Shikshak Yaren's pale yellow eyes lingered on the fallen bronze coin, his expression unreadable. "It's good that there will be no rain today."
His gaze lifted to Ashan, and something shifted behind his eyes—something that might have been curiosity or might have been the first stirrings of something else. "How was it? Experiencing your first active divination?"
Ashan's face furrowed in thought, his mind still half-lost in the vision of luminous threads stretching into infinity. "I saw... threads." He let the words form slowly, carefully. "A web of luminous light connecting everything, stretching endlessly into the past, present, and future."
Shikshak Yaren's face darkened. His pale eyes flickered, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a low, cautious tone that seemed to fill the space between them. "You gazed directly upon the Karmajala-Loka."
The words were tinged with something Ashan had not heard in his teacher's voice before—bewilderment, perhaps, or the shadow of fear.
Isn't that how it's supposed to work?
"And you suffered no backlash?" Yaren leaned forward, his hands tightening on his knees. "No pain in your eyes? No psychic recoil?"
Ashan shook his head slowly, deliberately. "No. It was only for a moment. I didn't dare stare for long."
"Hmmm."
Shikshak Yaren fell into a heavy silence. His gaze moved from Ashan's face to the pendant that still hung around his neck, to the coin on the floor between them, to something that seemed to exist only in the space behind his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost reverent.
"Your siddhi is... fascinating." He released a long, weary sigh, and for a moment, he looked older than Ashan had ever seen him. "It is true what they say: all mantras and kiriyas are but pale imitations of siddhis."
What is he feeling now? Ashan kept his face still, his breathing even, his thoughts moving behind his eyes like shadows in deep water. Jealousy? Fear? His expression reads as pure amazement, but I can't let my guard down. I can't glean his intentions, so caution is my only shield.
"Now you must understand the nature of divination more clearly." Yaren's voice had returned to its usual flatness, but there was something beneath it now—something that had not been there before. "And the chasm between you and other Vidhishar."
"Yes." Ashan let the word settle, let it fill the space between them. "The distinction is sharper now. Those who use Manomaya-Loka rely on spirits as intermediaries and require external materials." His face clouded with a new puzzle, the question forming before he could stop it. "Shikshak Yaren, what of the others who use Karmajala-Loka as a source?"
"Like you, they gaze directly into the Loka, eschewing the spirits' aid." Yaren's voice was flat, clinical. "But it is a perilous path. As I said, I know of only one or two in the entire House of Gluttony who practice such divination." He paused, and his gaze intensified, sharpened. "They do not possess a siddhi like yours. They rely on mantras alone—a far more arduous and dangerous endeavor."
Damn. Ashan let the weight of the words settle in his chest, cold and heavy. Being unique has a target painted on your back; that's an unchangeable law. I can only hope Elder Zarah was discreet beyond his own House leadership. In the end, it all comes down to personal power.
A familiar sense of powerlessness washed over him, and for a moment, he was back in the cave, back in the alley, back in all the places where being different had meant being hunted.
Another person might rejoice at being told they were unique. Ashan was different. He understood the darker currents of human psychology, the way envy coiled beneath admiration, the way fear wore the mask of respect until the moment it didn't.
If you are unique, it invites enmity, whether you possess something extraordinary or lack what is ordinary. The difference is that extraordinary status brings greater advantages alongside greater dangers—high risk, high reward. To be less than ordinary is to be bullied, to be stepped upon. The ordinary masses in the middle strive to tear down the extraordinary and crush the weak beneath them. He let the thought turn over in his mind, examining it from every angle. It's a perpetual struggle, like a hamster on a wheel, running without knowing how to stop.
"Now, let us take our lesson further into the depths of divination." Shikshak Yaren's voice pulled him from his thoughts, and Ashan felt the weight of his teacher's gaze settle on him once more.
He began a structured lecture on the different schools of thought, his voice taking on the cadence of a man who had explained the same concepts to the same eager faces for longer than he cared to remember.
"The school of Prakasha—the art of revelation—is divided into three tiers." He paused, letting the words hang. "Or four, if you count the last, which is largely forbidden."
He shot a significant glance at Ashan.
Ashan pointed subtly to his own eyes.
"Precisely." Yaren's voice dropped. "Using Karmajala-Loka as a source is... frowned upon, yet some persist." He straightened, and his voice returned to its instructional cadence. "Let us return to the lesson."
"Tier One is Basic. It employs simple mediums like a coin or a pendant. The answers are binary—yes or no. The questions cannot be vague. It requires no special materials, has limited use, and carries no risk."
His fingers traced patterns in the air as he spoke, drawing maps of worlds Ashan could not see.
"Tier Two is Intermediate. It utilizes crystal balls, cards, or elementals—fire, smoke, water, or blood. It yields symbolic answers and short, symbolic visions. The danger lies not in the act itself, but in the misinterpretation of the symbols."
"Tier Three is High." His voice deepened, became more resonant. "This involves direct, immersive contact with spirits for guidance. The two primary methods are dream divination and spirit evocation. It requires specific materials: certain herbs, special inks for channeling, and ritual barriers for dream-walking. The risk is high—brain damage, psychological shock. The outcomes are cryptic visions and riddles."
"And lastly." He paused, and his pale yellow eyes fixed on Ashan with an intensity that made the air between them seem to thicken. "Tier Four is Forbidden. Gazing directly into the webs of Karmajala-Loka. The risk is... extreme."
Ashan pondered this for a moment, turning the information over in his mind, fitting it into the framework he was building. A logical inconsistency nagged at him, and he let the question rise before he could stop it.
"Shikshak Yaren, you said my siddhi bypasses the need for spirits. So why did I need a medium, like the coin, to perform the divination?"
A faint, knowing smile touched Yaren's lips. "If you think on it, the answer will come to you."
He reached into his robes and tossed a small object through the air. Ashan caught it—a simple, blackish-brown pendant on a pale brown thread, smooth and cool to the touch.
"Use this for your practice," Yaren said, standing and turning back to his work with the finality of a door closing.
Ashan did not rise immediately. "Shikshak Yaren, I have one more question."
The man half-turned, his pale yellow eyes glinting in the dim light of the room. The shadows seemed to gather around him, pooling at his feet, climbing the walls.
"What is 'Bodh'?"
"Hmm." Yaren's expression flickered—something that might have been amusement or might have been recognition. "Right. You are still rough in general knowledge." He paused, and for a moment, Ashan thought he would answer. Then: "How about this: in a few days, I will begin instructing you in other essential topics alongside divination."
"Praise the Lord of Greed."
"Praise the Lord of Greed."
Ashan did not disturb him further. He rose, bowed once, and exited quietly, the pendant cool in his palm, the weight of the day's lessons pressing against his thoughts.
Once alone, Shikshak Yaren drew out a piece of parched brown paper from his robes, laying it flat on his desk with hands that did not tremble.
He stared at it for a long moment, his pale yellow eyes fixed on the blank surface, his thoughts moving behind them like fish in deep water.
If he masters that siddhi, he thought, and the words formed slowly, deliberately, he will become a living repository of information. A weapon. A tool. A threat.
His fingers traced the edge of the paper, feeling its roughness, its weight.
I will ensure he rises to that potential. He let the thought settle, examined it from every angle. Or else, that power will be passed to one more suited to wield it.
He picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write. The scratch of the nib was the only sound in the room, and outside, the sun was setting, and the shadows were lengthening, and somewhere on this island, a boy was walking home with a pendant in his hand and the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.
The lesson was over. The work was just beginning.