The rush of power was so violent it felt like my blood had been replaced by liquid mercury. As the violet glow in the room finally began to fade, the emerald vines withered and turned to gray ash, releasing my limbs. I collapsed back onto the stone, gasping for air, my skin still tingling with the residue of Deborah's heat and the cold sting of the Void.
Lady Isobel was over me in an instant. Her cool, wrinkled hand pressed against my forehead, her milky eyes scanning mine for any sign of the "mana madness" they had feared.
"His pulse is steady. The soul has anchored," she whispered, a massive weight visibly lifting from her shoulders. She turned her head toward the other three Pillars, her voice regaining its iron authority. "Leave us. The first seal is set. Tend to your own preparations."
The three women moved toward the doors, but they didn't go quickly. Their eyes lingered on me—heavy with curiosity and something that looked a lot like envy. The Bronze Warrior gave a slow, respectful nod; the Raven-Haired Shadow bit her lip, her gaze dropping to my naked body before she turned away; and the Ginger Pillar looked like she wanted to say something, her face flushed a bright crimson, before she disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.
The heavy doors groaned shut, leaving only me, the exhausted Deborah, and the High Seer.
"How soon will he be ready to walk the Path?" Isobel asked, her eyes darting toward the frosted windows of the chamber. "How soon until he can call the guardians?"
Deborah, still breathless and glistening with the aftermath of our bond, rested her head on my chest for a moment before looking up at the Seer. "The connection is established. I can feel him inside my mind. He is ready as soon as his body recovers from the surge."
Isobel's face darkened, the lines of age deepening. "Then let it be soon. My visions are clouded with ash, Deborah. The Black Emperor's scouts have been spotted near the Iron Pass. We do not have the luxury of time. Every hour we spend in rest is an hour he spends marching toward our gates."
She looked back at me, her expression a mix of desperation and hope. "Rest for an hour, Lord Karl. Then Deborah will take you back to the training grounds. You must learn to pull from the Void before the Void comes for us."
----------
An hour later, I was back on my feet, and I felt transformed. It wasn't just the lingering high from Deborah's touch; it was the hum of the Void vibrating in my marrow. My senses were dialed up to eleven. I could hear the flap of a bird's wing a mile away and feel the heat of the torches like they were pressed against my skin. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like a spectator. I felt like the lead.
We returned to the white-sand training grounds. Word had clearly spread. At least a dozen novices had gathered along the perimeter, their colorful robes fluttering in the wind. They stood in hushed silence, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and skepticism. They wanted to see if their "Lord" was a god or just a man in a fancy robe.
Deborah stood in the center of the arena, looking regal in her emerald silk. She didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"A summoner is only as strong as what answers their call," she began, her voice carrying across the grounds. "And more importantly, Karl, you are only as strong as what you can survive commanding."
She began to pace, her silver eyes locked on mine as she laid out the brutal physics of my new power.
"There are three Absolute Laws of the Path," she explained. "First: The Contract Law. You cannot simply 'wish' a creature into existence. You must forge a bond. The contract defines who is the master and who is the slave. Most are Master-Servant. Some are Equal—though those are dangerous. And then there are the Sacrificial contracts, which are forbidden for a reason: they eat the caster from the inside out."
She stopped pacing and held up two fingers. "Second is The Balance of Will. This is a mental war. Your will must be a mountain; the summon's will must be the sea that breaks against it. If your spirit wavers for a second, the creature will sense it. It will delay your commands, it will twist your words, and eventually... it will possess you."
"And the third?" I asked, feeling a cold bead of sweat roll down my neck.
"The Law of Cost," she said softly. "Nothing in the Void is free. Mana is the common currency, but for the High Summons—the ones that can turn the tide of a war—the cost is deeper. They may demand years of your life, your happiest memories, or even the ability to feel pain. The higher the rank, the bloodier the price."
She stepped back, giving me a wide berth in the center of the sand. The novices leaned forward, their breath catching in unison.
"Now," Deborah whispered, her voice tinged with a challenge. "The bond has given you the spark. Reach into the dark, Karl. Find the silver thread I left for you. Call something forth."
I closed my eyes. I didn't reach for a book or a spell; I reached for that cold, mercury-like feeling in my gut. I felt the rift—a thin, jagged tear in the fabric of the world just waiting for me to pull it open.
I stood in the center of the arena, the weight of a dozen pairs of female eyes pressing into me. Deborah wanted me to focus on the laws, on the silver threads, on the "geometry of the soul."
But as I closed my eyes and reached into the cold darkness of the Void, my mind didn't go to geometry.
I was still buzzing from the bond. All I could think about was the weight of Deborah's breasts in my hands, the heat of her skin, and the silver bush that had been pressed against me an hour ago. My subconscious took those thoughts—the raw, carnal hunger of a man who had just discovered he was a god—and used them as the bait.
I didn't find a "silver thread." I tore a hole in the air with the sheer force of my desire.
The air didn't hum; it screamed. A jagged, vertical rift of pitch-black energy erupted in the center of the white sand, venting a freezing mist that smelled of ancient battlefields and rosewater.
Then, a gauntleted hand gripped the edge of the rift.
A woman stepped out. She was tall, regal, and terrifying. She wore intricately carved black plate armor that hugged a figure that could only be described as a masterpiece—wide hips and a chest that strained against the cold steel of her cuirass. A tattered black cloak billowed behind her like wings of smoke. Her hair was a shocking, brilliant white, spilling out from under a dark, horned helmet.
But it was her face that stopped everyone's breath. She was breathtakingly beautiful, yet a jagged, silver scar ran from her temple down to her jaw, a brutal reminder of a life spent in fire. She gripped the hilt of a massive, black-iron longsword, the tip resting in the sand.
The novices didn't just gasp; some of them fell to their knees.
Deborah's face went pale, her silver eyes wide with genuine shock. "A... a Valkyrie of the Ash?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Karl, that's a High-Rank Spirit... a warrior from the First Era. How did you...?"