Onish had longed for solitude in his chamber, yearning for peace away from the tumult of the day. But duty called, and with reluctance, he followed his mother through the winding corridors of the castle towards the dining hall. As they approached, he felt a strange emptiness in the air, as though the hall itself was waiting for something. The tapestries that usually adorned the walls had been removed, leaving the great hall exposed and bare. The faint sound of maids rushing to prepare everything echoed through the cavernous space, but there were only a handful of guests seated around the long table.
His father, Oman, sat at the head of the table, but it was the presence of the young man with fiery red hair that caught Onish's attention. The man was seated next to a man of age, distinguished but with a sternness that only years could carve into a face. The young man—his sharp sapphire eyes—met Onish's gaze, and for the briefest of moments, there was something in those eyes that shifted. A surprise, a recognition? But it was gone before Onish could even begin to decipher it.
His attention returned to the red-haired figure. Something about the man stirred him, a faint twinge of familiarity that was hard to place. His aura, it felt... familiar, like a shadow of the anima that had taken root in their house, the ancient and powerful spirit that had been with them for generations. It was as though the spirit he sensed within the red-haired man mirrored something deep inside him—yet it felt older, more intricate.
"Ah, Onish, you're finally here." His father's voice brought him back to the present. "This is Rufaro, one of the greatest spiritualists from the nine Mahajapadas."
The old man, Rufaro, rose with a warmth that belied his age, offering a greeting to Padma with a compliment that made her blush, a soft pink tint spreading across her cheeks. As the mother and son took their seats, Rufaro's gaze turned to Onish, appraising him carefully.
"And this must be the son you spoke of," Rufaro remarked. His eyes glimmered with a sharpness that Onish didn't miss. "Yes, I see it. The spirit, it clings to him, like a mother to a child. Remarkable."
Onish stiffened under the old man's scrutiny. He hadn't expected such a direct reading of his aura, though a small part of him understood why. There was something about his connection to the spirit that felt different, more pronounced than most.
"Where are you sending him?" Rufaro asked, his voice suddenly turning more probing, his fork halting halfway to his mouth. "You've always been reluctant to send him to the Royal Academy."
Oman's eyes darkened slightly, and he averted his gaze. "We haven't decided yet. There's a... condition with the boy. His illness, you know."
"Ah, yes, the strange malady," Rufaro said with a knowing nod. "And what of Lemora? Has she returned to Sursena? You should consider the odd-eyed as a mentor for the boy. The lad might need him more than you realize."
Oman's discomfort was palpable, but he nodded, unwilling to delve further into the matter. "I'll consider it. Yes, of course."
Onish could feel the weight of the conversation, the hidden depths beneath the casual words. His father was hiding something, something he had yet to understand. The exchange soon faded into a comfortable silence, and the maids began serving the meal—rich, fragrant, and alive with the flavors of the southern province.
The food was unlike anything Onish had tasted before. The roasted potatoes, fresh corn, and creamy black beans with the spicy green sauce—it was as if each bite surged with energy, filling him with the strange, intangible sense of life that had eluded him until now. The drink, a dark red concoction brewed from spirit-fruits, carried the fragrance of apples and stone-fruits, its taste as intoxicating as the fine wines of legends. Onish, accustomed to simpler fare, found himself savoring the taste despite his usual reticence towards anything so rich.
The meal continued, the hall alive with the sounds of silver clinking against china, of idle conversation, and the occasional laugh. Yet through it all, the red-haired man, Cole, was ever so slightly off. Every so often, his eyes would flicker toward Onish, but he never lingered, always looking away with an odd flush on his face.
Onish, lost in thought, savored his food but couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It wasn't just the food—it was him. The strange sensation brushing against his neck was undeniable, light as a feather but present, like a phantom touch that only he could feel. Startled, he reached for his neck, finding nothing. But the sensation didn't fade. With a force of will, he commanded the spirit to leave him alone, and for the briefest of moments, the touch ceased.
"What's this about?" Rufaro's voice broke through, directed at Cole. "You seem flushed. Don't tell me you've overindulged in southern cuisine again?"
Cole, whose face was now the same shade as his hair, muttered an apology, offering a weak explanation. "It's nothing, Sire. I simply... don't do well with southern food."
But Onish could tell something wasn't right. The way Cole's eyes darted about the room, as though he were searching for something—or someone—hidden in the shadows, set his nerves on edge.
After dinner, Onish excused himself, his mind heavy with too many thoughts to process. His training session with Bhadra awaited him early in the morning, and though he wasn't particularly enthusiastic about it, the opportunity to at least learn something more about his powers gave him a sliver of hope. He was not to go to the academy—not yet, at least—but the mysterious hooded figure, the fowler, would be his teacher until they determined his path.
Onish was dubious. He needed the scrolls of the Spirit Academy, the ancient texts that could help him understand his soul's affliction. He doubted Bhadra could provide the answers he sought, but for now, it was better to wait and learn what he could. His parents, despite their wisdom, had made decisions that left him with more questions than answers. And even his training with Bhadra felt like a reluctant compromise.
His chamber, when he finally arrived, was dim and shadowed, the vines on the eaves blocking the pale light of the moon. But something in the air felt off—strange, almost as though something was waiting for him. When he opened the door, his heart skipped a beat. A figure sat in the rocking chair, eyes wide and glazed, drool dripping down his chin.
Onish recoiled, his mind racing. Who was this? And how had they gotten into his private chamber?
The figure stirred, muttering an apology. "Sorry, Sire, for intruding. Villi couldn't help it."
Onish's confusion deepened as the strange creature scrambled to explain himself, revealing his name—Villi, the so-called "bookling," most wise of the Old Archives.
"What are you doing here?" Onish demanded, his suspicion growing. The creature, though seemingly harmless, had an odd aura, and its babbling made no sense. It handed him a colorful leaf, a token that was as perplexing as the creature itself.
"I brought this for you," Villi said, his voice tinged with worry. "Someone, but not Toshi, sent this."
Onish glanced at the leaf—a simple red maple with fine veins running through it. There was no message. Bewildered, he looked up—but the room had emptied. Villi was gone, and so too were the books Onish had borrowed. He'd been duped, his trust misplaced in a creature whose true intentions were veiled.
Frustrated, Onish closed his eyes and sat on the floor in a lotus position. He began to focus on his nadis, feeling the surge of pranic energy fill his body. But tonight, something else occurred. As the energy flowed through him, he felt his consciousness slip—no longer anchored in the room, but somewhere else. He could feel the wind against his exposed skin, the world around him vibrating with an unnatural intensity.
His thoughts raced, but he recalled something from his past. Lord Kartikeya's tale came to mind, the divine presence of Ma Parvati, and the strange, inexplicable feeling of being in two places at once. Could this be what he had experienced? Was it possible for him to be here—and there—simultaneously?
As the sensation faded, Onish realized the truth: he had touched something beyond his understanding. His body remained still, but his consciousness was fragmented, spread across dimensions he hadn't yet learned to control.
Shaking his head, Onish brought himself back to the present. The journey ahead would not be easy. If he was to survive in this strange world, he needed to learn—fast. But for now, there was no time to waste. Tomorrow's training awaited.