The words hung in the air between them, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. "How does it sound to make a contract with me?"
Elrik could only stare, his mind scrambling for purchase on the cliff edge of that offer. His mouth moved, but sound was slow to follow. "A... contract?" he finally managed, the word feeling childish and inadequate. "What does that even mean? What kind of contract?"
The Guide's smile was crescent, sharp as a drawn blade. "The kind that binds, the fun kind." He waved a hand with a magician's flourish, and the air between them shimmered.
It didn't arrive with a crash, but with a low hum that seemed to seep through the floorboards and into Elrik's bones. One heartbeat, the space was empty; the next, something enormous was simply there. At first, it looked like a barrel, plain, unremarkable. However, the illusion didn't last long. The wood grain twisted in patterns that seemed to writhe when you looked too closely, the iron bands gleamed with a light not of this world, and the carvings hinted at histories too vast to grasp.
And within it, churning sluggishly, was a liquid of pure, light-devouring black. It was not water, nor oil, nor any substance Elrik knew. It was profoundly dense, filling the vessel to the very brim yet never spilling over. It seemed to drink the light from the room.
"The forces that shape this world are no secrets," the Guide began, his voice casual, as if commenting on the weather. "They are simply... facts that most are too small to perceive. Consider this the simplest introduction."
As he spoke, he tapped the side of the barrel with a single fingernail.
*Tink.*
"Once, they were called the Planes of Existence," the Guide narrated, his voice taking on a ritualistic quality. He swirled his hand above the surface, and the colours obediently swirled with it, coalescing into distinct shapes. "Later, they were known as the Ascension Stages. But for now, I'll borrow your term..."
The colours sharpened. Six glowing spheres hovered in the dark liquid, each one perfectly round and unmistakably real. Strange, shifting symbols danced across their surfaces, and Elrik's eyes stung just trying to take them in, a language made of ideas, not words. "The Echelons."
The Guide's voice deepened, each word landing with the weight of a fundamental law." An Echelon is not merely a rank. It is a measure of how fully a being perceives, or is entwined with, the very fabric of reality."
Elrik felt the truth of it in his chest, not his mind. A pressure was building there, tight and insistent, making it hard to draw breath.
"Each ascent is a sloughing off of mortality," the Guide continued, utterly unaffected by the cosmic display or Elrik's distress. "A step closer to the Source. The higher the Echelon, the less one is bound by time, flesh, and law. As for mortals..." He gave a dismissive wave, and the lower spheres dimmed. "They are brief sparks in the dark. But the higher the Echelon, the thinner the veil. Until, at the peak, it is not the being who dwells in the world, but the world itself that dwells within the being."
The pressure in Elrik's chest became a crushing weight. He was suffocating in open air, his very soul straining toward the luminous spheres.
"The Echelons are not merely power," the Guide concluded, his voice a low hum that resonated in Elrik's very bones. "They are the truth. The stairway of eternity. There are six in all. From Six," one of the lower spheres pulsed with a soft light, "down to One." He let his finger rest on the brilliant, topmost sphere, which blazed with a light that was both beautiful and terrifying.
The Guide leaned forward slightly, his smile benign and utterly chilling. "When a lesser being contracts with one of a higher Echelon, they are granted a measure of authority over reality itself, think of it like a borrowed key to a locked door. The strength of that gift depends on the contract made."
He snapped his fingers.
The artefact didn't just vanish; it collapsed inward upon itself, shrinking from a massive barrel to a mote of dust in a nanosecond before winking out of existence. The unbearable pressure vanished with it. Elrik gasped, doubling over and clutching his chest, his lungs burning as they finally dragged in a ragged, desperate breath. He hadn't even realised he'd been holding it.
The Guide was already turning away, as if the revelation had been a boring chore now completed. He hummed a cheerful little tune and stepped back to his desk, picking up the same sheet of parchment he'd been scribbling on when Julian awoke. He turned back to Elrik, who was still trying to remember how to breathe normally.
With the enthusiasm of a merchant offering a priceless gem for a single coin, the Guide held out the parchment. At its bottom was a blank line, pulsing with a soft, golden light.
"Now then," he said, his voice bright and businesslike. "Your signature."
Elrik's heart hammered against his ribs, drumming loudly in the silence left by the vanished artefact. The Guide's offer wasn't just generous, it was astronomical, a mountain dropped into the lap of a boy who had never even seen a hill. The sheer scale of it paralysed him.
Summoning a courage he didn't feel, Elrik pushed himself upright, limbs still trembling from the soul-deep resonance of the Echelons. "Why?" he blurted, his voice raw. "Why are you doing all this? Helping us? Helping me? I don't even know you."
The Guide tilted his head, like a predator studying an unusually earnest insect. "Must there be a grand reason?" he mused, tapping a finger against his chin. "Maybe it's just a passing whim. A flicker of amusement at a spark in the vast full of boredom." His smile was razor-thin. "You mortals are... fascinatingly brief. The frantic way you scurry before the candle goes out... it has a certain charm. Consider this my entertainment."
It was a chilling answer, but Elrik, not trained to read the hidden intentions of ancient, capricious beings, took it at face value. Somehow, it made sense. People watched ants; they bet on beetle races. It was... something doable.
His pragmatic mind latched onto the simplest truth: the offer was free, and in his experience, free was good, free was fantastic. Free meant survival. Free meant a roof, a meal, a tomorrow. He had learned long ago never to question a gift too closely. Free wasn't just good; free was life. His gaze dropped to the contract, the glowing letters pulsing in time with his heartbeat. It was a siren call his desperation couldn't resist.
"So... what will I get?" he asked, voice tinged with greed he didn't bother hiding.
The Guide launched into an explanation that wove through concepts of ontological anchoring and other things. Elrik's eyes glazed over almost immediately. He didn't understand everything, but one thing was understandable: power. More power than he had ever dared to imagine. Though he had never felt a desire for such an amount of it.
A clumsy, awkward hope bloomed in his chest. "The signature...You mean, sign my name?"
"Place your palm upon it," the Guide said, slick as honey, clinging and suffocating.
A final flicker of caution made Elrik pause. But the logic was simple: if this being had wanted him dead, he would be dead. If he wanted him harmed, he would be harmed. Swallowing hard, Elrik pressed his open palm onto the parchment.
The effect was immediate. The glowing letters didn't just shine; they detonated. A torrent of gold and crimson fire erupted from the page, swarming over his hand like liquid fire. He cried out in shock and fear as the symbols raced up his arm, across his shoulders, spreading over his entire body in a web of searing, incomprehensible light. For a few terrifying seconds, he was a man outlined in a constellation of alien law, his very form a canvas for a contract he could not read.
Just as suddenly as it began, the light receded. It flowed back from his extremities, coalescing into the centre of his right palm, where it settled into a soft, persistent glow. The fear receded, replaced by a strange, warm sensation radiating from his core. It felt... gentle. He looked up at the Guide, his eyes wide with awe and confusion.
The Guide held up the contract. The page was now blank. "A signature is merely the first step," he said, his tone conversational, as if he hadn't just branded a boy with a foreign contract. "It is the agreement to the terms. But every contract requires consideration. A sacrifice."
"W-Sacrifice!?" Elrik stammered, the warm feeling in his chest suddenly turning cold. "You didn't say anything about that!"
"The finest gifts are never truly free," The Guide crooned, beginning a slow, deliberate circle around Elrik. His voice took on a singsong, almost mocking cadence. "What shall it be~, I wonder~? An arm? A heart? A cherished memory? The sacrifice, or better yet, the price, sets your blessing, you see. It governs the portion of my authority you may borrow, the protections you receive, and the blessings you are granted."
He was playing with him. The playful lilt of his words clashed violently with the dread pooling in Elrik's stomach. The Guide stopped, leaning in close, eyes glinting. "Now, now, don't look so pale. The price is merely... symbolic. A pledge. It is taken only if you break our agreement, something you won't even think about once witnessing the benefits of the contract." He chuckled, a sound that grated on Elrik's nerves. "And since this is only a tertiary-level contract, the cost so very cheap."
Elrik's mind, already frayed, threatened to collapse under the weight of it. Tertiary-level? Cheap? The world tilted beneath him, and a cold wave of vertigo clawed his thoughts.
Seeing his distress, the Guide's manner shifted again, becoming almost reassuring. "The gift, however, is immediate. A power that even kings would wage wars to possess. It will place you light-years ahead of your peers. Mastery will require training, of course, but the potential... oh, the potential is unimaginable."
Elrik seized the promise, his natural optimism forcefully reasserting itself. Maybe it wasn't a bad deal. The Guide was strange, sure, and more than a little scary, but he'd saved them. He'd healed them. He was offering a gift. Maybe he was just a good person with a... dramatic way of doing things.
Mentally exhausted and desperate for it all to be over, Elrik defaulted to his base instinct. "What's the... cheapest price?" he asked, the words sounding terribly small.
The Guide placed a hand over his heart in mock offence. "Cheapest? You seek to haggle with a First Echelon entity? To exploit my boundless generosity? The audacity!" The theatrics lasted only a second before he waved a dismissive hand. "The price will be a series of simple rituals, minor tasks, performed periodically. Nothing... strenuous."
"...Rituals?" Elrik asked, wary.
"Nothing big. A small offering of time, a moment of focus at a specific hour. I will explain them when you have free time. All in all, Do. You. Ac-cept!?" the Guide said, his tone making it clear this line of questioning was closed.
Frustration and exhaustion finally overwhelmed Elrik's curiosity. He just wanted to lie down. "Okay! Fine! I'll do the... Rituals or whatever. Can I go now?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the symbol on his palm flared one last time, a final, searing burst that burned itself onto his vision. When it faded, the glow was gone. In its place was a tattoo, the intricate symbols now a permanent, dark crimson stain upon his skin. The warmth faded, leaving not pain, but a permanent, faint warmth in his palm, as if he held a dormant ember against his skin.
The contract was sealed.
The Guide was already turning away again, humming to himself as though the sealing of a contract were no more remarkable than signing for a parcel. But then, as if remembering something trivial, he paused.
"Oh, one last thing." He gestured lazily toward Elrik, his expression sharpening, the levity gone. "Do not speak of me. Not to your friends, not to your family, not even in dreams. I am not one to mention for mortal tongues."
Elrik blinked, clutching his branded palm. "Why not?" he asked, his voice shaky, thin. "What would happen if I did?"
The Guide's smile returned, but this one was new, wider, darker, edged with a cruelty that made Elrik's blood run cold. With a flick of his wrist, the air rippled, condensing into a tall mirror framed in black iron. It slid into existence without a sound, its surface perfectly still, reflecting both of them with unnerving clarity.
"Because of..." the Guide murmured, stepping aside so Elrik could see himself fully, "this."
Elrik's reflection warped. The boy staring back at him with wide, frightened eyes was gone, replaced by a withered figure whose skin sagged in folds, whose hair had thinned to brittle wisps of grey. It was him, unmistakably him, but aged decades, perhaps more. His chest caved in with weakness, his frame bent, his gaze dull with the fog of years.
A strangled gasp escaped his throat as he staggered back, but when he looked down at his real body, the horror only deepened. The reflection was not confined to the glass. Wrinkles spread like cracks across his skin, his muscles wasted away in seconds, and a crushing frailty seized his limbs. All except for his right palm, where the crimson tattoo pulsed defiantly with youthful vigour.
"AAAAH!" Elrik cried, stumbling backwards in blind panic. He flung himself onto the bed, seeking refuge in the familiar. But instead of the expected jolt of mattress springs, the surface gave way beneath him. The sheets softened, liquefied, and in an instant, he was sinking, the bed having become a depthless sea, its fabric rolling like waves, cold and suffocating.
He thrashed, but his limbs were leaden, powerless. Water, or something crueller, flooded into his lungs without wetness, a drowning without liquid. Through the shifting surface above, he could just make out the Guide standing over him, peering down with surgical calm.
"See you later"
The edges of Elrik's vision darkened, his thoughts shredded, unravelled strand by strand. The last thing he heard, clear and resonant, was the Guide's voice, soft as a benediction and sharp as a blade.
"Be proud of yourself, little one. From this moment on... You are mine, Elrik. My Blessed."
As the darkness took him, the word free echoed in his mind, a final, cruel joke.