The contract's light faded completely, leaving only the ambient moonlight that seemed to emanate from Tinasha herself.
Arden flexed his hand, feeling the phantom weight of their binding.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years bound to a five-hundred-year-old witch who'd just glimpsed something connected to Azareth—something that had frightened even her.
No going back now.
Tinasha was studying him with those impossible carmine eyes, her expression a mix of excitement and calculation.
"So," she said, settling back into her chair with fluid grace. "Now that we're bound together for the next decade and a half, perhaps we should discuss the practical matters. Starting with your companions waiting outside in the cold."
"Can you provide shelter for them?" Arden asked. "Something warm and safe while we work here?"
"Already done."
She gestured casually, and images appeared in the air—showing his team outside.
A structure was materializing before them.
Not a tent.
A small lodge, carved from what looked like crystallized moonlight and stone.
Warm light spilled from its windows.
"Three bedrooms, a common area, supplies for two weeks, magical climate control, and protection wards against the mountain's dangers," Tinasha listed off. "They'll be comfortable. Probably more comfortable than they've been in months."
Arden watched as Brick cautiously approached the lodge, testing the door.
It opened smoothly.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. That's part of our contract—I provide for your companions. I'm just fulfilling my obligations." She smiled. "Though I'll admit, I'm curious about them. Especially the one with the dual soul constitution."
"Kari. Her name is Kari."
"Kari." Tinasha repeated the name thoughtfully. "The Harmony Dual Integration Core will take about a week to create. Soul-based artifacts require absolute precision. One mistake and..." She made a gesture like an explosion. "Both souls destroyed simultaneously. Instant death."
"Can I help with the creation process?"
"No. Absolutely not." Her voice was firm. "This is fifth-stage magic at minimum. Your involvement would only increase the risk. You'll teach me the Azareth techniques while I work on the core separately."
She stood, her voluptuous figure moving with predatory grace as she walked to the window.
"Two weeks. That's how long you'll be here. One week for the core, another week for me to stabilize it and ensure it won't kill your companion when activated. During that time, you'll teach me everything you know about those hand signs and incantations."
"That seems fair."
"Fair?" Tinasha laughed. "Boy, I'm getting knowledge that touches True Magic principles in exchange for two artifacts and fifteen years of service. This is possibly the most unfair trade in magical history—and I'm the one benefiting."
She turned to face him, moonlight backlighting her figure.
"Which makes me very curious about what you're actually planning. What could possibly be worth trading this knowledge? What threats are you so certain are coming?"
Because I wrote them. Because I designed every catastrophe that's going to hit this world.
"I can't fully explain yet," Arden said carefully. "Some things you'll need to see to believe. But I can tell you this—the Overlord was nothing. A minor threat. What's coming will make that battle look like a training exercise."
Tinasha studied him for a long moment.
"You speak with such certainty. As if you've already seen it. Already know exactly what's going to happen."
Too close. She's too perceptive.
"I have... sources. Information that others don't have access to."
"Like the texts you supposedly found about Azareth techniques?"
"Something like that."
"Liar." But she was smiling. "You're an absolutely terrible liar, Arden Valekrest. Which is oddly refreshing. Most people who come to me are either too good at lying or not brave enough to try."
She gestured, and the chairs vanished, replaced by a more comfortable seating arrangement—cushions and low tables.
"Sit. We should discuss how to begin. I assume I'll need to use the Ring of Restraint as well?"
Arden nodded, pulling the ring from his finger.
The moment it left his skin, he felt the constraints lift slightly.
Not gone—never gone now, they were bound to his soul through contract.
But less immediate.
He handed the ring to Tinasha.
She held it up, studying the silver band in the moonlight.
"This tiny thing. This fragment of divine will. It's about to completely upend five hundred years of magical practice."
She slipped it onto her finger without hesitation.
And immediately her eyes widened.
[A fragment inheriting the great will of Azareth, state the two Restraints you wish to impose.]
The voice echoed through her mind.
But unlike Arden's experience, Tinasha didn't just hear it.
She perceived it.
Her five centuries of magical study, her mastery of analysis spells, her incredible sensitivity to mana—all of it combined to give her a deeper glimpse than Arden had received.
And what she saw made her breath catch.
It's not just a voice. It's not even fully an entity. It's...
She tried to understand the form before her.
Tried to comprehend what she was perceiving.
But the moment she began to truly see it—
[If you cannot even comprehend my form, what makes you think you can comprehend my name?]
The voice wasn't mocking.
Just... stating fact.
Tinasha pulled back her perception instinctively.
"Who are you?" she asked aloud, her voice steadier than she felt.
[How could you understand? You lack even the vessel to contain such knowledge. Your achievements, impressive as they are for a mortal, are built on foundations too shallow to support what you seek.]
"I'm a five-hundred-year-old witch. One of five remaining in the world. I've mastered every conventional magical system—"
[And that is precisely your problem.]
The voice cut her off.
[You have filled your vessel with conventional power. Saturated yourself with methods that touch only the surface of reality. Your power blocks what lies beneath, leaving no room for true understanding.]
Tinasha felt something cold settle in her stomach.
"What are you saying?"
[You are unqualified. Not because you lack talent—you have that in abundance. Not because you lack dedication—you have proven that through centuries of study. You are unqualified because you lack the proper vessel to receive what you seek.]
The presence seemed to study her.
[Your five hundred years of accumulated power, your mastery of conventional magic, your vast mana reserves—all of it is preventing you from understanding True Magic. You have built a mountain of strength and now wonder why you cannot see what lies at the foundation.]
"Then what do I do?" Tinasha asked, her voice tight.
[You already know. You would not have come here otherwise.]
Silence.
Long, heavy silence.
Finally, Tinasha spoke, her voice barely a whisper.
"You want me to give it up. The power. Five hundred years of accumulated mana. Every reservoir I've built. Everything that makes me one of the five remaining witches."
[Not want. It is simply the requirement. To build a proper vessel, you must first empty the improper one.]
"That's insane. I'd be defenseless."
[You would be a beginner. There is a difference. Your knowledge remains—five hundred years of study, understanding, theory. But the power that has calcified around that knowledge, preventing deeper sight—that must go.]
The voice paused.
[I do not force this upon you. You may walk away. Keep your five hundred years of accumulated power. Remain one of the five witches, strong by mortal standards, stagnant for eternity. Or...]
"Or?"
[Or you may sacrifice the power you have accumulated to gain understanding you have never possessed. Empty the vessel of its strength. Accept true restraint. And perhaps—only perhaps—prove yourself worthy of comprehending what lies beneath.]
Tinasha's hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From the sheer weight of the decision before her.
"If I do this... if I give up my power... what guarantee do I have that I'll gain anything in return?"
[None.]
The answer was absolute.
[There are no guarantees in the pursuit of truth. Only risk. Only sacrifice. Only the possibility of understanding.]
"That's not a fair trade."
[Truth is never fair. It simply is.]
Tinasha stood there, the ring cold on her finger, her mind racing.
Five hundred years. Five hundred years of accumulated mana, built up through constant cultivation and refinement. The power that makes me a witch.
Gone.
For the mere possibility of understanding something deeper.
But I keep the knowledge. The understanding. The ability to teach others what I've learned.
She thought of the glimpse she'd had earlier.
That vast, incomprehensible presence.
The thing that had frightened even her.
And she realized—she wanted to understand it.
Wanted it more than she'd wanted anything in centuries.
When did I become so stagnant? So comfortable? When did I stop taking risks?
She remembered being young.
Being the princess of Melodia.
Watching her kingdom burn.
Making the choice to become a witch—to sacrifice her humanity for power.
That had been a risk.
That had required sacrifice.
And she'd done it without hesitation because the alternative was death.
This is the same. Different scale, but the same choice. Sacrifice what I have for the chance to become something more.
She looked at Arden, who was watching her quietly.
"You knew," she said. "You knew it would ask this of me."
"I knew it would test you," Arden admitted. "I didn't know exactly how. But yes, I suspected it would require sacrifice."
"And you let me put on the ring anyway."
"You would have insisted. And besides..." He met her eyes. "You needed to hear it from Azareth directly. If I'd told you, you wouldn't have believed me."
Tinasha laughed—sharp and slightly bitter.
"You're right. I wouldn't have."
She took a deep breath.
"Alright. I'll do it."
"Tinasha—"
"I said I'll do it." Her voice was firm now. Decided. "Five hundred years of accumulated power in exchange for the possibility of true understanding? The chance to break through my stagnation?"
She paused, considering.
"And I keep the knowledge. Five hundred years of study, theory, understanding—that remains. I can still teach. Still guide others. I just... can't use the power myself until I rebuild it properly."
"Exactly," Tinasha said, more to herself than to Arden. "It's not starting from nothing. It's starting from understanding without the interference of accumulated strength."
She looked at the ring, then at the space where she could sense Azareth's presence.
"I accept your terms. I will empty my vessel of power. Sacrifice my five hundred years of accumulated mana. Give up every reservoir I've built, every enhancement I've cultivated."
She straightened, her voice growing stronger.
"But I keep my knowledge. My understanding. My memories of five hundred years of magical study. Because that knowledge is valuable—not just to me, but to those I can teach."
[...]
The presence seemed to consider.
[You understand what you are asking? Once done, this cannot be undone. Your five hundred years of accumulated power will be gone. Truly gone. Not locked away. Erased. As if you never cultivated it at all.]
"I understand."
[You will have the knowledge of a master but the power of a child. You will remember casting spells that you can no longer perform. Will understand techniques you cannot execute.]
"I understand."
[And there is no guarantee you will succeed in rebuilding properly. You may sacrifice everything and gain nothing.]
"I. Understand." Each word was firm. Absolute.
Tinasha's eyes blazed with determination.
"I have been comfortable for too long. Safe for too long. Stagnant for too long. If this is what it takes to grow again—to truly grow, not just refine what I already have—then I accept the risk."
[...]
The presence was silent for a long moment.
Then—
[Very well. State your restraints, Seravelle Melodia, last daughter of a fallen kingdom. Prove your resolve.]
Tinasha straightened, her voice clear and strong.
"One. I impose upon myself complete erasure of all accumulated magical power. Every reservoir I have built over five hundred years, every cultivation of mana capacity, every enhancement of my magical strength—gone. I will have the power of one who has never cultivated magic, though I retain all knowledge and understanding."
[Severe. You would be helpless.]
"I would be a teacher without the ability to demonstrate. A master without the strength to practice. But I would retain the understanding to guide others." Tinasha smiled slightly. "And more importantly, I would have an empty vessel, ready to be filled with power that doesn't block deeper sight."
[What do you wish to gain?]
"The foundation. The true foundation underlying all magic. The Primordial Flow—the natural order that makes magic possible. Not the surface techniques that mortals use, but the deep principles that reality itself follows."
[...]
[You know the term. Interesting. How?]
"I don't. I just... feel it. The concept. Like it's always been there, waiting for me to acknowledge it."
[Hmm. Perhaps you have more potential than I thought. The Primordial Flow—yes. That is what underlies all magic. The natural order of how reality expresses itself.]
The presence seemed almost pleased.
[Very well. I grant your first restraint. Your five hundred years of accumulated power will be erased. You will retain all knowledge, all understanding, all memory—but no ability to use that knowledge until you rebuild your power properly. State your second.]
Tinasha took a deep breath.
This was it.
The point of no return.
"Two. I prohibit myself from rebuilding my power through conventional means. Even if I remember how to cultivate mana traditionally, even if I'm tempted to take the quick path I already know—I am forbidden. I will rebuild through the Primordial Flow or I will remain powerless."
Silence.
Long, heavy silence.
Even Arden was staring at her in shock.
She's not just giving up her power. She's burning the bridge behind her. No going back to conventional cultivation. Ever.
[That is not restraint. That is self-destruction.]
"That is commitment," Tinasha corrected. "If I leave myself an escape route, I'll take it when things get difficult. If I let myself fall back on conventional cultivation, I'll never truly learn to build power properly through the Primordial Flow. This is the only way."
[You are either the bravest or most foolish mortal I have encountered in millennia.]
"Can't it be both?"
Despite everything, there was humor in her voice.
[...]
[Yes. It can be both.]
The presence seemed to shift, becoming more... present.
More real.
[Very well. I accept your restraints, Seravelle Melodia. You have proven your resolve. You have shown you are willing to sacrifice everything for the mere possibility of understanding.]
The voice changed slightly, becoming warmer.
[To you, who would empty yourself of power to be filled with truth, I offer not just restraint but teaching. I will show you the Primordial Flow. The natural order. The foundation upon which all reality is built.]
The ring began to glow.
Not the cold silver light it had shown before.
But something warmer.
Something that looked almost like dawn breaking.
[But know this—what I am about to do will hurt. You are asking me to erase five hundred years of accumulated power. Five hundred years of cultivated reserves, enhanced capacity, refined channels. It will feel like dying.]
"I'm ready."
[No. You are not. But you are brave enough to endure anyway. That is sufficient.]
[Farewell to your power, Seravelle Melodia, Witch of the Crimson Moon. When you wake, you will remember everything you were—but possess none of the strength that made you so.]
The light exploded.
And Tinasha screamed.
Not from pain—though there was pain.
From loss.
She could feel it happening.
Every reservoir of mana she'd built over centuries—draining.
Every enhancement to her capacity—dissolving.
Every channel she'd refined for better power flow—returning to baseline.
Her vast ocean of accumulated magical strength, evaporating like water in desert sun.
Five hundred years of cultivation, undone in moments.
But unlike erasure of knowledge, she could feel it leaving.
Could remember having it.
This is worse, she realized. If I'd forgotten, I wouldn't miss it. But I remember. I remember being powerful. And now...
Now she was empty.
But beneath the loss, she could feel something else.
Not power.
Understanding.
[Magic is not will imposed upon reality. It is cooperation with reality's existing structure.]
The voice spoke directly into her consciousness.
[The Primordial Flow is the natural order of how concepts, energy, and will interact. Conventional magic fights against this flow, forcing it into unnatural patterns. True magic works with it, guiding it gently.]
[Words have power because they define concepts. Concepts shape reality because reality is built from concepts. To use magic properly, you must understand how concepts naturally flow and arrange themselves.]
[Incantations are not commands. They are invitations. Structured carefully, following the Primordial Flow, they allow reality to express itself in new ways.]
[This is the foundation. This is what lies beneath all magic.]
Images flooded her mind—not spells, but principles.
The way mana naturally wanted to move.
The patterns it formed when not forced into rigid structures.
The harmony between intention and reality.
Tinasha's scream faded to a whimper.
Then to silence.
She collapsed, the ring falling from her finger.
Unconscious.
Arden caught her before she hit the ground, his reattached arm protesting the weight.
"Tinasha!"
He lowered her gently to the cushions, checking her pulse.
Alive.
Breathing.
But her mana signature...
It's gone. Completely gone. She has less magical power than a normal human. But... there's something else. Something deeper. Like a foundation being laid.
He picked up the Ring of Restraint carefully.
It was still warm.
Still pulsing with faint light.
As he held it, he heard the voice one final time.
[She will wake in three days. When she does, she will remember everything—every spell, every technique, every bit of theory she learned over five hundred years. But she will have no power to use any of it.]
[The knowledge remains. The understanding remains. The ability to teach remains. Only the power is gone.]
[Whether she can rebuild properly through the Primordial Flow... that remains to be seen.]
A pause.
[But she will make an excellent teacher for your companions. One who understands both conventional magic and the new path. Use her wisely.]
[You have chosen your ally well, inheritor. She has the courage to sacrifice everything. Such people are rare.]
[Take care of her. She is valuable now in ways she was not before.]
Then the presence faded.
Leaving only silence.
And Arden, holding an unconscious five-hundred-year-old witch who had just voluntarily destroyed five centuries of accumulated power for the chance to understand something deeper.
He looked at her peaceful face, wondering.
Did I do the right thing? Leading her to this? Letting her make this choice?
But even as he questioned, he knew the answer.
She'd made her own choice.
Just like he'd made his.
And now they'd both live with the consequences.
"Three days," he murmured, arranging her more comfortably on the cushions.
"Alright. I'll be here when you wake up. And we'll figure out this Primordial Flow thing together."
He settled in to wait.
Outside, dawn continued to break over the mountains.
His companions were waking in their lodge, warm and safe.
And in the tower, a witch slept.
Dreaming of principles and natural order and the foundations of reality itself.
Still herself—all her memories, all her knowledge, all her understanding intact.
Just... powerless.
A master who could teach but not demonstrate.
A scholar who could explain but not perform.
Until she learned to rebuild the right way.
----
"Has he come out yet?" Kari asked, her dual souls arguing as usual.
"No," Brick rumbled, staring at the tower. "Not since last night."
"Should we check on him?" Elara's cold voice carried a hint of concern.
"The witch said two weeks," Rykard pointed out lazily. "Too troublesome to interrupt before then."
"What if something went wrong?" Serra worried quietly.
"Then we'd know," Garret said, surprisingly confident. "The tower would... I don't know. Explode or something. Magic places always explode when things go wrong."
"That's not helpful," Thrain said.
"But it's probably true."
They settled in to wait.
Trusting Arden.
Trusting that whatever was happening in that tower was necessary.
And hoping that when he emerged, he wouldn't be alone.
That the witch would be with him.
Changed, perhaps.
But still herself.
Still an ally.
Still someone who could guide them.
Because they were going to need every ally they could get.
For what was coming.