Selene leaned forward, her grin as sharp as a blade. "So, who's first then?"
Her question sliced through the tension like a dagger, drawing every eye around the table. The Revenant members glanced at one another, their gazes narrowed, calculating. A current of unspoken competition passed between them, each sizing up the others, each tempted to be the first. This wasn't just power—it was something new, something that could rewrite the rules of their world. How could any of them not be curious?
The ability to impose their will upon the world without relying on Essence. The idea was intoxicating, almost too good to be true. Mirak gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening as the thought spiraled through his mind. Yet unease lingered just beneath his excitement. Why had Lancelot kept this secret until now if he trusted them? What else had he withheld?
Lancelot's calm voice broke the growing hum of speculation. "Mirak would be the best choice."
"What?!?" The collective outcry from the table was nearly deafening.
Mirak stiffened, fumbling slightly in his chair as all eyes turned to him. He didn't know whether to feel honored or terrified. Lancelot sighed, raising a hand to quiet the noise. "I will unlock every Omphalos in time, but it's best to begin with someone whose Essence resonates closer to mine. That makes Mirak the ideal candidate."
The grumbling died down, though the tension in the room remained palpable. Slowly, Mirak pushed himself to his feet. He could feel their stares boring into him, a mix of envy and skepticism. The temptation to be first—to surpass others, to possibly outstrip even Winter—gnawed at him. Perhaps it was better to get it over with.
Mirak trailed after Lancelot as the leader addressed the group one final time. "Get as much rest as you can," he said, his voice carrying a weight that made even the most unruly of them listen. "Finish any business you have left undone. The coming days will be perilous, and I cannot promise how many of us will survive."
He paused, his sharp gaze lingering on certain members, as though he could already see which of them would fall.
The two left the main hall and entered one of the side rooms, its sparse furnishings bathed in dim light. Lancelot gestured to a chair across from him. "Take a seat, Mirak. Let's talk for a moment."
"But what about—" Mirak began, but Lancelot cut him off with a small wave of his hand.
"Using Omphalos isn't as simple as snapping your fingers, nor is it a process I can rush. To guide you, I need to understand more than just the mask you wear. Omphalos is the physical manifestation of your will, and I must pry it from you." His voice softened slightly. "This requires more than strength or skill—it requires you."
Mirak blinked, unsure how to respond. "So... what do I do? Answer questions? Start talking?"
Lancelot offered a small, knowing smile but said nothing. Instead, he slid a chest across the table and opened it with deliberate care. Inside was a small white sphere, its surface shifting faintly, almost alive, as Lancelot rolled it in his palm.
"This," he said, "comes from one of the Seven Monuments. The Neph and the dwarves are said to have crafted them as conduits for the Essences."
Mirak frowned, his curiosity piqued. "I've never heard of the Monuments."
Lancelot nodded. "You wouldn't have. The dwarves, and Neph are not an... adventurous people, and their history is often left untold. No fault of yours, of course. The Monuments are scattered across Lorian, and their origins are the subject of endless speculation."
He studied the sphere as it shifted in his hand. "Religions, myths, and scholars all have theories, but the truth is far less satisfying—no one knows who made them, nor how. Just as no one truly knows what shattered the second moon."
The mention of the shattered moon sent a chill down Mirak's spine. He had heard stories, whispers of its destruction, but little else. "I thought the Sorcerers expunged the use of other Essences after the First War of Thought."
Lancelot's laugh was sharp and bitter. "That's the lie they like to tell themselves. Do you think one lodge of Harmony users could wipe out every trace of other Essences across an entire continent? No. The Sorcerers posture as gods, but they are simply flawed men and women with too much pride."
He leaned forward, his tone dripping with disdain. "The Lodge sees Essences like Anntom as mere mutations. They dismiss them, claiming all magic is just Harmony in disguise. But the truth is far more complex. That's a debate for another day, though."
Lancelot held up three fingers. "Only three Monuments have been recovered in this Age: Kemeris, Transference, and Omphalos."
He gestured to the sphere in his hand. "An old friend of mine stole this small piece from the Omphalos Monument. It cost me two chunks of resin to take it off his hands—a worse deal than he deserved. Usless to him, but to me..."
Mirak eyed the sphere warily. "What do I do with it?"
"Place your hand on it," Lancelot instructed. "This will begin the process. Breaking the threshold of your will requires time... and discomfort."
Mirak hesitated for only a moment before pressing his palm to the sphere. He inhaled sharply as the surface seemed to pulse beneath his touch. Where he had expected cold, he felt a searing heat that raced through his veins, colliding with an icy chill that spread in its wake.
"I'm starting the process," Lancelot's voice came faintly, already distant as Mirak's mind was pulled elsewhere.
A rush of energy surged through him, winding like a serpent through his body. The world around him dissolved into a murky, impenetrable bog. Shadows shifted at the edges of his vision, their shapes formless and menacing. His muscles tensed as though trying to push the foreign energy out, but it only grew stronger, stretching and reshaping something deep within him. A sense of foreboding pressed down on him like a weight he couldn't escape.
He fell from the chair, the strength in his limbs abandoning him. He gasped, clawing at the air as the sensations swirled into chaos.
When his eyes finally fluttered open, he was kneeling on the floor, his chest heaving. The sphere was no longer in his hands.
Lancelot crouched beside him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Easy, Mirak. It takes time to recover. The threshold has been broken, but your strength will return."
"What was that?" Mirak rasped.
"The threshold of your will," Lancelot explained. "It has been... unlocked."
Mirak's brow furrowed. "But the shadows—I saw something—"
Lancelot sighed. "The sphere was overloaded to allow your Omphalos to act. Shadows are an unfortunate side effect."
"I don't feel any different," Mirak muttered, still catching his breath.
"As expected," Lancelot said. "Omphalos is not a gift that reveals itself immediately. It may emerge during a moment of great need or through practice, but when it comes, you will feel it."
Lancelot rose, brushing his hands together. "If you would, send in Lock. I can't have my Revenants operating at anything less than their best."
Mirak stood shakily, but before he could leave, Lancelot reached for his hand. "A reward," he said, sliding a platinum ring onto Mirak's finger.
"I... I can't take this," Mirak stammered. "It's too much. Volim, Selene, Lock—they did just as much, if not more."
"They will receive their rewards," Lancelot assured him. "This is yours. A little polish, Mirak, and you'll shine brighter than any jewel in Lorian."
The Atta in Lancelot's fingers flickered, briefly brushing against Mirak's skin. The razor-sharp energy hummed with potential, a reminder of how close power and danger truly were.
"The Revenant cloak suits you," Lancelot added, his voice softening. "I made it longer to hide the Publici shackles. I know the shame they bring you."
The words struck deep, and Mirak rubbed at the metal cuff on his wrist, its weight suddenly heavier. Lancelot's voice, calm and assured, cut through his thoughts. "Have faith, Mirak. I will take you further than you ever dreamed. Now go."
The Glass Halls hummed with quiet tension as Mirak returned to the group. The light of the torches flickered against the crystalline walls, casting fragmented shadows over the gathered Revenant. Selene was perched on the edge of a table, twirling a thin dagger between her fingers, while Volim sat with his walking stick resting across his knees. Lock leaned back in his chair, one boot propped on the table as he toyed with a coin, flipping it through his knuckles. Kord had claimed a seat closer to the center, absently inspecting his nails, and Czenth stood to the side, his arms crossed, metallic threads across his scalp glinting faintly in the light.
Mirak's arrival drew a round of glances.
"Well?" Selene asked, her grin wide and sharp. "How does it feel to be our fearless leader's little experiment?"
"Still standing, I see," Lock added with a smirk. "That's promising."
Mirak ignored the teasing, pulling out a chair and dropping into it with a heavy sigh. "It was... intense. Not exactly what I expected."
Volim leaned forward slightly, his unseeing eyes turned in Mirak's direction. "Intense is vague. Did it break you or not?"
"It didn't break me," Mirak said, his voice tight. "But it was close."
Selene let out a low whistle. "Close, huh? You're looking a little pale, darling. Did he drag some horrible secret out of you? Maybe make you confess your darkest fears?" Her eyes glinted mischievously as she added, "Did you cry?"
Mirak shot her a flat look. "No, Selene. I didn't cry."
"Pity," she replied, her smile widening. "I would've liked to see that."
Lock rolled his eyes, flicking the coin into the air before catching it lazily. "Enough poking, Selene. I think Mirak's had a rough enough night without your usual antics."
"Oh, don't be so boring, Lock," she shot back. "I'm just keeping things lively."
"Lively," Volim muttered. "That's one way to describe it."
Selene gave him a mock pout. "Careful, Volim. If you keep acting like such a grump, someone might start to think you actually like me."
Volim's response was dry as sandpaper. "Doubtful."
Kord chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "Don't let her get to you, Mirak. She's like this with everyone."
"Not everyone," Selene countered with mock indignation. "Only the ones I like."
"I'm honored," Mirak deadpanned, earning a ripple of laughter from Lock and Kord.
Czenth, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his metallic voice cutting cleanly through the light banter. "If you're done entertaining yourselves, perhaps we should focus on the real matter at hand."
Selene raised an eyebrow. "What's that, oh wise one? Planning our next grand betrayal? Or just brooding like usual?"
Czenth's gaze flicked toward her, cold and steady. "The Omphalos. If Lancelot unlocks it for all of us, the nature of our group will shift. Power like that doesn't come without cost. You'd do well to take this seriously, Selene."
She tilted her head, her grin softening into something more thoughtful. "Oh, I'm taking it seriously, all right. I'm just choosing to enjoy myself while I still can. Who knows how many of us will make it through this?"
"That's a fair point," Kord said, folding his hands behind his head. "Not exactly a job with a great retirement plan, is it?"
Lock gestured lazily toward Mirak. "So, what did Lancelot say to you? Anything useful? Or just the usual cryptic nonsense?"
Mirak hesitated, his fingers brushing over the edge of the table. "He said... the Omphalos is the manifestation of your will. That it takes time to develop, or a dire moment to bring it out."
Kord whistled softly. "Dire moments? Sounds fun."
"It wasn't," Mirak said bluntly. "There was... something else, too. When he started the process, there was a shadow. It felt—wrong."
Volim's grip tightened on his walking stick. "A shadow?"
"Probably just a side effect," Selene said, brushing it off. "Lancelot's methods are always a little... unorthodox. I wouldn't lose sleep over it."
"I'd lose sleep," Lock quipped, tossing the coin again. "But then, I already do."
Czenth's gaze remained fixed on Mirak, unflinching. "Did he say what the shadow was?"
Mirak shook his head. "He claimed it was from overloading the sphere he used. Something about forcing the threshold open."
"Interesting," Czenth said, though his tone made it clear he found nothing about the situation comforting.
Selene's voice cut through the tension again, light and teasing. "Well, at least you're still alive. That's what counts, right?"
"For now," Volim muttered. "But unlocking Omphalos for all of us? It's a gamble. Lancelot doesn't do anything without a plan, but this feels... reckless."
Kord laughed softly. "Reckless? That's our whole operation, isn't it? I thought that was part of the fun."
"Fun for you, maybe," Volim said. "The rest of us don't have the luxury of treating this like a game."
"Speak for yourself," Selene said with a wink. "I've got nothing better to do."
Lock glanced at Mirak again, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. "Don't let them get to you, Mirak. You've had a rough night, but trust me—it gets easier. We're all still standing, aren't we?"
"For now," Czenth said again, his tone clipped.
"Cheerful, as always," Selene said with a mock sigh, leaning back in her chair. "Come on, Mirak. Lighten up. You're one of us now. That's worth celebrating, don't you think?"
Mirak glanced around the room, taking in the mismatched group of thieves, sorcerers, and outcasts. Despite their jabs and tensions, there was an undeniable thread of camaraderie among them—a bond forged in danger and desperation. He exhaled slowly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing.
Mirak managed a faint smile. "Lock's next."
Lock stood, stretching as he smirked. "Let's hope mine's interesting. We'll compare notes later, Mirak."