The book was old, its pages yellowed at the edges and soft from countless hands before his. Lucian turned to the section he'd marked with a strip of cloth and began to read.
"Theurgists," the text began, "are those blessed few who can channel Spiritual Power through their mortal vessels. They are the shield between humanity and the darkness that lurks beyond the veil."
He'd read this passage three times already, but the words still felt strange. Back on Earth—back in his old life, he corrected himself—he would have called them something else. Mages. Wizards. Sorcerers. The fantasy novels he'd devoured as a teenager were full of them. But this world had no such words. Here, there was only one term: Theurgist.
And unlike those stories, you couldn't just be one.
Lucian leaned back in his chair, letting the morning light from the library's narrow windows warm his face. Two weeks in the Squad 8 barracks, and he was finally starting to understand the shape of this world's power.
Theurgists required legitimacy. There were only three paths:
The Creed. Monster hunters. The path he'd stumbled onto, though "stumbled" was generous—he'd been bleeding and broken when Captain Aldric offered him a place.
The Church. Priests and holy warriors who served the gods directly. They held the most power, the most secrets, and the tightest grip on what knowledge the public was allowed to possess.
Royalty. Court Theurgists who served the noble houses and the crown. Lucian's lips twisted. His father was a Count. But Count Darius hadn't used the legitimate path. He'd gone the fourth way.
The occult.
"Those who practice the spiritual arts outside sanctioned institutions," the book continued, "are deemed heretics and treated accordingly. The Church maintains sole authority over the determination of lawful practice."
Heretic. Criminal. Monster.
That was what his father was. What his father had become, or perhaps always been. The ritual. The sacrifice. Lucian's hands tightened on the book's edges before he forced them to relax.
He turned the page.
"Spirit Contracting," the new section read, "is the sacred bond between human and Spirit. During the Pact Ritual, the candidate's soul is opened to the Spirit Realm. Spirits observe from beyond the veil, and should one find the candidate worthy, a bond is formed. The human's soul gains color, reflecting the Spirit's nature, and access to Spiritual Power is granted."
The ritual was today.
Lucian had spent two weeks preparing for this moment. Physical training—though his body remained frustratingly weak, years of malnourishment not erased by a fortnight of exercise. Knowledge accumulation—the noble education that came with Lucian's memories proved useful there. And strategic planning.
Particularly regarding his... unique situation.
He closed his eyes, reaching inward. The two souls were there, as always—one bound to his flesh, one floating free. Lucian's original soul, technically dead but still attached, kept his heart beating and his lungs breathing. The other soul—his soul—was the consciousness that piloted this borrowed body.
Two souls. One body. And today, he would walk into a ritual designed for people with only one.
What happens when the Spirits look at me? he wondered. What do they see? A broken vessel? A fraud? Two separate beings fighting for the same space?
He didn't know. No one had ever been in this situation before.
"Big day."
The voice came from across the library. Lucian opened his eyes to find a young man settling into the chair opposite him—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly where you fit in the world.
"Rowan," Lucian said, recognizing him. "Squad 3, wasn't it?"
Rowan grinned. "Good memory. You're the one from Squad 8, right? The Captain's latest pickup?"
There was something in the way he said it. Not quite mockery, but close.
"That's right."
"Nervous about today?"
Lucian considered the question. "Should I be?"
"Depends." Rowan leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. "If a Spirit chooses you, you're set. Best feeling in the world, they say. Like finding a piece of yourself you never knew was missing." His grin widened. "If one doesn't... well. You end up in Squad 8."
The jab was obvious, but Lucian didn't rise to it. "Squad 8 seems fine to me."
"Sure. If you're happy being an Item user." Rowan shrugged. "No offense meant. It's just... you know how people talk. Aldric's squad is where the rejects end up. The ones Spirits don't want."
"The Captain seems capable enough."
"Oh, Aldric's solid. But he's an Item user too. Whole squad is, mostly." Rowan uncrossed his arms and stood, clearly losing interest in the conversation. "Anyway. Good luck today. Hopefully you won't need it."
He walked away without waiting for a response.
Lucian watched him go, then returned to his book. The words blurred in front of his eyes.
Rejects. Item users. The ones Spirits don't want.
He thought about the ritual. About what would happen when the Spirits looked at his soul and saw... whatever they would see.
Hopefully you won't need it.
He suspected he would.
II.
The examination hall was larger than Lucian expected—a converted training yard with stone walls and a ceiling lost in shadow. Recruits from half a dozen squads milled about, their nervous energy filling the space like static before a storm.
Lucian kept to the edges, watching.
There were perhaps thirty candidates in total. Some wore the confidence of people who expected to succeed—straight backs, easy smiles, voices loud with certainty. Others hunched and fidgeted, anxiety written in every line of their bodies. Lucian fit somewhere in between, his posture relaxed but his mind racing.
His second soul floated a hundred meters above the building.
He'd positioned it there before entering—a precaution. If the examiners could see souls, if they had Spirit Eyes of their own, he couldn't risk them noticing the second presence. So he'd separated, letting the lingering part of himself drift upward until it hung in the sky like an invisible balloon, tethered to him by nothing but will.
The connection held. He could feel it—the distant awareness of his other self, seeing the examination hall's roof from above, the city spreading out in miniature beyond. If he focused, he could shift his perception entirely, view the world through those borrowed eyes.
But he kept his focus here, in his body, where it belonged.
"Candidates," a voice announced. An examiner—middle-aged, stern-faced, wearing the grey robes of a Creed official—stepped to the center of the hall. "The assessment will proceed in three stages. Physical aptitude. Knowledge evaluation. Spirit perception. Those who pass all three will advance to the Pact Ritual this afternoon. Those who fail will be reassigned or dismissed."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Physical aptitude first. Line up by squad designation."
Lucian found his place in the Squad 8 group—just three recruits, himself included. The other two were a nervous young woman with ink-stained fingers and a heavyset man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. Neither met his eyes.
The physical tests were exactly what he'd feared.
Running. His lungs burned after the third lap, his legs cramping by the fifth. He finished last in his group, second-to-last overall.
Lifting. The weights felt like they were filled with lead. He managed the minimum requirement and nothing more, his arms shaking with effort.
Endurance. A series of holds and stances that pushed his body to its limits—limits that were embarrassingly close. By the end, he was drenched in sweat and fighting to stay upright.
The examiners noted his performance on their tablets. Their expressions revealed nothing, but Lucian could guess what they were writing. Weak. Underdeveloped. Physical liability.
Still, he hadn't failed. The minimum had been set deliberately low—the Creed valued supernatural ability over raw strength. You could train a weak body. You couldn't train Spirit Eyes.
"Knowledge evaluation next," the lead examiner called. "Individual stations. You'll have thirty minutes."
This, at least, was his domain.
The questions covered everything: Blight classifications, Church doctrine, Creed protocols, Spirit typology, historical events. Lucian's pen flew across the paper, Lucian's noble education combining with his own analytical mind to produce answers that felt almost too easy.
What are the defining characteristics of a Type B Blight?
Invisible to normal humans. Spiritual rather than physical. Formed from lingering souls that absorbed Miasma.
Name three sanctioned paths to becoming a Theurgist.
The Creed. The Church. Royal appointment.
Describe the relationship between Life Force and Spiritual Power.
Life Force was fuel, generated by the soul. Spiritual Power was the engine, provided by Spirits or Spirit Items. Together, they produced miracles. Apart, they were useless.
He finished with ten minutes to spare and saw several other candidates still scribbling frantically. Rowan, the Squad 3 recruit, caught his eye across the room and raised an eyebrow. Lucian looked away.
"Final stage," the examiner announced once everyone had submitted. "Spirit perception. This will determine your baseline awareness of the supernatural realm."
They were led to a smaller chamber adjacent to the main hall. In its center stood a containment circle—runes etched into the stone floor, candles burning at regular intervals. And within the circle, barely visible even to Lucian's eyes...
A Spirit.
It was small, formless, a wisp of light that might have been a trick of the candleflame if you didn't know what to look for. Not a Blight—too pure, too clean, no trace of Miasma corruption. Just a minor Spirit, captured and contained for exactly this purpose.
"One at a time," the examiner said. "Approach the circle and describe what you perceive. Be specific."
The first candidate—a confident young man from Squad 2—strode forward. He stared at the circle for a long moment, then shook his head. "I don't see anything. Just candles and runes."
"Noted. Next."
The second candidate saw nothing. The third, fourth, fifth—nothing. Normal, untrained humans couldn't perceive Spirits without a Pact or extensive practice. That was the point of the test: to identify who had natural talent.
Rowan was seventh. He approached the circle, squinted, and after a long pause said, "There's... something. A shimmer, maybe? Like heat rising off hot stone."
"Partial perception. Noted. Next."
The line moved forward. More failures. A few partial perceptions—hints and shadows, suggestions of presence. But no one could describe the Spirit clearly.
Then it was Lucian's turn.
He approached the circle, aware of every eye in the room fixed on him. The weakest candidate in physical aptitude. The one who'd finished the knowledge test first. An anomaly, a question mark.
The Spirit waited in its containment, a gentle pulse of light.
Lucian shifted his focus.
For just a moment, his perception moved—not physically, but spiritually. He looked through his other self, the soul floating a hundred meters above. From that vantage point, the examination hall was transparent, its walls no barrier to spiritual sight. He could see the souls of everyone in the room: the examiners' steady blue-grey, the candidates' nervous yellows and whites, the Spirit's pure gold.
He shifted back, holding the image in his mind.
"It's spherical," he said, his voice steady. "Slightly oblate, like an egg. Golden light at its core, fading to white at the edges. It pulses—slowly, maybe once every three seconds. There's a... texture to it, like light seen through frosted glass."
Silence.
The examiner's stylus had stopped moving. She stared at him.
"You can see it clearly?"
"Yes."
"You have no Spirit Pact. You've had no formal perception training."
"No."
More silence. The examiner looked at her colleagues, something passing between them that Lucian couldn't read.
"Natural Spirit Eyes," she said finally, writing on her tablet. "Rare, but documented. Noted."
She didn't sound entirely convinced. But she couldn't argue with results.
Lucian stepped back, his heart pounding faster than when he'd been running laps. He'd passed. He'd cheated, but he'd passed.
One test down. One ritual to go.
III.
The Church of the Sun stood at the city's heart, its spires reaching toward the sky like prayers made stone. Lucian had seen it from the barracks—everyone had—but standing at its entrance now, surrounded by other candidates, it seemed larger than memory.
"All those who passed the assessment, proceed to the inner chamber," a Church attendant announced. "The Pact Ritual will begin at the sixth bell."
About twenty candidates remained. The failures had been sent away, some back to their squads as Item user trainees, others dismissed entirely. Lucian spotted Rowan in the group, along with the ink-stained woman from Squad 8 and a handful of faces he recognized from the examination.
They entered.
The inner chamber was circular, vast, lit by hundreds of candles that cast dancing shadows across the stone walls. The floor was covered in runes—not the simple containment circles he'd seen before, but something far more elaborate: concentric rings of symbols that spiraled inward toward a central platform.
The Spirit Gate, Lucian realized. This is how they open the connection.
A priest stood at the chamber's far end, ancient and white-robed, his face weathered by decades of service. He watched the candidates file in with eyes that seemed to see more than they should.
"Welcome," the priest said. His voice was surprisingly strong for his age. "You come today seeking the blessing of contract. The bond between mortal soul and Spirit. But before that bond can be attempted, another bond must be formed."
He raised his hands.
"Kneel."
The candidates knelt, Lucian among them. The stone was cold against his knees.
"Repeat after me," the priest continued. "I pledge my service to the Creed, guardian of humanity against the darkness."
Twenty voices echoed the words. Lucian felt them resonate in his chest, heavier than they should have been. There was power here—power in the ritual, in the words, in the belief of everyone speaking them.
"I vow to keep sacred the secrets of this order, that the knowledge may not fall into unworthy hands."
He repeated the phrase, wondering what counted as "unworthy." Wondering if he would qualify.
"I swear to hunt the corrupted, to purify the fallen, and to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
The final line settled over him like a shroud.
"Until death claims me, I am Creed."
The priest lowered his hands. "Rise."
They rose.
"The Pledge is witnessed," the priest intoned. "You are now bound to the Creed in word and spirit. Break this bond at your peril—the gods remember oaths, and the faithful are not forgotten."
A moment of stillness, heavy with significance. Then the priest nodded toward the rune-covered floor.
"The Pact Ritual may begin. Take your positions within the outer circle."
The candidates spread out, each finding a place among the spiraling runes. Lucian positioned himself near the circle's edge, not wanting to draw attention.
His second soul still floated above, but the Church's sacred ground made the connection feel... thinner. More fragile. Like a thread stretched too far.
"Close your eyes," the priest commanded. "Open your souls. The Spirits will observe. Should one find you worthy, a bond will form. You will know."
Lucian closed his eyes.
The priest began to chant—old words, older than the Church itself, words that seemed to bypass his ears and enter his mind directly. The sound was everywhere and nowhere, thrumming in his bones, vibrating in his teeth.
The floor beneath him warmed.
He opened his eyes just enough to see: the runes were glowing. White light traced every symbol, every curve and line, building in intensity until the entire floor shone like captured starlight.
The Spirit Gate is open.
He could feel it—a presence, vast and composed of countless smaller presences, watching from somewhere beyond. Spirits. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, observing the candidates with something that might have been curiosity or hunger or something else entirely.
Choose, the ritual seemed to say. Find the one who calls to you.
Lucian waited.
Around him, things were happening. A candidate to his left gasped as the white light beneath her shifted—blue, deep and rich, the color of the ocean at midday. A Spirit had chosen her. Another candidate's runes turned green, then red, then gold. One by one, the Spirits made their selections.
But beneath Lucian, the light remained white.
He waited.
Come on, he thought, not sure if he was praying or pleading or simply hoping. Someone. Anyone.
The light flickered.
For a moment—just a moment—he thought he saw something else. A shadow in the white. A shape forming, reaching, almost—
Then the light died.
Not faded. Not shifted. Died. Like a candle snuffed by an unseen hand. The runes beneath him went dark, suddenly and completely, while the rest of the circle still blazed with white and color.
The priest's chanting faltered.
Lucian felt the weight of every gaze in the chamber turn toward him. The candidates whose runes still glowed. The ones already chosen, basking in their new connection. The priest, his ancient eyes narrowing with something that might have been concern.
What just happened?
The ritual wasn't supposed to end like that. He'd read about failures—the light stayed white, then gradually faded, a gentle rejection. This was different. This was the Spirit Gate taking one look at him and slamming shut.
My dual soul, he thought. They saw it. They saw the two souls and—what? Rejected me? Fled?
He didn't know. He couldn't know.
The priest's gaze lingered on him for a long moment, unreadable. Then the old man returned his attention to the remaining candidates, his chanting resuming as if nothing had happened.
Lucian stayed where he was, kneeling on dark runes, surrounded by light he couldn't touch.
Somewhere behind him, he heard whispers.
"Did you see that? His just... turned off."
"Weird. I've never seen a rejection like that before."
"Squad 8, right? Figures."
"Captain Aldric really knows how to pick them, doesn't he?"
The words cut, but Lucian kept his face blank. He'd endured worse. He'd survived worse. A failed ritual and some whispers weren't going to break him.
But when he looked toward the chamber's entrance and saw Captain Aldric watching from the shadows, he caught the expression on the man's face.
Disappointment. Quickly hidden, but unmistakable.
He hoped I was different, Lucian realized. He thought maybe this time, he'd found someone who would actually succeed.
The guilt surprised him. He hadn't asked to be recruited. He hadn't made any promises. But somehow, seeing that flicker of disappointment hurt more than the whispers.
The ritual ended. The light faded. The chosen candidates were led away to bond with their new Spirits.
Lucian stayed behind.
IV.
The armory was smaller than he'd expected—a converted storage room in the barracks' basement, lined with weapon racks and display cases. Most of the equipment looked well-used, practical rather than decorative.
"Since you didn't form a Pact," the armory attendant said—a scarred older woman with no patience for small talk—"you'll need an Item. Standard procedure. The Church supplies them, but we maintain them here."
She gestured at the racks.
"Pick something you can actually use."
Lucian surveyed his options. Swords of various lengths, from short blades to two-handed greatswords. Spears and halberds. Axes, maces, flails. Each one hummed faintly with Spiritual Power, blessed and ready.
Each one too heavy for his arms.
He tested a longsword first. The blade was beautiful, perfectly balanced, but the moment he tried to swing it his shoulder screamed in protest. Two weeks of training hadn't undone eighteen years of neglect.
A spear next. Better reach, lower weight—but the technique required coordination his body hadn't developed. He fumbled the grip twice and nearly dropped it entirely.
"Your body's weak," the attendant observed bluntly. "Malnourished, probably. Never trained."
"I'm aware."
"Most weapons here require strength or skill you don't have." She studied him, then nodded toward a dusty corner of the room. "There might be something over there. If you're willing to take the risk."
A case sat on a low shelf, half-hidden by shadow. The word "RESTRICTED" was painted on its surface in faded red letters.
Lucian approached.
Inside, resting on worn velvet, were two short swords. Simple hilts, unremarkable blades, no ornamentation. They looked almost too ordinary for a place like this.
He picked one up.
Warmth.
It spread from his palm up through his arm, a gentle heat that felt like recognition. The blade was light—lighter than it should have been, lighter than anything else in the room. When he shifted his grip, the sword moved with him as if it understood his intent.
"Those are the Twin Blades," the attendant said from behind him. Her voice had changed—cautious now, almost wary. "They've been on that shelf for years. Classified as highly dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
"They have an ability. When activated, they make you fight like you've trained for decades. Expert level proficiency, perfect form, instinct you haven't earned."
Lucian's grip tightened. "And the cost?"
"Everyone who's heard the full warning puts them back down. Smart choice." She moved closer, her scarred face lit by the dim glow of the storage room's single lamp. "Every recruit who's actually tried to use them in the field didn't survive. Not one."
"How many tried?"
"Three, over the years. The first one lasted maybe a minute before he collapsed. The other two heard what happened to him, thought they could be different." She shook her head. "They dropped those blades the second they felt their soul start burning. Never touched them again. Refused to even be in the same room."
The warmth in his palm suddenly felt less welcoming.
"They drain you," the attendant continued. "Fast. Faster than any Item I've seen. The soul power that fuels your abilities—those blades drink it like water. Thirty seconds of use, maybe less, and you're done. Soul collapses. Heart stops."
Lucian looked at the blade. At its twin, still resting in the case.
Thirty seconds. That was all he'd get. Thirty seconds of fighting like a master, followed by death.
Everyone else had put them down. Everyone else had been afraid.
But everyone else hadn't been desperate.
"I'll take them," he said.
The attendant studied him for a long moment. Whatever she saw in his face made her sigh.
"You're either the bravest recruit I've ever met," she said, "or the dumbest. Guess we'll find out which."
She handed him the second blade.
V.
The meditation chamber was nothing like the training halls Lucian had glimpsed in passing—no weapon racks, no sparring circles, no smell of sweat and exertion. Just a quiet room with cushioned mats arranged in a circle, soft lamplight filtering through paper screens, and an air of stillness that seemed to absorb sound.
Varen was already there, sitting cross-legged on one of the mats. She didn't rise when Lucian entered, just tracked him with those sharp, assessing eyes.
"Sit," she said.
He sat. The Twin Blades hung at his sides, their weight unfamiliar but somehow already belonging.
"Captain Aldric assigned me to your training," Varen continued. No introductions, no pleasantries. "You're officially Creed now. That means access to methods and knowledge that weren't available to you before."
"What kind of knowledge?"
"The kind that keeps you alive." She leaned forward slightly. "You failed the Pact Ritual. That means no Spirit to assist you. Those with Spirit contracts have an advantage—their Spirits help regulate their output, strengthen their abilities. They don't have to think about efficiency."
Lucian nodded slowly. He'd suspected as much.
"Item users don't have that luxury," Varen continued. "But we have our own edge. The stronger your soul, the more freely you can use spiritual power. Spirit-holders rely on their partners. We rely on ourselves." Her expression hardened. "So your priority is simple: build a stronger soul than anyone at your level. Train until your foundation surpasses theirs. That's how you survive."
"How do I build it?"
"Meditation. Physical conditioning. Combat experience." She ticked them off on her fingers. "Right now, your soul is too weak for the harder training methods. You'd break before you grew. So we start with meditation—and only meditation."
Lucian frowned. "Just sitting and thinking?"
"Don't underestimate it." Varen's voice carried an edge of warning. "Meditation is how you break through the first barrier. Most humans live their entire lives at the lowest grade—E-rank souls. Weak. Easily corrupted. But a sustained meditation practice can push you to D-rank, where real training begins."
"How long does that take?"
"Depends on the person. Some take months. Others..." She studied him for a moment. "You're close to a breakthrough already. I can see it. Most people who've lived through what you did—the trauma, the near-death—they come out of it with their souls already straining at the edges. You just need to push through."
She rose and moved to a cabinet against the wall, retrieving the Twin Blades' empty sheaths and setting them aside.
"Before we begin the meditation, there's something else. You've chosen your Item, but you haven't bonded with it yet."
Lucian looked down at the blades. "Bonded?"
"A Spirit Item isn't just a tool. It's a contract." Varen returned to her mat, gesturing for him to draw the weapons. "Hold them. Both of them."
He drew the Twin Blades, one in each hand. The familiar warmth spread through his palms.
"Now close your eyes," Varen instructed. "Focus on that warmth. That's the Item's spiritual power reaching out to you, testing the connection. To complete the bond, you need to offer something in return."
"Offer what?"
"A piece of your soul. Not literally—more like an imprint. A fragment of your essence that the Item will hold. In exchange, its power becomes accessible to you, and your soul takes on its nature."
Lucian hesitated. "Takes on its nature?"
"Your soul will gain color," Varen explained. "Right now it's white—unformed, undefined. After the bond, it will carry the tint of the Item's spiritual power. That color marks you as a Theurgist, shows what you're aligned with."
Color, Lucian thought. The candidates in the Pact Ritual whose runes had shifted from white to blue, green, gold. They'd been gaining the colors of their Spirits. This was the Item user's equivalent.
"How do I do it?"
"Focus on your core—the center of yourself where your power lives. Feel the Item reaching for you, and reach back. When the connection locks in place, speak the words of binding."
"What words?"
"They'll come to you."
Lucian closed his eyes.
The meditation chamber faded. The sounds of the barracks beyond, the distant footsteps and muffled voices—all of it receded until there was only darkness and the twin points of warmth in his hands.
He reached inward.
His soul was there—or rather, his souls were there. One bound to his flesh, the other floating somewhere above. He ignored the second, focusing on the first, the one that beat in time with his heart.
The warmth from the blades intensified. He could feel something reaching through them, testing, probing, searching for purchase.
Here, he thought, offering a part of himself he couldn't quite name. Take what you need.
The connection snapped into place like a key turning in a lock.
Words rose unbidden to his lips: "By blood and soul, I bind thee. By will and word, I claim thee. Until death parts us, we are one."
Heat flooded through him—not painful, but intense, like stepping into sunlight after hours in shadow. He felt something shift at his core, something fundamentally changing.
When he opened his eyes, Varen was watching him with an expression he couldn't read.
"It's done," she said. "Your soul has taken the tint."
Lucian looked down at his hands, half-expecting to see them glowing. They looked the same as always.
"What color?" he asked.
"Red." Varen's voice was neutral, giving nothing away. "The color of blood and fire. Fitting, for those blades."
Red, Lucian thought. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but somehow it felt right.
A knock at the door interrupted them.
"Enter," Varen called.
The door slid open to reveal a young woman—short blonde hair, physically fit with visible abs showing beneath a black cropped top that left her stomach exposed. The bottom half of her outfit was different from the standard squad uniform—flowing robes that looked almost like priest regalia, something Lucian hadn't seen anyone else in the barracks wearing. She carried a wooden staff in one hand and a scroll in the other.
"Senna," Varen said. "Report."
"I've completed the perception training assessment." Senna's voice was crisp, professional, though Lucian caught her glancing at him with curiosity. "The testers confirm I've reached full Spirit Eyes capability. I can perceive as clearly as any Pact-holder now."
"Good." Varen nodded once. "You're dismissed. Return tomorrow for your next assignment."
Senna bowed slightly and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Lucian waited until her footsteps faded before asking: "Perception training?"
"For those without natural Spirit Eyes," Varen explained. "It takes specialized practice to develop the ability to see spiritual phenomena—Blights, souls, the traces of power. Senna's been working on it since she joined. A full year to reach this level."
"But I don't need it."
"No. You already have Spirit Eyes." Varen gave him a measured look. "Natural-born, apparently. Rare, but not unheard of. Consider yourself lucky—it's one less thing you have to train."
Lucian thought about his second soul, floating somewhere above the barracks. About how his "natural" Spirit Eyes were really just a cheat, a trick of his unique condition.
Someday, he told himself, I'll learn to do it properly. Without relying on that.
But for now, he had other priorities.
"The meditation," he said. "How do I start?"
Varen gestured to the mat before him. "Sit properly. Spine straight, hands on your knees, eyes closed. Focus on your center—the core of your being where your power lives. Feel it. Understand its shape. And then..."
"Then?"
"Push against its edges. Imagine it growing, expanding, becoming denser. It will resist. That's normal. Keep pushing." She paused. "And don't expect results immediately. Breakthrough takes time. For you, given what you've been through, maybe two days of continuous practice. Maybe more."
Two days. Lucian settled into the proper posture, feeling the residual warmth of the blades' bonding still pulsing through him.
Two days to break through, he thought. Two days to take the first step toward becoming strong enough to survive.
He closed his eyes and began.
The chamber fell silent. The world fell away. And in the darkness behind his eyes, Lucian reached for the center of himself and began to push.
I will survive this, he thought. Whatever I am, whatever's wrong with me—I will survive.
And then I'll figure out the rest.
END OF CHAPTER 2