Fjor strolled down the expansive stone corridor, its towering ceiling soaring above him like the vaulted roof of an ancient cathedral.
Unlike the main chamber of the cave, which is reserved for acolytes, these chambers — exclusive to Captains and Cardinals — are typically lined with dim lights, although still very much adhering to the Leader's aesthetic choice of low illumination.
Not that I'm complaining, thought Fjor.
He tried to calm himself down, but there was nearly a spring in his steps. Not that reporting daily to the Leader is any fun for him, but it is different today.
Because today, the Leader's son had made progress.
Fjor knocked on the last door, a massive wooden structure adorned with black metal. The atmosphere felt colder around it, even more still than the cave's natural temperature. A sinister, bone-chilling sensation radiated from the door. Fjor waited for a response from the Leader.
"Come in," a voice rang out from behind the door.
Mechanical clicks and the sound of pistons responded to a deep, impactful voice. In the background, machinery produced noises of brass scraping against one another, and the door slowly slid open.
A circular room revealed itself beyond the wooden door. The walls, made of stone bricks, were designed in the same grandiose architectural style as the hallway outside. At the far end of the room sat a man clad in black robes adorned with gold and noble embellishments on his cape. He was seated upon his metallic black throne: the Leader.
The room was illuminated in such a way that the light focused on the center, leaving the throne shrouded in shadows and elevated above the floor. This design choice symbolized judgment, suggesting that those being judged would be brought into the light, stripped of all disguises and sins laid bare, while the judge remained in the shadows — noble and impartial — speaking the divine will of their deity.
"Fjor," the Leader said.
"My lord," Fjor responded, kneeling with one knee on the ground, his right hand over his left chest — a gesture appropriate for greeting the Leader.
"You bear news of my third prince?"
"Indeed, my lord," Fjor replied. "As I mentioned in my report, the third prince has shown progress in his assimilation, even before his training in spirituality begins."
"Please elaborate, Fjor."
"The Crown of Suffering has begun to acknowledge him, my lord," he said. "Though he is bruised and battered, he managed to exert partial control over its powers and even landed a blow on me." Fjor gestured toward his wounded shoulder, now half-healed due to his improved recovery.
The Leader pondered this information.
"That is indeed good news," the Leader stated. "I was concerned that he might feel overwhelmed by his siblings, but it seems my worries are unfounded."
"Should I give him some ambrosia, my lord?" Fjor asked. "His body is riddled with wounds; a broken rib could hinder him from completing the rest of his lessons."
A long pause followed Fjor's suggestion.
"No. If he cannot survive the most basic of lessons due to his own weaknesses, it is a reflection of his incompetence. Provide him with ambrosia only after he finishes the lessons," the Leader finally replied.
"As you wish, my lord," Fjor confirmed, then promptly retreated. As he stepped out of the room, the door closed automatically with a cacophony of brass clinks, ending with a final, resolute thud. clinks, and ending with a final, resolute thud.
◈ — — — ◈
The golden-haired boy — who introduced himself as Julian — sat back once he was sure Lysander could keep the food down, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced. When he spoke again, it was slower, deliberate, as if choosing what not to say mattered as much as what he did.
"Alright," he said. "I'll start simple. Don't interrupt unless you're completely lost."
Lysander nodded. His stomach still burned faintly, but the fog in his head had thinned enough for him to focus.
"Other than the fact that we were abducted by the cult," Julian continued, "there are things the general public doesn't know. Things you need to know if you want to stay alive."
He paused, then added, "People like me are called Spiritualists."
"Hold on," Lys said instinctively. "Us?"
Julian corrected him without irritation. "Me. You're not one of them."
The distinction landed heavier than Lys expected.
"Oh wow. Lucky me?"
Julian went on. "A Spiritualist is someone a spirit has acknowledged—or is in the process of acknowledging. That process isn't safe. Most people die before
Lys felt a faint tightening in his chest. "Spirits," he repeated. "What exactly are they?"
Julian exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the darkness beyond the torchlight. "No one agrees. Some say they're remnants of dead gods. Others say they're ideas that gained awareness. Concepts that refused to disappear."
He gestured faintly upward. "They exist alongside our world, in a place called the Otherworld. Our reality and theirs are separated by something called the Veil."
As Julian spoke, Lysander found himself imagining layers pressed together—worlds brushing against each other without quite touching.
"Sometimes," Julian continued, "spirits breach the Veil and manifest physically. When that happens, they can be killed."
"Killed?" Lys echoed.
"Yes. And when you do," Julian said, tapping his chest once, "you're faced with their Dying Will. If you reject it, nothing happens. If you accept it…" He paused. "You gain power."
Lys's mind immediately jumped ahead. "What kind of power?"
"That depends on the spirit's Characteristic," Julian replied. "Every spirit has exactly one. No matter how strong or ancient they are, they only ever have a single defining power."
He listed them calmly, as if reciting known facts rather than marvels.
"Fire spirits push toward destruction. Binding spirits favor control. Watcher spirits heighten perception. Others do stranger things. There's an infinite variety—but the rule never changes."
One spirit. One power.
"And to use that power?" Lys asked.
Julian shifted slightly. "You invoke it by speaking a specific syllable in the divine tongue. No one else can replicate it—everyone else hears a slightly different variation. Even other Spiritualists hear different variations of the same sound."
He paused, then added, "A Verse is a string of such syllables. When spoken correctly, they create a coherent effect."
So language itself was a weapon here.
"And the cost?" Lys asked quietly.
Julian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Using a Verse consumes something called Will."
Lys frowned. "Willpower?"
"That's the simplified explanation," Julian said. "There are entire debates about what Will actually is. But for the sake of simplicity, let's just take it at surface level like that."
Lysander absorbed that in silence. So Spiritualists are people who host otherworldly entities, speak unrepeatable sounds, and burn through their own resolve to bend reality.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the Voices that had once whispered in his head. Sounds uncomfortably familiar. For once, they were completely silent.
"There's one more thing," Julian said. "Something you can't avoid once a spirit settles."
He met Lys's eyes. "You gain a True Name." By the tone Julian said it with, Lys felt a faint chill.
"It's carved into your mind the moment assimilation completes," Julian continued. "Your identity in the Otherworld. How spirits perceive you. It's what allows you to speak the divine tongue at all."
Julian hesitated, then added, "But once you have a True Name, you're no longer invisible."
"Invisible?" Lys repeated.
"Spirits can sense you through the Veil," Julian said. "All of them. Benevolent or hostile. The stronger your True Name becomes, the clearer that sense is. You stand out."
A beacon, Lys thought grimly.
"And that's where Orders come in," Julian said, anticipating the question.
"They're a way to measure a Spiritualist's output—how potent their True Name is, and how many syllables they can sustain in a Verse."
He raised three fingers.
"There are ten Orders total, divided into three broad categories."
One finger lowered.
"Low-Order Spiritualists—First to Third Order. You can form Verses, but they barely listen and your power leaks out under stress. Control is relatively unreliable if you have no special means."
Another finger.
"Mid-Order—Fourth to Seventh. You can deliberately invoke and shape Verses. That's where most trained Spiritualists are." He paused. "Also, when a spirit reaches Fifth Order or higher, it becomes unique. Once someone assimilates with it, no identical spirit exists again until the host dies."
The last finger folded down.
"High-Order Spiritualists," Julian said quietly. "At that point, you and your spirits aren't meaningfully separate anymore. Your instincts align with your spirits'. You become more divine than human. People like the leader of this cult… are at this level."
"And beyond that?" Lys asked.
Julian shook his head. "Stories of saints and monsters. Anyone past Tenth Order is either dead or insane. No tale ever records anyone coming back whole."
Silence lingered.
"Why teach us like this?" Lys finally asked. "Why throw people at him?"
Julian's expression darkened.
"I don't know everything about the cult," he said. "But they are an illegal faction of Spiritualists, and their philosophy revolves around forcing growth through fear."
"And you?" Lys asked. "What Order are you?"
Julian hesitated, then answered honestly.
"First," he said. "Enough to survive; but not enough to be safe."
He met Lysander's gaze steadily.
"If you really have no memories," Julian said, "then remember this: at First Order, you're weak — but unnoticed. Be cautious and survive first; tempting it may be, power comes later."
Lys frowned. "Then why tell me all this? You already told me that you're cautious, so why tell me so much? You could easily have given me less information. All for a measly portion of food?"
Julian was quiet for a moment.
"It's not about the food," he said at last. "I came here on purpose."
Lys blinked. "On purpose?"
"My sister was taken by the Voice of Strife," Julian said. "I followed the cult to find her. I intend to leave this place with her."
A pause.
"And to do that," he added evenly, "I need capable allies."