The following day, Renric's eyes didn't open with sleep—they snapped awake with purpose.
The stone still pulsed.
By the fire, the Pathfinder tossed him a cold strip of root meat. "Eat," he said. "Then follow."
They walked beyond the alcove, past spine-tunnels and jagged ribs protruding from cavern walls. Somewhere above, Renric swore he could hear wind—but it wasn't real. Just the Deep mocking memory.
They stopped at a stagnant pool, glowing faintly with Deep moss.
"Your first test," the Pathfinder said. "Get water."
Renric looked around. "There's no bucket."
"No hands. No tools. You've touched the pulse. That's enough."
Renric frowned. His hand hovered over the pool. He focused on the stone's echo still imprinted on his palm.
The shadows didn't come.
He tried again. Focused. Nothing. The pool stayed still.
"You're trying too hard," the Pathfinder said, arms folded.
"I don't know how—"
"Exactly."
Renric closed his eyes.
He remembered the Hive's words: We are your mirror.
He inhaled. Slowed.
Reached out.
This time, he didn't force the dark.
He invited it.
A ripple. A shimmer.
A small tendril of black rose from his palm like breath. It curled toward the water—gentle, unsure.
Then it struck the surface—too fast. The water splashed, scattering the tendril.
Renric winced.
The Pathfinder stepped forward.
"Too greedy."
Renric grit his teeth. Tried again. Another tendril. Slower this time. It skimmed the water, lifted a few droplets… then collapsed.
Still no success.
He dropped to his knees, frustrated. "What am I doing wrong?"
Silence.
Then—
"You're thinking about winning. Not listening."
The Hive's whisper.
Renric sat still.
Breath slowed.
He reached—not with his mind, but with his echo.
This time, the tendril flowed smooth.
It reached into the pool and gently pulled a swirling orb of water into the air.
It hovered above his hand, held by nothing.
Renric opened his eyes.
The Pathfinder gave the faintest nod.
"Drink it."
Renric did.
The water was bitter, cold.
Alive.
End of Chapter 5.