The last echoes of Lord Alaric's deep chuckle had faded, and the comforting scent of roasted pheasant had long since dissipated from the dining hall. Elias, despite the siren call of his bed, found himself once again seated opposite Aina, though this time the setting was the smaller, more intimate study. The air, usually thick with the scent of aged parchment and ink, now seemed to crackle with a different kind of tension. A single, ornate light source hanging above the room cast a warm, if somewhat unforgiving, glow over the polished mahogany table, illuminating a stack of blank scrolls and a small pot of ink.
"Again," Aina commanded, her voice a low, even tone that brooked no argument. Her finger, slender and precise, tapped a spot on the scroll where Elias had just drawn a wobbly, distorted symbol. It was supposed to be 'The Hanged Man' sigil, one of the twenty-two fundamental symbols of the Flow spectrum, crucial for understanding its manipulation. He had seen them once, briefly, that morning. He had been researching them for an hour to find Aina's traits, but he hadn't truly captured them in his mind. Now, hours later, Aina expected perfect recall.
'Cut me some slack.'
Elias whined, a sound that was half protest, half genuine exhaustion. His small hand, clutching the quill, felt stiff and clumsy. He'd spent the entire day grappling with Aina's relentless mental exercises, and the dinner conversation, particularly the confusing exchange about Ortis, had only added to his mental fatigue. Despite his mind being that of a teen, his brain itself was that of a three-year-old, so of course he was tired. He dipped the quill, the black ink blooming on the tip, and tried to recall the intricate loops and angles. His mind, however, felt like a tangled skein of yarn. He was unsure of whether to draw a crab with wings or a horse wearing a helmet.
'I think one or two of them had wings. Wait, was there even a horse among the 22 symbols?'
"You're drawing double lines, Elias. Flow is decisive. Your hand must reflect that. Now draw it again." Aina's gaze was unwavering, fixed on his every stroke. She was like a hawk, observing its prey, waiting for the slightest falter. He erased, smudging the ink, and started again, his brow furrowed in concentration. The silence in the room was punctuated only by the scratch of his quill and the soft, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall.
Just as frustration threatened to boil over, the study door creaked open. Lady Elara entered, a soft smile gracing her lips, carrying two steaming mugs. The sweet, comforting aroma of warm milk, laced with a hint of honey, drifted through the air, momentarily cutting through the mental fog that enveloped Elias.
"Still at it, my little scholars?" she murmured, her voice a gentle balm. She placed one mug carefully beside Elias, the warmth radiating through the ceramic, then the other by Aina. She glanced at the parchment and saw Elias's failed attempts to replicate the 22 Trait Sigils.
"You're doing so well, my little scholar. Just a bit more effort." She stroked Elias's hair, her touch light and reassuring.
Then, her gaze softened as she looked at Aina.
"Aina, darling," she began, her voice carrying a subtle, maternal plea, "remember patience. Elias is still so young. His mind needs time to absorb such complex things."
Aina's expression remained impassive, but Elias, watching closely, thought he saw the faintest, almost imperceptible dip of her head – a stiff, formal acknowledgement, perhaps, but an acknowledgement nonetheless. It was a fleeting moment, gone before he could truly process it, but it offered a tiny crack in her otherwise impenetrable facade.
The warm milk, however, was a more immediate comfort. Elias took a grateful sip, the sweetness a welcome contrast to the bitter taste of his own inadequacy. He continued to draw, pushing through the mental resistance, driven now not just by Aina's stern command, but by a determination to finish this quickly and go to bed. He would not give her the opportunity to demonstrate any 'consequences'. It was well past midnight when, with a final, shaky flourish, he completed the last of the twenty-two sigils. Each one was a far cry from a perfect replica, but the resemblance was noticeable enough. Aina merely nodded, a curt, almost dismissive gesture, but Elias felt a faint tremor of triumph deep within him.
'Finally, sleep!'
The next morning, the triumph felt like a distant dream. Elias was pulled from the depths of sleep not by the gentle rays of dawn, but by a firm, insistent prod to his shoulder. He groaned, his eyelids heavy, his mind still mired in the sluggish aftereffects of the previous night's mental marathon. He turned and raised his head to see who it was. Aina was standing over him with her usual deadpan expression. She was already dressed in her impeccable maid uniform, her posture as rigid as ever, her expression unreadable. Elias looked outside to see that it was still twilight. A cockerel crowed in the distance, and he closed his eyes and put his head back on the pillow, rolling over to face the opposite wall.
"Up, Elias. Time is Flow, and Flow waits for no one." Aina's voice, devoid of any warmth or sympathy, was an unwelcome intrusion into his fading dreams. There was no hint of remorse for his obvious weariness, no softening in her gaze. For Aina, discipline was paramount, and his fatigue was merely another obstacle to be overcome.
Without waiting, she used gravity to lift, or rather yank him, out of bed, his limbs flailing as he protested.
"Hey, put me down!" He yelled. Gravity was released, and he fell with a thud. He sat up, rubbing his backside and glaring at Aina.
"Stop lazing around and move it." She said, turning to leave the room. Elias slowly rose to his feet, muttering a string of unintelligible but obvious words from his world.
After a quick, cold splash of water to his face, he followed Aina through the quiet corridors of the manor and out into the crisp morning air.
The garden, usually a place of vibrant colors and cheerful birdsong, was silent. Dew clung to every leaf and blade of grass, sparkling like scattered diamonds in the nascent sunlight. The air was cool and fresh, carrying the faint, earthy scent of damp soil and blooming flowers. It was a serene place, almost too serene for the rigorous training Aina had in store.
Aina stopped in a secluded clearing, surrounded by tall, fragrant rose bushes. She turned to face him, her hands clasped loosely in front of her.
"Today, we begin with breath," she stated, her voice calm but authoritative.
"The foundation of all Flow circulation. Without proper breathing, Flow cannot move well in your body, leading to either blockages or internal ruptures. Obviously, it isn't a pleasant experience, so do pay attention."
She demonstrated a precise breathing technique: a slow, deep inhale through the nose, holding it for a count, then an even slower, controlled exhale through the mouth. Her movements were fluid, her chest rising and falling with effortless grace.
"Every sentient being possesses an internal wellspring of Flow," she continued, her gaze fixed on him. "It is the manifestation of one's soul, a unique internal landscape we call the Spirit-Domain."
Elias listened, intrigued despite his weariness. This was the kind of theoretical knowledge he craved, the kind that offered a glimpse into the mechanics of this new world.
'A way to inevitably die.'
He stifled a yawn and nodded as Aina continued.
"Within each individual's Spirit-Domain," Aina explained, her voice taking on a didactic tone, "the quantity of Flow varies greatly. For some, it is but a mere trickle, barely enough to do anything with. For others, it manifests as a small, contained pond. The truly gifted may possess a deep, calm reservoir, capable of channeling significant power."
She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked at him.
"And for the exceptionally rare, the Spirit-Domain may manifest as a coastline with a vast estuary, hinting at a vast, unexplored internal ocean of Flow."
Elias nodded again. According to what he had gathered, a person's quantity and quality of Flow increases the higher one ascends. So, while a trickle might be the fixed amount a person can use, it can become more dense, manifesting like an estuary or even an ocean.
"However," Aina's voice cut through his momentary awe, "even an estuary is useless if its power is locked away and the Flow within it cannot circulate freely. Circulation, therefore, begins with the breath."
She instructed him to begin the breathing exercises. Elias tried to mimic her, inhaling deeply, but his mind, still reeling from the previous night's mental strain and cluttered with the analytical frameworks of his old world, struggled to maintain focus. He kept wondering and asking himself questions, and as a result, his breaths were erratic, his chest rising too quickly, his exhales too short. He found himself dissecting the mechanics of respiration, comparing it to biological processes he knew, rather than simply doing it.
'If Flow is basically one's soul, how is breathing, an act that has to do with the physical body, going to help it circulate?' Normally,that would give him some form of understanding on how it worked and how to perform it. That's the method he had been using to learn all this time and he'd awaked his flow through understanding through comparison.
However,of late the two conflicting schools of thought were rather confusing him more instead of providing insight.
"Your breath is a storm, Elias," Aina's voice, sharp and precise, sliced through his scattered thoughts. "How can Flow circulate when its vessel is so turbulent? Focus. Without it, even your efforts are wasted."
A wave of intense frustration washed over Elias. It wasn't just physical fatigue; it was the infuriating clash between his two lives. His otherworldly knowledge was now a burden, constantly pulling his focus from the intuitive, almost meditative learning Aina demanded. He knew how his lungs worked, why oxygen was important, but that knowledge was a barrier to simply feeling the Flow.
He gritted his teeth and focused on pushing it all aside. Aina's words, 'even the greatest potential is wasted without focus,' echoed in his mind. If he wanted to accomplish his goal, he'd need to get stronger, and to get stronger, he needed to focus.
With a surge of stubborn determination, Elias forced himself to push the extraneous thoughts aside. He closed his eyes, focusing solely on the feel of the cool morning air entering his nostrils, the slow expansion of his chest, the controlled release.
The garden remained quiet, only the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds accompanying his internal struggle. Slowly, the world around him began to grow even more silent, as if he was moving away from it into another, a different domain.
He opened himself and found himself floating on the turbulent waters of his Spirit-Domain.