Doren made his way to a secluded patch of land behind the cottage, a small, rocky hill overlooking the ocean. He didn't want any prying eyes, especially not his mother's. He found a moss-covered tree stump, its roots digging deep into the earth. It was a perfect symbol of the stability he sought.
He took the Focal Stone from his pocket. The smooth, gray stone felt warm in his palm. He placed it gently on the top of the stump, the faint glow of its intricate patterns a silent beacon. He knelt, his knees pressing into the soft grass, and then placed his hand flat against the ground.
He closed his eyes and tried to feel what Daria felt. He focused on the raw, silent power of the earth beneath him. He felt the roughness of the soil under the blades of grass, the coolness of it against his skin. He imagined the roots of the tree stump spreading out, a vast, complex network of unshakeable stability. He pushed his mind deeper, trying to feel the ancient strength of the land, the unyielding foundation that had supported his family for generations.
A quiet hum began to resonate in the Focal Stone, a low thrumming that Doren felt in his fingertips and up his arm. It was a subtle vibration, not a sudden surge, but a constant presence. He felt a warmth spread from his chest, from the place where his Powerhart lay, down his arm and into the earth.
He didn't feel a sudden rush of power. There was no earthquake or tremor. Instead, he felt a profound sense of connection. He was no longer just Doren, the boy with no gift. He was a part of the ground, a new root in an ancient tree.
Doren kept his eyes closed, his hand still pressed against the cool, rough soil. The connection was growing, a subtle but undeniable hum that vibrated from the Focal Stone through his arm and into his chest. He focused on the feeling of stability, the unyielding strength of the earth. He felt the rough surface of the soil, the intricate network of roots and rocks beneath the surface. He felt the cold, damp stillness of the ground. The feeling was a profound comfort, an anchor in the storm of his family's grief.
Then, a new sensation began. His skin, where it touched the soil, began to tingle. The feeling wasn't one of power or warmth, but of an odd rigidity. He felt the soft flesh of his palm and fingertips start to harden, becoming rough and unyielding, like the bark of a tree or the surface of a weathered stone. A creeping fear, cold and sharp, washed over him. He was turning to stone.
In a panic, he snatched his hand from the ground and stood up, stumbling back a few paces. He grabbed the Focal Stone from the tree stump, a shiver of terror running through him. The feeling of the Powerhart's connection was gone, replaced by the familiar, heavy silence of his own body. His hand, he noticed with a jolt of relief, was back to its normal state.
The fear was overwhelming, a stark reminder of his own inexperience. He could have been trapped, a statue on a hill, a memorial to his own recklessness. For a moment, he considered retreating to his study, to the safe, familiar words of his father's journals.
But then he remembered Nergal's excited face as he soared into the sky. He remembered his mother's silent grief, Damurah's simmering rage, and his sisters' unwavering strength. He remembered his father's final, trusting nod.
He returned to the tree stump and took a seat. He closed his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and embraced the fear. He let it wash over him, but he didn't let it consume him. He held onto the image of the unshakeable tree roots and the grounding stability of the earth. He was not a fragile boy. He was a rock.
The tingling began again, the subtle hardening of his skin. This time, he didn't panic. He focused on the feeling, not the fear. He felt the roughness, the rigidity, and he welcomed it. He was not turning to stone; he was becoming one with it.
Doren knelt on the quiet hill, his hands pressed against the rough earth. The sun was a soft, orange blur on the horizon, casting long, fading shadows. A decade of reading and observation had led to this single moment. This wasn't about theories or ancient texts anymore; it was about feeling.
He focused, pushing past the rough texture of the soil, past the damp coolness, past the feeling of grass and tangled roots. He was searching for something deeper, the raw, unshakeable stability that Daria had described. A sense of peace and belonging that came from being truly grounded.
For a long time, there was nothing but the quiet hum of his own heart and the distant rush of the ocean. He was about to give up when a faint warmth began to spread from his chest, down his arms, and into his hands. It felt like a low, resonant thrumming, a pulse that matched the steady beat of the earth itself. It was the Powerhart, a silent forge, a deep well of energy finally beginning to stir.
With the warmth came a new sensation. His skin, where it touched the soil, began to tingle. It wasn't the searing fire of Damurah's power or the cool, gentle light of Jemsie's. It was a firm, solid pressure, as if his skin was compacting, becoming dense. He felt a fleeting moment of panic, a whisper of the fear that had consumed him before. But he pushed it down, focusing on the feeling of stability. He was a rock, a tree, a part of the unmoving earth. He was not just Doren anymore.
The change wasn't painful, but it was profound. His hands and arms began to harden, the skin taking on the texture of weathered stone. Veins of darker earth ran through his newfound rock-flesh, a visual testament to his growing connection. With the change came a feeling of immense, quiet power. He could feel the roots of the nearby trees, the flow of underground water, the slow, tectonic shifts of the ground beneath him. He could feel the heartbeat of Etern itself. He had found his shore.
After what felt like an eternity, the sun had fully set, and the hum in his hands faded. The rock-like texture of his skin softened, returning to normal. Doren stood, feeling exhausted but triumphant. He hadn't just read about elements; he had finally felt them. He had taken his first step on a journey that would change everything.
On his way back to the cottage, Doren's mind raced. The familiar path felt different now, every stone and root a part of a greater whole that he had, for a fleeting moment, been connected to. The memory of the earth's quiet strength, the solid pulse that had thrummed through him, was still fresh.
He debated trying his hand at another element. The idea was tempting; a part of him, the restless, curious part that had devoured his father's journals, wanted to see if he could feel the flow of water, the flicker of fire, or the vastness of the sky. But he pushed the thought away. Sophron's warning echoed in his mind: the Powerhart was a vast ocean, and he needed to build his vessel one piece at a time. Trying to grasp too many elements at once would lead to nothing but exhaustion and chaos.
No, he decided. His next steps were clear. He wouldn't try to wield a spell or summon a rock wall. Not yet. He needed to master the basics. He needed to build his stamina and strength with the earth. He had to learn to hold that connection without it draining him, to feel its presence for longer than a few fleeting minutes. He needed to make the feeling of a profound, unshakeable stability his new normal. He had found his first shore, but he needed to learn how to stand on it.