The tremor that shook the cathedral's foundation was not repeated, but its echo lingered in the silence that followed. The clerics exchanged frightened glances, their hope now tinged with a primal, reawakened fear. The Saint Elyria's expression, however, did not change. If anything, the distant quake seemed to settle something within her, hardening her resolve into something as sharp and practical as a blade.
"The foundations of this world groan under its burden," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet panic. "This is not a metaphor. Come."
Her hand, still extended, was cool and firm when Leo took it. She pulled him to his feet with surprising strength and led him not back up the grand stairs to the cathedral proper, but deeper into the labyrinth of catacombs. The High Seeker made to follow, a question on his lips, but a single glance from Elyria over her shoulder—a look of absolute, unassailable command—stopped him in his tracks. The goddess, playing the part of a saint, did not break character. She simply expected obedience, and she received it.
They moved through torch-lit passages lined with the bones of forgotten faithful, the air growing colder. Leo's mind was a whirlwind of disjointed questions—*Where am I? How is this real? Why me?*—but the sheer, relentless forward momentum of the woman in grey kept him silent, one foot following the other.
At last, they entered a circular chamber, devoid of bones or adornment. In its center lay a simple, worn mat. A single, high window, covered in grime, allowed a sliver of the perpetually twilight sky to bleed through.
Elyria released his hand and turned to face him. The aura of serene sainthood seemed to recede, replaced by something more intense, more scrutinizing. She looked at him not as a savior, but as raw material.
"You are disoriented. You are afraid. You are thinking this is a dream, or a psychosis," she stated, her tone clinical. "It is not. Your old world, your old life, is beyond reach. Grieve for it later. To survive here, you must understand the new reality. Now. Vor'ath's corruption is not merely an army of monsters. It is a law. It rewrites the nature of things. The light is not just hidden; it is *forgotten*. Magic here is not an element to be wielded lightly. It is a remnant, a rebellion against the reigning dark."
Leo finally found his voice, though it sounded small in the stone room. "Magic? I can't do magic. I'm an accountant."
A flicker of something—impatience? Amusement?—crossed Elyria's face. "You are a soul with a will. Here, that is the primary ingredient. Your previous profession is irrelevant. You will learn because you must, and because I will teach you. The first lesson: perception."
She raised her hand, palm upward. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a single, tiny point of light kindled above her skin. It was no bigger than a candle flame, but in the deep gloom of the catacomb, it was as startling as a supernova. It was pure, warm, and alive in a way the torchlight was not. Leo felt a strange pull in his chest, a longing he didn't understand.
"This is *Aether*, the substance of creation," she said, her eyes fixed on the light. "Vor'ath's power smothers it, twists it into *Nether*. You must learn to see it, to feel its current in the world, before you can hope to touch it."
She closed her hand, snuffing the light, plunging them back into relative dark. "Your world had its own physics, its own rules. They were loud, dominant. They drowned out the subtler song. Here, that song is all that remains of order. Listen."
She fell silent. Leo listened. He heard the drip of distant water, the crackle of the torch outside the chamber, the frantic beat of his own heart. Then, pushing past the noise, he tried to listen as she instructed. At first, there was nothing. Then, a sensation—not a sound, but a *texture* in the air. A sluggish, oppressive weight, like thick oil, permeated everything. But beneath it, fainter than a whisper, he sensed a thin, golden thread. It pulsed weakly, emanating from the direction of the cathedral above, where the sceptre lay. It felt like… a heartbeat.
"I… feel something," he whispered, astonished. "A pull from above. And everything else is… heavy. Sick."
Elyria's gaze sharpened. "Good. Faster than I expected. The connection to the Sceptre, forged during the summoning, gives you an anchor. That is your advantage. Now, for the second lesson: control."
The training that followed was nothing like the montages from Leo's video games. It was brutal in its simplicity and its failure. Elyria had him sit on the mat, assume postures that strained unfamiliar muscles, and breathe in specific, controlled patterns. She called it "staking the claim of self." For hours, it seemed, he did nothing but try to quiet his racing thoughts, to isolate his own consciousness from the overwhelming sensory assault of this new world.
"Your mind is a riot of panic and nostalgia," she chided, her voice cool as she circled him. "A Nether-spawn can smell that confusion from a league away. It is a beacon. You must become still. You must be a stone in the turbulent river."
He failed, repeatedly. His back ached. His legs went numb. He thought of his unfinished audit, his apartment, the mundane peace of a life he now craved with a physical hunger.
Just as frustration threatened to boil over, Elyria spoke again. "Enough. The theoretical foundation is laid, however poorly. Now, we add practical application. Stand."
She produced two wooden practice swords from a shadowed alcove, tossing one to him. He fumbled the catch. "Swordsmanship? Shouldn't I learn more about the magic first?"
"They are the same," she said, falling into a guard position that was both elegant and utterly lethal. "The sword is an extension of will. The magic is a focus of intent. Your body must learn to move with purpose, or your spirit will have no vessel for power. Now, attack me."
Hesitantly, Leo lunged. She disarmed him with a motion so slight it was barely a twitch. The wooden blade clattered loudly on the stone.
"Again."
He tried a clumsy overhead swing. She sidestepped and tapped his ribs sharply with her own sword. A sting of pain blossomed.
"Again."
Over and over, for what felt like an eternity. He was drenched in sweat, his muscles burning. She was a statue of calm, a vortex that absorbed his frantic energy and returned only precise, punishing feedback. He learned nothing about sword fighting, it seemed, only about his own profound inadequacy.
As he lay on the cold stone, chest heaving after a particularly swift disarming, despair washed over him. "This is impossible. I'm not a hero. You brought the wrong guy."
Elyria looked down at him, the torchlight casting deep shadows in her eyes. For the first time, he saw not the saint, nor the stern teacher, but a glimpse of something immeasurably ancient and tired. "I did not bring a 'guy,'" she said softly, her voice losing its edge. "I brought a soul with a capacity to *choose*. The light does not demand innate strength, Leo. It demands conviction. It asks a question: what will you defend, even unto death? Your old self is dead. Who will you choose to be now? Get up. The choice begins with standing."
Shamed, energized by a new kind of anger—not at her, but at his own surrender—Leo pushed himself up. He retrieved his practice sword. His arms trembled, but his grip was firmer.
"Again," he said.
This time, he didn't just lunge. He remembered the breathing. He tried to still the riot in his mind, to feel the heavy, sick air and the thin, golden thread of the Sceptre's pulse. He moved, not with skill, but with a sliver of focus.
Elyria deflected his strike, but she did not disarm him. She held the block, her eyes narrowing. "Better," she murmured. "Now, *push*."
He didn't understand. He pushed with his arms, straining against her wooden blade.
"Not with your muscles," she hissed. "With the *claim*. With the will you just forged. Push against the world's weight. Follow the golden thread."
Gritting his teeth, Leo closed his eyes. He ignored his screaming muscles and focused on that faint, warm pulse from above. He imagined it flowing down that thread, into him, and out through his sword. He *pushed* with that intention.
A faint, golden shimmer, barely visible, flickered along the edge of the wooden practice sword.
Elyria's blade flew from her hand, clattering to the far wall. She stood, disarmed, her hand stinging. She looked from her empty hand to the faint, dying glow on Leo's weapon, then to his wide, astonished eyes.
A true smile, small and fierce, touched her lips for the first time. It was not the smile of a saint. It was the smile of a strategist seeing the first, crucial piece fall into place.
"The foundation," she said, "is laid."
***
Far to the north, in the blighted wastes where the sky wept acid and the earth was fused glass, the hunt had begun. A pack of Shadowstalkers, sleek predators of condensed Nether, streamed from the gates of the Obsidian Citadel. They had no eyes, only scent pits that drank in the traces of reality. Their master had given them a taste: the empty, echoing signature of a shattered divine seal, and the sharp, alien perfume of a soul not born of this world.
They flowed over the landscape like a black tide, heading unerringly south. Towards the last flicker of remembered light. Towards the Holy Kingdom. Towards the fledgling spark of a rebellion that had just, tentatively, learned to shine.