Clyde threw his arms upward, his voice rebounding off the ancient stone like a declaration meant to be heard by the room itself. "I did it. I'm an Ichorborn." The words rang once, then settled, as though the chamber were deciding whether to accept them.
Soren did not answer immediately. His pale eyes followed the faint shimmer still clinging to Clyde's skin, the residual echo of Hollow Star resonance bleeding into the air before sinking back into Clyde's body. That shimmer was already fading, dissolving inward, absorbed rather than expelled. Only then did Soren allow himself a small, restrained smile. "Congratulations, Clyde." The word carried recognition rather than pride. It marked survival.
He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened. "There are eight phases an Ichorborn must pass through. You stand at the first, the New Moon. This phase is called Awakening. Your Divine Ichor has accepted you, and your Lunar Ichor has rewritten itself to endure that acceptance."
Clyde frowned. "Rewritten?"
"Yes," Soren replied. "Lunar Ichor exists in every human. It is inherited, instinctive, shaped by emotion and behavior. It flows whether one is aware of it or not. Divine Ichor is different. It does not belong to humanity by default. It is a fragment of higher law, sealed into form. When the two meet, conflict is inevitable unless a bridge is built."
He gestured toward the ritual circle, its symbols still faintly glowing. "That bridge is baptism."
Soren's voice lowered, taking on the weight of something taught only to those already bound. "In the old age, humans took the Moon Goddess's blood directly. They believed divinity could be consumed. Their bodies failed, their minds fractured, and their Lunar Ichor rebelled. That era taught us restraint. Modern baptism does not force Divine Ichor into the body. It restructures the body so Divine Ichor can enter without resistance."
Clyde remembered the moment of collapse, the sensation of being scattered from within. "When it felt like I was breaking apart."
"That was disassembly," Soren said. "Your Lunar Ichor was deliberately scattered, its pathways disrupted. Lunar Ichor remembers its habits. It clings to familiar circulation patterns. To accept Divine Ichor, it must forget them first."
He placed two fingers against the air, and faint waves shimmered into view. "Frequency governs everything. Lunar Ichor vibrates at a baseline shaped by the self: fear, desire, imagination, restraint. Divine Ichor exists at a higher, more rigid frequency. Baptism forces Lunar Ichor to rise, not through pressure, but through alignment."
"How does alignment happen?" Clyde asked.
"Through resonance," Soren replied. "Your blood, breath, and consciousness form a closed system. The ritual introduces Divine Ichor in a dormant state, then destabilizes Lunar Ichor just enough that it seeks structure. When frequencies match, resonance occurs. Power flows cleanly. When they fail to match, distortion begins."
"And distortion creates Howlings."
"Yes. Lunar Ichor collapses inward. It no longer circulates. It consumes."
Soren's gaze sharpened. "That is why moon phase governs ascension. The moon dictates ambient frequency. It influences every Lunar Ichor simultaneously. Under a New Moon or Full Moon, resonance remains predictable. Under a Blood Moon, Lunar Ichor accelerates beyond regulation, amplifying predatory impulses. Under a Blue Moon, frequency fractures entirely, pulling ichor in opposing directions. Identity cannot survive that."
Clyde felt the weight of the warning settle into his chest. "So ascension isn't about strength."
"No," Soren said. "It is about harmony. Strength comes later."
The chamber door creaked open before Clyde could speak again. Aldric entered with his usual confidence, boots striking stone as though the tension in the room did not concern him. "Well?" he asked. "Did the Hollow Star take you, or did it tear you apart?"
Clyde lifted his gaze. For a brief instant, violet light swirled within his eyes, constellations forming and dissolving like unfinished thoughts. Aldric stopped short, then smiled. "Good. Then you're ready."
He placed a long, wrapped object onto the table. Dust puffed upward. "First assignment. You'll be working with Marlowe Nox Crestfall."
Clyde unwrapped the object carefully. The blade beneath reflected moonlight as though it remembered the sky rather than mirrored it. Lunarsteel, folded beneath ritual nights, quenched in ichor-laced water. The Hollow Edge answered his grip with a subtle pulse, its frequency brushing against his own.
"It will learn you," Aldric said. "And you'll learn it."
Later, as Clyde stepped into the cold night air, the Hollow Star settled deeper within him, its presence no longer intrusive but attentive. Beneath a broken archway, Marlowe Crestfall waited, lantern flickering beside him, book open in his hands. Without looking up, he spoke. "Ready to hunt Hollowlings?"
Clyde tightened his grip on the blade. "Yes."
Marlowe stood, closing the book. The lantern's flame bent as they passed.