The morning dawned crisp and pale, sunlight streaking the cobbled streets of Adwini with soft gold. Yvain and Celeste descended from their room just as the inn was stirring to life, serving girls hauling pails of water, travelers yawning into their mugs of bitter root tea.
As they stepped outside, they nearly collided with Minerva, who was in the process of mounting a chestnut mare tethered just outside the door. She caught sight of them and brightened visibly.
"A lovely morning," she called, sitting tall in the saddle, the morning light catching strands of her red hair and setting them aglow.
"It is," Yvain agreed, squinting into the light. "Off to see Brother Lome?"
"Yes," she replied, then hesitated. "I don't suppose you'd like to accompany me?"
Celeste answered before he could speak. "We would," she said with a pleasant smile.
Yvain turned to her with a brow raised.
She leaned in, voice low so only he could hear. "Isn't that why we're here? To see the world. To learn what we've been denied."
He sighed, slow and reluctant. There was truth in her words, though it tasted bitter. It was either this or loiter in the streets, waiting for meaning to strike like lightning. "Very well," he said aloud.
Celeste grinned in triumph and sauntered back into the inn. Moments later, she returned having bartered for two horses, spirited but sturdy things, likely former mounts of some merchant's retinue. She swung into her saddle with feline ease, while Yvain mounted more cautiously, as if the beast could sense his reluctance.
With Minerva in the lead, they set off through the bustling morning streets, toward the sea cliffs where the tower of Brother Lome watched the waves like a sentinel.
The ride took them through the heart of Adwini, a city gilded with old glory and youthful noise. Though the world of Malkuth might be rotting at its edges, its empires fraying, its magic decaying in strange ways, there was still beauty to be found in it.
The city center was a marvel in motion. Merchants barked their wares from canopied stalls draped in crimson and gold, while street performers danced on makeshift stages, juggling fire or summoning illusionary beasts to amuse wide-eyed children. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling meats, sweet oil pastries, roasted nuts, and foreign perfumes that clung to silk-robed nobles and barefoot pilgrims alike.
Yvain, always so reserved, allowed himself a quiet, contemplative smile as they passed through. Even Celeste, ever unimpressed by the mundane, let a small grin flicker across her lips, one that, for once, reached her eyes.
It was life, messy and vibrant and unapologetically loud.
As the city thinned and the buildings gave way to stone paths and wind-worn grass, the sea began to rise in the distance, vast and silver beneath the morning sun. The sound of gulls replaced the din of city life, and salt filled the air like a promise.
At last, perched on the cliffs above the crashing waves, stood the tower of Brother Lome, tall and narrow, made of ancient stone that shimmered faintly with protective enchantments. It looked out across the ocean like a seer mid-trance, forever watching, forever waiting.
"Tell me more about this… Brother Lome," Yvain said, his voice quiet as they dismounted before the looming tower. He looked up at it, narrow and impossibly tall, its surface slick with ocean mist.
"Certainly," Minerva replied, tightening the reins of her horse. "He's a recluse, for the most part. A scholar of minds and memory. Some call him a visionary… others, a madman."
Celeste raised a brow. "Madman in what sense? There are many flavors."
Minerva hesitated before answering. "He founded something called the Harmonium. A sect devoted to inner peace through the dissolution of the self. Rumor is, he enchanted his own subconscious so that he could create ten alternate selves, each representing a different aspect of his mind. They act independently, and together. It's said he speaks to them like a council."
Yvain gave her a sideways glance. "And people follow this man?"
"He offers peace," Minerva said with a shrug. "Not through reason or learning, but through suggestion. His followers claim they no longer feel sorrow, anger, fear… only unity."
Celeste clicked her tongue. "That's not peace. That's sorcerous lobotomy."
"You said your master knows him?" Yvain added, keeping his tone neutral.
"I believe so," Minerva said, though this time her voice held uncertainty. "They correspond, I think. My master speaks of him with… respect, if not agreement."
As they approached the great oaken doors of the tower, a group of robed figures emerged, barefoot, serene, their eyes glassy and strange. One of them stepped forward, bowing slightly, though there was something mechanical in the gesture.
"The Master is expecting you," he said in a soft, toneless voice, as if reciting a line he'd spoken a hundred times before.
He turned, and without another word, led them up the stone steps toward the tower's mouth.
The walk up the tower seemed endless, winding staircases doubling back on themselves, narrow corridors that twisted and climbed with an almost labyrinthine design. The air grew cooler, tinged with the faint scent of salt and old parchment. When they finally reached their destination, the guide paused at a plain wooden door and drew back silently.
Minerva stepped forward, pushing the door open with a soft creak. Yvain and Celeste followed her inside.
The room was simple, sparsely furnished, its austerity almost monastic. Near a balcony overlooking the restless sea, a man sat at a small round table, calmly sipping what smelled like bitter herbal tea.
Minerva bowed slightly. "Brother Lome of the Tenth Mind, my master sends his greetings."
The bald man with a polished scalp nodded, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. "Yes. You are the apprentice of Master Palladius."
"I am, sire," Minerva said, stepping forward with a scroll carefully rolled in her hands. "He instructed that I deliver this to you."
Lome took the parchment with deliberate care and unrolled it, scanning the contents. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice was steady as he spoke. "Master Palladius warns that the capital is rife with peril. He commands that I provide you sanctuary here. He also mentions you stand on the cusp of your rites of passage, and requests I see to their arrangement."
"I am ready," Minerva replied, her voice steady but carrying the weight of the promise.
"The Bronze Crucible is treacherous," he said quietly. "I trust you are prepared."
"I am," Minerva repeated, the confidence in her tone firm and unyielding.
The rites of passage were no trifling matter. To learn true sorcery, an aspirant first had to attune themselves to the Breath of the World. A primal, ineffable force threading through all living things. Only about ten percent of humanity ever succeeded in reaching it. Among the Dehmohseni, this awakening came with relative ease, a birthright etched into their blood.
Next came the accumulation of knowledge, years, often decades, spent absorbing the intricacies of one's chosen discipline. This was where many faltered, as arcane knowledge was jealously guarded by the powerful, and few had access to the scrolls and tutors necessary to rise. Those who failed often found themselves knights instead, warriors who could temper their bodies with the Breath but never delve into the deepest mysteries.
And then, the deadliest stage, the rites themselves.
Each discipline held its own trial, a grueling, perilous ordeal designed to push the apprentice to the edge of death and beyond. It was a trial that claimed nine out of ten aspirants, leaving only the strongest to claim mastery.
This danger explained why most sorcerers devoted themselves to a single discipline. To master more was to invite death multiple times over.
Celeste had braved the rite for vitalism, the Bloodletting Feast, when she was barely thirteen. At sixteen, she had endured the Red Mother's Kiss for enchantment, both rites scarring her body and soul but tempering her powers.
Yvain himself had faced three rites, at twelve, fifteen, and eighteen. Each nearly claiming his life.
Lome's sharp gaze shifted to Yvain and Celeste, as if weighing their worth silently. His eyes searched for answers, but before he could speak, Minerva interjected smoothly.
"These are my friends," she said, a subtle warmth in her voice, "fellow practitioners. They wished to witness the marvels of your tower and perhaps learn from your wisdom."
Brother Lome studied them for a moment longer, then inclined his head in acknowledgment. "All are welcome within these walls," he said, his tone measured but sincere. "I will have my followers show you to your quarters. Rest well, there is much ahead."
With that, one of Lome's attendants stepped forward, a young acolyte cloaked in muted blue robes, and gestured for them to follow.