Teaching is a form of energy transfer. And like all transfers, it has a cost.
I returned to the suite, leaving Kael on the roof to continue his war against the laws of aerodynamics. My head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache—the "Tax" of using the First Name to demonstrate the dice throw.
The vessel was tired.
I walked into the living area. The room was a mess of velvet and gold leaf, a testament to the decadence of the Obsidian Spire.
I collapsed onto the sofa.
It was plush, swallowing my weight. I closed my eyes, seeking the stasis of silence.
"Wine," I commanded to the empty room.
Silence answered me.
I opened one eye.
Malakor was gone.
I remembered sending him away. Get me wine.
I closed my eye again.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
My irritation began to simmer. Inefficiency was the one sin I could not forgive. A simple task—fetch liquid—should take no more than five minutes in a hotel of this caliber.
Thirty minutes.
The door burst open.
"My Lord! Forgive me!"
Malakor stumbled into the room. He was out of breath, his chest heaving under his robes. Sweat had soaked through his collar, staining the expensive fabric dark.
He clutched a bottle of dark red wine to his chest like a holy relic.
"The Spire..." he wheezed, closing the door with his foot. "The Spire was dry! They didn't have the vintage you prefer. The sommelier tried to offer me a local blend, but I refused! I ran to a merchant three blocks away!"
He hurried to the table, grabbing a crystal glass.
"I found it. A 'Crimson tear' from the Northern Vineyards. 1200 Clons."
He poured.
His hands were shaking.
The bottle neck chattered against the rim of the glass—clink-clink-clink—a rhythm of pure, unadulterated nerves. Wine sloshed over the edge, staining the white tablecloth like blood.
I watched him.
This was my "Witness." This was the man who was supposed to walk into the Cathedral tomorrow and convince a High Bishop that he was a reformed informant.
He looked like a man who had just buried a body and forgotten where.
"Stop," I said.
Malakor froze. A drop of wine hung from the bottle's lip, trembling.
"My Lord?"
I sat up. The movement was slow, deliberate.
"You are leaking, Malakor."
"Leaking? No! The bottle is sealed... well, it was..."
"Not the wine," I said, standing up. "You."
I walked toward him.
"You smell of fear. You vibrate with anxiety. Your sweat glands are overactive. Your hands possess the stability of a leaf in a hurricane."
I stopped in front of him.
"If you walk into the Cathedral like this, Bishop Caelum will not see a witness. He will see a guilty man. He will smell the rot on you, and he will burn you."
Malakor paled. The bottle shook harder.
"I... I cannot help it, My Lord! It is the Church! The Inquisitors! I spent twenty years hiding in basements from them. My body... it remembers the fear."
"Then we must rewrite the memory," I stated.
I took the bottle from his hand and set it on the table.
"Stand straight."
He tried. He puffed out his chest, but his shoulders were tight, pulled up toward his ears in a defensive crouch.
"Your anxiety," I lectured, pacing around him, "stems from a calculation error. You believe you are lesser than the people you face. You believe the Bishop has authority over you."
"He does!" Malakor squeaked. "He is a High Bishop!"
"He is a bureaucrat in a fancy hat," I corrected. "Power is not a fact, Malakor. It is a performance. If you act like you belong, the Universe assumes you do."
I stopped in front of him.
"I will teach you how to suppress the autonomic nervous system. The body is a machine. You can hack it."
I poked his stomach.
"Breathing. It is the override switch."
"Breathe in for four seconds," I commanded. "Deep. Into the diaphragm, not the chest."
Malakor inhaled. One. Two. Three. Four.
"Hold for seven."
He held it. His face turned slightly red.
"Exhale for eight. Slowly. Like you are blowing out a candle but do not want the flame to flicker."
He exhaled. A long, shuddering breath.
"Again."
We did it five times. 4-7-8.
His shoulders dropped. His heart rate, audible to my sensitive ears, slowed from a frantic rabbit-kick to a steady thud.
"Better," I noted. "Now, the eyes."
"When you look at the Bishop," I said, leaning in close, "do not look at his pupils. That creates connection. Connection creates empathy, and empathy creates fear."
I tapped the center of my own forehead.
"Look here. At the glabella. The spot between the eyebrows."
I stared at his forehead.
"It makes them uncomfortable," I whispered. "They feel scrutinized, but they cannot make eye contact. It shifts the power dynamic. It keeps you detached."
"And finally," I said, stepping back. "The Mantra."
"You are not a cultist. You are not a criminal."
I handed him the glass of wine. It was full to the brim.
"Repeat after me: I am the Witness."
"I... I am the Witness," Malakor stammered.
"I observe the fire," I said. "I do not burn in it."
"I observe the fire. I do not burn in it."
"Hold the glass," I ordered. "Extend your arm."
He held it out. His arm shook. The wine rippled, threatening to spill.
"Still," I commanded. "If a single drop falls, you fail."
Malakor stared at the glass. He inhaled. Four. Seven. Eight.
He stared at the rim of the glass, disconnecting himself from the fear of dropping it.
I am the Witness.
The shaking slowed. It didn't stop completely, but the chaotic vibration smoothed into a manageable tremor. The surface of the wine became a flat, red mirror.
"Good," I said softly. "Hold it. Let the pain in your shoulder distract you from the fear in your mind."
He held it for ten minutes. Sweat rolled down his nose, but he didn't move. He was terrified of the Bishop, but he was more terrified of disappointing me.
Fear, applied correctly, is a stabilizer.
Time slipped forward.
The light in the room shifted from the harsh white of noon to the golden hue of early afternoon.
The door opened.
Kael walked in.
He looked exhausted. His hair was windblown, his shirt stuck to his skin with sweat. But his eyes were sharp, glowing with the residue of using the First Name for hours.
He saw Malakor standing like a statue holding a glass of wine. He didn't ask. He simply nodded, accepting it as part of the training.
"Lunch," I announced.
Room service had delivered a cart. Roasted fowl, root vegetables, and fresh bread.
We sat.
Malakor finally lowered his arm. He groaned, rubbing his shoulder, but when he picked up his fork, his hand was steady