighs. "Yeah, yeah. Let’s get started."

  Mark kneels before the empty ground where the ritual had just been cast. The markings are gone. The surface is untouched, waiting for him to begin from scratch.

  The first week is spent just trying to understand the design. He grips the chalk and starts slowly, carefully drawing the first circle. It is uneven. He frowns, rubbing out the mistake with his palm before starting again. The next attempt is better, but still imperfect.

  "Precision, Mark. Sloppy work leads to unstable results."

  The second day is just as frustrating. He bites back a retort and focuses. Circle. Triangle. Square. Gate. Stroke by stroke, he carves the symbols into the ground, his hands steady but his mind straining to keep track of the intricate formations. The repetition grates on him, his low comprehension making the pattern difficult to retain. Each time he starts fresh, something feels off.

  By the third day, the fatigue is setting in. His hands ache, his muscles stiff from kneeling for so long. He wipes his brow, smearing chalk dust across his forehead. The ritual requires perfection, but perfection comes slowly.

  By the fourth day, he starts making fewer mistakes. His movements feel more natural. The symbols begin to feel familiar. He doesn’t need to reference Ashburn’s example as often.

  By the fifth day, his fingers move automatically. The shapes are still difficult, still complex, but he understands them now.

  By the seventh day, Ashburn finally nods.

  "You have learned the design. Now, we move to the words. Make sure that you remember the path of each inscription, each word, each line. From the inside out."

  Mark leans back, closing his eyes. He draws in slow breaths, allowing himself to sink into meditation. The energy within him stirs, sluggish at first, then steadier. A faint trickle of strength returns. It isn't much, but enough to continue.

  The second week begins with failure.

  Each word of power must be spoken immediately after each inscription is placed, before the next shape can be drawn. But his pronunciation is poor, and more than once, Ashburn forces him to wipe away all progress and start from scratch.

  "You are too impatient," Ashburn observes. "The words must not only be spoken, but understood. You are imposing your will upon reality. It does not bend to half-hearted command."

  Mark clenches his jaw, but he knows Ashburn is right. The words feel foreign, unnatural. His tongue stumbles over syllables. He mispronounces Nex, botches Vin, slurs Ston Ston. Each mistake sends him back to the beginning.

  By the third day of the second week, he manages to inscribe two full symbols before failing.

  By the fifth day, he nearly completes the sequence, only to flub the final phrase, forcing another reset.

  By the seventh day, his voice is steady. The words flow.

  "Lu Lih Vin Cir Radi – Nex Lih Vin Spe Obli – Bot Lih Vin Ston Ston – Mu Lih Vin Gate Warp Qua."

  A low hum resonates through the air. The symbols pulse faintly, their glow weak but present. It is working.

  But Mark can feel it—the ritual is draining him. His vision blurs at the edges, his limbs feel heavier. He forces himself to focus, to press forward.

  "You must complete it," Ashburn warns. "If you stop now, it will collapse. Hold steady."

  Mark clenches his jaw and pushes through the exhaustion. The final words leave his lips:

  "Lux Infinitum Iter Pandit – Mortuis Porta Aperta Est – Nex Nutrit Vivum – Iter inter Spatia."

  A tear in space shudders open.

  For the briefest of moments, Mark sees the passage. It is incomplete, unstable, but real. A gate to something beyond.

  Then, darkness consumes his vision.

  The last thing he hears before he collapses is Ashburn's calm voice. "Not bad. Next time, you might last longer."