Ashan rolled the mop, wringing out the dirty water for the last time. The sound was wet, final, the sound of a task completed and not soon to be repeated. His arms ached. His back burned. The bucket at his feet held the accumulated filth of a room that had not known cleanliness for longer than he cared to imagine.
Chores and chores.
He dropped the mop into the bucket with a splash that echoed off the walls and went to where Shikshak Yaren was now sitting on the ground, his posture relaxed, his hands resting on his knees.
In front of him lay an array of materials arranged with the precision of a surgeon's instruments. A quill—not the rough, utilitarian tool Ashan had used in his own practice, but something finer, the feather dark, the nib sharp. Sheets of parched paper stacked in neat piles, their edges rough, their surfaces smooth. Dried herbs, their colors faded, their shapes preserved. And a bottle of blood.
The stench from the blood was so potent it seeped through the sealed lid, a metallic, primal reek that dominated the room's other odors, that settled in the back of the throat and clung there, refusing to leave.
Ashan sat down opposite his teacher, folding his legs beneath him, settling into the posture that had become as familiar as breathing.
Shikshak Yaren opened the bottle's lid. The smell intensified, a visceral wave that forced Ashan to pinch his nose shut, that made his eyes water, that seemed to press against his skin like something alive.
What a foul stench!
"Just as humans and the manuga walk the path of sadhana," Yaren began, his voice calm and instructional, the voice of a man who had explained the same concepts to the same eager faces for longer than he cared to remember, "so do other beings." He skillfully let a few, precise drops of the dark blood fall onto a sheet of parched paper—one, two, three, the rhythm of them like a heartbeat—before resealing the bottle with hands that did not tremble. "This is the blood of a higher-ranked rakshasa."
With that, he took the quill in hand and began to inscribe.
"Observe closely." His voice had dropped, become something softer, more intimate. "The art of the charmcaster is a delicate one."
Ashan's eyes flickered into their familiar grayish hues, the whirlpools spinning to life, the world resolving into shadow and form, presence and absence.
Shikshak Yaren's hand moved with tranquil certainty, the quill dancing under his command, each stroke a decision, each line a purpose. The nib traced the edge of the blood drop, drew it outward, shaped it into something that had not been there before. The movement of his atmic urja was so subtle, so fine—a thread of power that wove through the paper, the ink, the air itself, binding them together into something that was more than the sum of its parts.
Ashan watched, his siddhi dissecting the process, laying it bare before his eyes. Yaren channeled his atmic urja through the quill, let it commingle with the rakshasa blood on the page, and where they met, a faint, reactive glow sparked—brief, contained, controlled. Upon this prepared surface, he began drawing a series of intricate, interlocking symbols, each one building on the last, each one a door that opened onto the next.
"Using the blood of any sadhaka is considered an advanced branch of charmcasting," Yaren continued, his focus split between the lesson and his work, his voice steady, unhurried. "To craft true charms, one needs fine control over one's atmic urja, and materials of suitable quality to serve as a vessel."
He finished the last symbol and set the quill down with the finality of a door closing.
Ashan stared at the completed design. The symbols seemed to move when he looked at them, to shift and rearrange themselves, to pull at his vision with a gravity that had nothing to do with light and everything to do with meaning. The geometry was wrong—not wrong, but other, a language that had been old when humans were still learning to make fire, a logic that operated on principles he could almost grasp and then, at the last moment, slipped away.
That symbol—it looks—
A sudden, sharp current, like static shock, jolted through his body. He flinched, his eyes closing, his hands coming up instinctively to shield his face.
"Do not stare." Shikshak Yaren's voice was flat, absolute. "And with a siddhi like yours, you must learn to leash your curiosity before it leashes you."
Ashan nodded, the warning clear, the lesson learned. He opened his eyes slowly, carefully, letting them adjust, letting the symbols resolve into shapes that did not move, did not shift, did not pull.
It looks strangely similar to the one on Cloe's father's chest. He let the thought surface, examined it, let it go. Poor Macos. But this one is different. A modification.
Shikshak Yaren tucked the completed charm paper into his robe with the same deliberate care he had shown in every other motion. He produced another quill—plain, unadorned, the kind that could be bought for a few coppers in any market—and handed it over.
"Hold this." His voice was patient, the voice of a man who had done this before, who knew what was coming. "Attempt to channel your atmic urja through it. Nothing more. Just a steady, gentle flow."
Ashan took the brownish quill, testing its weight. Light. Cheap. The kind of tool that would shatter under pressure, that was designed to be used and discarded, that had no place in the hands of anyone who knew what they were doing.
Light.
Gripping it in his right hand, he directed a thread of his atmic urja toward the instrument's tip.
Kach!
The moment his energy made contact, the quill shattered into splinters. Several shards embedded themselves in his index finger, sharp, bright, the pain immediate and bright.
Oh, fuck! That stings!
He plucked the splinters out, one by one, feeling each one leave his flesh, watching the blood well up in the wounds they left behind. He looked toward Shikshak Yaren with an apologetic grimace.
His teacher had entered a state of sadhana, hands held in an advanced mudra, his breathing slow, his eyes closed. Lying beside him, arranged in neat rows, were dozens of identical brownish quills.
Ashan licked the blood trickling from his finger, tasting the copper of it, the salt.
He literally prepared for this. He let the thought settle, examined it from every angle. He thinks I'll need every single one.
He took the second quill.
[Viksana: Analyse]
Under the gaze of his grayish eyes, he carefully guided his atmic urja forward—slowly, gently, a thread of power no thicker than a hair.
Kach!
Again.
Kach!
Again.
After seven more failures, on the ninth attempt, he managed to let a thin, shaky stream of atmic urja flow into the quill without destroying it. His fingers were slick with blood from flying splinters, his hands trembling with the effort of holding something so fragile, so easily broken. But his eyes were firm. His face was a mask of determined concentration.
He could feel it now—a bare, trembling connection between his will and the instrument in his hand, a thread of power that ran from his core to the nib, that made the quill more than it was, that transformed it from a tool into an extension of himself.
Shikshak Yaren opened his eyes. "Barely adequate," he remarked.
Ashan's face twitched.
Barely!
"Now, the next step." Yaren produced several sheets of parched paper, placing one before Ashan with the same deliberate care he had shown in everything. "Charmcasting is the art of inscribing intent. That requires materials capable of sustaining and holding both your energy and your will."
Ashan studied the symbol drawn on the paper: a stylized ball of flames contained within a perfect circle. The lines were clean, precise, the work of a hand that had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.
"Shikshak Yaren." He let the question form, rise to the surface. "Can a charm substitute for any mantra?"
Yaren allowed a small smile—the first genuine expression of warmth Ashan had seen on his teacher's face. "If that were true, everyone would be a charmcaster. A charm can act as a substitute for specific mantras, yes. Their strength lies in instant activation, pre-prepared effects, and utility where direct casting is impractical."
Ashan nodded, returning his focus to the circular flame symbol, committing its lines to memory, its curves, its proportions.
A slight cough from Shikshak Yaren grabbed his attention. "Draw it," his teacher said, his plain tone edged with a sliver of impatience.
Now. Ashan picked up the quill, felt its weight in his hand, felt the thin, trembling thread of urja that connected it to his core. A fresh wave of dubious anxiety settled in his chest. I remember. He lowered the nib to the paper. I suck at drawing.