"Between the thread of life and the thread of death, there are invisible hands weaving the path.
We do not always choose the stitches, but we always feel the weight of the tapestry."
★★★
The day dawned cold and rainy in Askov. For most, it would be a day to retreat indoors, away from the cutting wind and the icy rain lashing the streets. Doors remained shut, windows cracked open only enough to glimpse the creeping fog curling between stone buildings. Yet the guards—mages and non-mages alike—patrolled the streets under the frigid downpour, heavy cloaks plastered to their bodies, each breath rising in pale clouds of vapor.
The city of Askov rarely saw the sun. Snow was a constant companion, sometimes in heavy layers burying rooftops, sometimes in drifting flakes that merely reminded one of its inevitability. It was a hard land, a frozen one, accustomed to silence. And it was there, in this realm of eternal winters, that Elian rose from the comfortable bed of the Dark Throne's local branch.
The day of his departure for Cainã had come—at the far southern edge of the Kingdom of Elveron, near the border with the Empire of Alexandria. This was the mark of a new cycle, a point of no return.
The night before, after his conversation with Elder Marduk and Maga Iolanda, Elian had returned to his chamber with the intent of resting—or at least, that is what he told himself.
"Do you wish to be alone?" Maga Akame had asked, accompanying him to his quarters.
"Yes," he had answered calmly, though the firmness in his tone carried a determination far older than his years. "I want to meditate and try to connect with the deity… or entity… that will become my guardian in the Qliphoth."
Akame had remained silent for a moment, studying him. During her time in Brumaria, she had spoken several times with Maga Anna—who had grown close to Elian's family, especially to Maria. Perhaps it was her bond with the boy's mother, perhaps the administrative role Anna would assume at the Brumaria branch. The reason was her own.
But within those conversations, Anna had made one thing clear:
"Pay close attention, Maga Akame," she had said, her voice serene yet firm. "That boy, in many moments, does not resemble an ordinary child. Watch him carefully. He acts like a child only when he is with his mother and siblings. But when he is alone, or facing others… he thinks and speaks as someone far older than his age."
Now, observing Elian closely, Akame began to understand what Anna meant. His measured gestures, the way he weighed his words, even the seriousness in his gaze—unsettling in one so young—all betrayed a maturity that clashed with his six years.
"Very well," she had replied at last. "If you need anything, call for me."
Elian nodded.
"Yes, Maga Akame. Thank you."
She had left with a faint bow, closing the door behind her. Silence soon filled the room.
Elian extinguished the magical candelabrum, keeping only the wavering glow of the fireplace. He considered putting it out as well but relented when the cold seeped quickly through the stone walls. That flame's warmth was a fragile but necessary companion against the solitude pressing in.
He sat cross-legged on the cold floor, lit only by the fireplace and the candles burning before him. The circle was complete: twenty-one flames swayed in silence, ten black and red arranged in order, standing like shadowed sentinels, and in the center, a single gray candle—taller, solitary, symbol of magic in its purest form. The colors bore meaning. Gray was the balance that opened paths; red and black the mark of the Dark Throne and the reflection of the Qliphoth, pulsing like echoes of an abyss answering only to those daring enough to summon it.
The fireplace crackled in the background, but its flame meant little. Common fire, whether fed by wood or magical stones, lacked essence. The candles, by contrast, carried the weight of ritual. From their creation—immersed in animal tallow and bathed in blood—they were more than light. They were keys. Gateways.
The smell was dense—a mix of smoke, melted fat, and iron, almost metallic, saturating the air. Each wick burned irregularly, spitting faint pops that merged with the creak of burning wood. The space seemed to breathe with the flames, as if the circle itself lived.
Elian kept his eyes open, fixed on the gray candle, larger and steadier, and sought to empty his mind. The silence was oppressive, nearly suffocating. Then he recalled Iolanda's instructions: it was not enough to look—he had to invoke.
His lips moved slowly, repeating the mantra etched into his memory:
"Custos qui me per mundum Qliphoth ducit, te rogo ut te praebeas et me adiuves per meum interiorem ME vagari. Me adiuva sapientia et potentia tua. Ave Lucifer."
("O guardian who guides me through the world of the Qliphoth, I ask you to reveal yourself and help me wander my inner self. Grant me your wisdom and your power. Hail Lucifer.")
As the last word left his lips, the gray flame faltered, as if sucked into something unseen. The air thickened, the red and black candles wavered, and for a heartbeat, even silence seemed to answer the call.
Elian repeated the mantra until he felt his consciousness being pulled inward. When he opened his eyes, the room, the candles, the hearth were gone. All around him was gray—not an ordinary gray, but the absence of color, of contrast, of life. The space had no scent, no damp, no heat or cold. There was no sound, yet there was no silence. It was being and unbeing.
He tried to move, but his muscles would not obey. And yet, he felt himself gliding through the unnatural void, dragged without direction.
"What is this place?" he whispered, glancing around only to find the same unmoving expanse.
His own voice echoed distorted—a whisper and a roar at once. Impossible to tell if he spoke outward or only within.
"This is not the Ethereal Field I know…" he said, but the words resounded as though spoken from every corner, filling his skull until they smothered him.
The unease grew—an invisible pressure crushing thought. Anxiety. Fear. And beneath it all, loneliness creeping in like a cold not felt on the skin, but in the heart.
Then, on the horizon, a silhouette emerged. Indescribable. Was it man? Woman? Beast? It was everything and nothing. Each time Elian tried to focus, the shape unraveled, like sand slipping between his fingers.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice trembling.
The being did not answer. It drew closer in either steps or wingbeats—he could not tell. The more he tried to recoil, the nearer it loomed.
"Are you to be my guardian?" he pressed, his anxiety multiplying.
Time both dragged and stood still. His breathing faltered—but then he remembered there was no air here. How could he breathe? The very idea of body slid from his grasp.
The silhouette halted before him, its presence overwhelming. A voice arose—deep and neutral, high and low, calm and wrathful. It came not from its mouth but filled Elian's mind as if it were his own.
"Have you forgotten me?"
Elian shuddered.
"How could I forget, when I don't know who you are?" he answered, forcing steadiness, though his voice rang strange in his ears, as if not his own.
A smile broke across the shape—first sadistic, then sorrowful, then joyful, then enraged. All at once, upon a face without contour.
"How can I help you, if you will not even try to remember me?"
Elian stood silent. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Time had no measure in that place. He searched his mind for anything, any memory. His first instinct was the owl—the figure that had always appeared as his guide. But he rejected it at once. It could not be. It made no sense.
And yet, somewhere deep within, he knew he was wrong.
He opened his mouth in despair, but no sound came. The scream stuck within, echoing back against his thoughts until it cut them raw. The discomfort had long passed unbearable, leaving him nauseated. He clawed through memory for an answer, but none surfaced.
"Of course you heard!" the being thundered. Its form shifted relentlessly: from wrinkled crone to youthful maiden, from fragile infant to imposing woman. Each visage dissolved and rebirthed, a cycle of confusion mocking his sanity.