[Malach]
Three days passed quietly.
Most of the estate was already preparing for the move, and the halls felt emptier than usual. Malach stayed in his room for most of the afternoon. He sat on the carpeted floor, back straight, eyes fixed on the light fixture above him.
One simple goal.A ritual he had practiced more times than he could count.
He took a small pin from the drawer beside him and pressed it against his left index finger. A sharp sting. A bead of blood welled up. He drew a slow streak across his palm, letting the scent fill the air.
Intent was everything.
He closed his eyes.Focused on the idea of darkness.A room without light.A simple extinguishing.
The lights flickered.
Malach kept his breathing steady.
Then they went out completely, plunging the room into shadow. A small spark of satisfaction stirred in his chest.
Two seconds passed.
The lights snapped back on.
He lowered his hand, staring at the ceiling. The glow of the bulbs felt almost indifferent in its return.
"Still the same," he murmured.
Malach wiped the blood streak away and prepared the next ritual.
He pricked his finger again, drew another line of blood across his palm, and shaped the intent that he would sleep well that night.
This one never failed. A soft warmth spread through his hand as the ritual settled into place.
He lowered his hand and leaned back against the wall.
Ritual magic. His Authority. His burden.
He had been taught the foundations years ago. Every ritual required an input, something offered or sacrificed, and an output, the intended effect. His tutors had tried countless combinations of materials and symbolic objects. Most produced little. Some produced nothing at all.
Human input worked best. Blood, usually. Bodily material tied to the target of the ritual.
Effects on the same person produced the strongest results. Mostly mild. Mostly harmless. A clearer mind, steadier nerves, deeper sleep, faint emotional adjustments. Anything beyond that tended to fail.
Malach had seen enough to know what people of average Authority were capable of. Their abilities were not spectacular, yet they were solid and dependable. Some could reinforce their bodies to work longer hours. Others could shield themselves from harm for brief moments or shape force with enough precision to move objects across a room. Many could influence their surroundings subtly but consistently.
Compared to them, his rituals felt fragile and uncertain. A system of offerings and intent that produced little more than small comforts.
Sometimes he wondered if the tests were wrong. If his tutors were incompetent. Or if someone was deliberately withholding information from him. He was isolated in his childhood estate his entire life after all.
Other times he wondered if the flaw lay inside himself.
He let his head rest against the wall, his fingers faintly smelling of blood.
There would be another day to try again.