"All right, Elian, it's time we begin assembling your altar," said Iolanda, her voice calm yet firm, carrying the tone of one about to teach something that was more than instruction—something that bordered on initiation.
Several weeks had passed—almost three months, to be precise—since Elian's last visit to his father's grave. In that time, life had resumed its quiet rhythm, though always shadowed by wounds still raw in the family's heart. He spent more time with Maria, talking and helping with chores. He aided Emanuelle in her training, patiently explaining how he envisioned "visualization" before casting a spell.
In contrast, his bond with Anthony had grown more distant. It was subtle, but undeniable, and Elian felt it more acutely than anyone. It was not his choice; it was Anthony who withdrew, retreating deeper into himself as if guarding a secret too heavy to reveal.
That silence awakened in Elian a bitter fear: what if Anthony grew to resent him? It was a thought he dreaded. After everything they had lost, the last thing he wished for was to lose his brother to hatred. Yet he knew he could not force closeness. Anthony would need space—time to settle his own storms.
Still, the gulf between them weighed like an omen. Anthony's silence cut deeper than any words of anger ever could.
In those months, Iolanda had begun to explain more about the mana gate, giving Elian clarity on why he and Emanuelle could cast without incantations. The truth, as she taught him, was simple yet profound: as children, their mana gates were still unformed, pliable, able to shape themselves around experience.
Just as living beings bore physical organs—lungs, liver, pancreas, heart—those who could sense mana also developed magical organs. The mana gate was one of them: the conduit between inner mana and the world's flow, where thought took form and became spell.
But there was more. Why, then, could he forgo incantations? Because, unlike others, he possessed prior knowledge of the elements—knowledge born of Earth, of molecules and their workings. That knowledge, combined with a still-malleable mana gate, allowed integration between body and thought.
Before leaving for Elise's, Elian had given Emanuelle his grimoire, filled with drawings of molecules and their structures. Even if she lacked his depth of understanding, his notes were simple and didactic enough for her to grasp. But such integration was only possible in youth, while the mana gate was still raw. Once fully polished, it could no longer be reshaped.
It was like a diamond: the more one polished it, the brighter and clearer it became. But once perfected, there was nothing left to refine. For Elian, the combination of Earth's scientific knowledge with this world's magic gave him—and Emanuelle—a path others could never tread.
He knew this theory might not be absolute, but for now it was enough. It gave them an edge, however small, and that was reason enough for him to treasure it.
"Very well," Elian replied at last. "But why the need for an altar?"
Iolanda regarded him steadily. "Tell me, Elian… you've already surpassed the first tunnel of the Qliphoth, haven't you?"
"Yes," he answered, quietly. "The tunnel of guilt."
Iolanda paused. She could not fathom it. How could a child so young have borne such weight? The first tunnel for most adults was usually regret or wrath—never guilt. To carry guilt required the burden of blood and loss. Yet Elian was still only a boy.
"I'll be honest," she said after a silence, her voice low, her gaze searching him as though probing a mystery too dark to touch. "I cannot comprehend how you overcame the first tunnel. Nor how you entered the Qliphoth at all. One requires a very specific method of connection."
The late morning light fell through narrow windows, golden bars spilling across the uneven stone floor. The smell of fresh coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the aged timber scent that clung to the walls of Iolanda's rented house. Outside, cart wheels creaked over dirt and voices carried faintly, a reminder they were still in Brumaria—not in a fortress of the order, nor in Elian's ruined home.
Seated in a plain chair, Iolanda lifted her cup to her lips, steam blurring the sternness of her expression for a moment. The house was modest—two bedrooms, a small hall, kitchen and dining space—but larger than the remnants of what Elian once called home. Simplicity clung to its walls, yet there was comfort in it, however temporary.
Across from her, Elian cupped his own porcelain mug. The warmth seeping into his small hands pulled him into memory. The bitterness of the coffee struck a chord from another life: his mother on Earth, cigarette smoke curling above her mug, mornings always drenched in that mingled scent. Before the Tunnel of Guilt, such recollections cut him like knives, sharp with regret. Now, they were bittersweet.
A faint smile flickered across his lips, golden in the morning light. He would never share another coffee with her. But perhaps he could share tea with Maria—black tea, her favorite. That thought was enough to anchor him.
He wondered, then, if he should confess the truth—that he had entered the Qliphoth guided by an owl. Would she call me mad? he thought, eyes glancing at Iolanda over the rim of his cup.
She, always perceptive, caught the flicker of hesitation in his gaze—recognized the presence of a secret withheld—and chose, mercifully, not to press. Instead, she shifted the conversation.
"As I was saying," she continued, setting her cup aside and standing, "to enter the Qliphoth requires a method. That method begins with the altar."
She led him to one of the rooms. When she opened the door, Elian felt a weight descend, as if the air itself resisted his breath. The chamber was drowned in black—walls painted to swallow light. The only illumination came from candles burning upon an altar, their flames trembling against the void.
At the center stood a ritual table of dark stone, its surface scarred with cracks and scratches, as though it had endured countless rites. Upon it rested a small wooden statuette carved in the shape of a serpent, symbol of cunning and rebirth. Behind it, painted in carmine across the wall, the sigil of the Dark Throne—the triangle entwined with roots—seemed almost to pulse in the flickering glow.
Symbols ringed the corners of the room: Hebrew letters traced in black and red, a living barrier of invocation and seal. Each mark quivered faintly, as though alive.
Elian drew nearer. Offerings lay scattered: earth and stones—gold, silver, obsidian—ancient coins, rusted keys heavy with forgotten secrets. At the center, a small wooden sword, chipped and weathered, lay surrounded by slow-burning black candles. Thick smoke curled from them, mingling with the heavy incense that filled the chamber.
At the base, food offerings: coarse bread, ripe fruit glistening in the dimness, dark grains in clay bowls. A goblet of crimson wine gleamed like fresh blood beneath the unsteady flames.
The air was heavy, charged with a presence unseen. This was no common room—it was a threshold where the material bent toward the spiritual, where every object and symbol bridged the living world to the abyss beyond.
"As you see, the altar holds all elements: earth, fire, air, and water," Iolanda intoned, her voice soft, almost liturgical. The candlelight danced in her eyes, and for a moment she seemed not a mage but a priestess at the edge of revelation.
She passed her hand above the flames.
"Fire, embodied in the candles, opens the gates. It burns away fear but consumes falsehood as well. No soul enters the Qliphoth without first being cleansed by fire."
Her fingers touched the scattered soil, stones, and precious metals.
"Earth is stability. Without it, you lose yourself to guilt and wrath. Earth grounds the mind, lest the void devour it whole."
Lifting the goblet, the wine shimmered in hues of red and black.
"Wine is both water and blood. Water flows and frees. Blood binds and demands. Every step in the Qliphoth requires sacrifice."
Finally, she breathed deeply, incense heavy in her lungs, eyes closed.
"And air… unseen, yet ever-present. It stirs the flame, carries the fragrance, bears prayer and sin alike. It is movement—so you do not remain shackled by chains unseen, but walk forward, even burdened by sorrow."
Elian watched, entranced, as though the words themselves were incantations. She seemed carved from the ritual itself, her severity transfigured by solemn grace. For a fleeting moment, he saw her not only as a soldier of the Dark Throne, but as a woman bound to mysteries older than either of them.
The dim glow danced across her features, making her appear more striking still. For a moment, Elian's thoughts wandered, but he forced himself back to focus.
"And the statuette and the wooden sword?" he asked, curiosity cutting through reverence.
Iolanda turned first to the serpent.
"The statuette binds you to a divinity—or a presence—with which you have affinity," she explained solemnly. Her gaze then dropped to the weathered sword.
Pain flickered in her face, swift but sharp, and Elian noticed. In the months they had shared, she had spoken little of herself. Yet silence itself spoke: there was loss there, scars not healed, wounds she refused to bare. He wondered if all who walked the Dark Throne's path had known loss. Perhaps such suffering was a prerequisite.
She caught herself, returning to severity.
"An altar requires a tether to the physical plane." She lifted the sword in calloused hands. "For me, it is this blade, the one I trained with under my mother as a child." She swung it lightly, the movement natural, as if it were part of her body. "Whenever I touch the Qliphoth, I require it near. It anchors me, strengthens me in battle against myself."
Placing it back upon the altar, she turned to Elian.
"Think on what item will rest at the heart of your altar, and what divinity shall guide you into the Qliphoth."
She paused, moving to the doorway. Elian followed instinctively.
"When you know, we will build and consecrate your altar."
"But… how will I know what to choose? What divinity to follow?" he asked, uncertain.
A thought stirred within him. The owl. Always watching, always appearing as omen, perhaps as guide. But he was not ready to claim it. Not yet.
Iolanda returned to the table and sat.
"I'll teach you a meditation. Practice it daily until the answer comes."
And so she did. Patiently, she guided his breath, his mind, his vision inward. They lost themselves in it, unaware of time passing. By the time they surfaced, the sun had crossed its zenith, and lunch had long been forgotten.