The little house was quiet after the old man's stories. Snow tapped against the eaves like a metronome; the lamp on the table sputtered and held. Elias, Daren, and Lyra sat with bowls cooling in their hands, their minds still tasting the old man's words about spirits and the world's first powers.
Daren blinked and asked the question they'd all been thinking. "So… spirits still exist? Now?"
The old man let out a dry chuckle that sounded like paper rubbing. "They do," he said simply. "And people still reach them. There are only two true ways to make a spirit serve you."
All three of them leaned forward.
"Show us," Lyra said before she could stop herself. Her voice was equal parts impatience and curiosity.
The old man didn't scold. He stood, folded his hands, and stepped a few paces across the room. From a pocket he produced nothing obvious—only the calm of a man who did not need props. He opened his palm.
At first there was only a faint shimmer above his hand, a microscopic green mote of light. Then that mote resolved into a tiny insect of translucent glass-green — a grasshopper made of wind and leaf. A small ring of moving air wrapped it like a wreath.
The old man gave a tiny motion with his wrist. The spirit shot forward like an arrow and, with a dry whisper of wind, a training dummy at the far end of the room split cleanly in two. The halves toppled, the cut so perfect it seemed the room itself had been sliced.
They stared. Daren's mouth hung half-open. Lyra's eyes were bright as struck flint. Elias felt something in his chest unclench, as if a window had opened and sunlight rushed in. That small? That powerful? he thought. If I can call something like that…
The old man cupped his hands behind his back and spoke slowly. "There are two paths," he said. "Both are dangerous. Both have costs. You must understand what each asks of you."
He stretched his fingers as if drawing the two paths from the air.
"One: Force. You hunt a spirit. You challenge it. You put it to the proof of combat and break its will until it yields. That yield can be subtle — spirit pride bruised, resistance bent — but it must bow. If it truly submits, you can bind it and focus its power. This method is brutal and blunt. It is the way of warriors and desperate people. Many die trying. Many spirits are destroyed in the attempt. If you win, you gain a tool—the spirit bent, your servant—yet you will always carry the mark of force in that relationship. The spirit remembers. It can be used, but not without bitterness."
He paused and let that idea settle like dust.
"Two: Contract." He changed his tone, and it sounded almost softer. "This is not violence but negotiation. A contract is a mutual agreement between a spirit and a person. It can begin two ways: the spirit may offer itself to you, or you may seek the spirit and ask for bond."
He pointed at Elias. "If a spirit offers itself, you may accept or refuse. That is the simplest and safest: the spirit chose you." He turned his gaze to Lyra and Daren. "If you seek a spirit and ask for a bond, the spirit will test you. It will look into the measure of your will, your strength, your nature. Spirits do not pledge to the faint. If the spirit judges you insufficient—too weak to honor the pact—it will refuse."
He let the words hang. Lyra's jaw clicked. Daren swallowed.
"But refusal is not simply a polite 'no,'" the old man added with a shadow crossing his face. "Spirits are proud and quick. If you demand a contract and are found wanting, some will vanish from sight—leaving you with nothing but the echo of your arrogance. Others will lash out. They will strike, bite, or tear because you tried to stand beside them without being worthy. You would be foolish to imagine you can ask for a spirit's hand and come away unmarked if you are not fit."
Elias felt the room tilt. He had imagined a spirit's denial as disappointment; the old man's words made it a threat. If I ask and the spirit hates me… it might hit me? Or vanish? The very idea sharpened the stakes.
"And even if a spirit later changes its mind," the old man continued, "know this: a rejection leaves a scar. A spirit that once turned its back on you rarely gives its full measure afterward. You may coax it later, plead and earn its favor, but the first refusal lingers in the spirit's memory. It means you will never be able to wield its full force—one hundred percent—because the bond was once sullied by the spirit's own judgment. That limit can be fatal in the wrong moment."
Elias's fists went white on his bowl. The thought of a permanent ceiling on power because of a single failure felt like an iron ring around his possibilities.
"Conversely," the old man went on, "if the spirit chooses you—if it comes and says, 'I will walk with you'—then you and the spirit stand on the same plane. The pact makes you pair: two wills meeting as equals. The spirit lends its strength but keeps a portion for itself. This equality is the point of a true contract. You do not own it. You share. And that sharing is both blessing and limit: the spirit will not be a forced tool, and its power will often be moderated by its sense of self. The contract is a partnership. Both sides bear risk; both gain tempering."
Lyra folded her arms. "So either we break one by force and risk being remembered as a brute—or we ask and risk being struck or cut off forever. And even if we get a contract, the spirit won't fully submit as an engine to be plundered."
"Exactly," the old man said. "One way makes the spirit a servant, and the other makes it a companion. The servant is useful, quick to obey, sometimes merciless. The companion is temperate, loyal in a different sense. But if you tried to force a companion later, you would shatter trust. And if you first demand a companion and the spirit refuses and slaps you, you are left weaker than before."
Daren rubbed his forehead. "So the world's spirits are not tools. They are proud beings with standards."
"They are not simply beings," the old man said quietly. "They are the land's voice made small. They remember long things. They smell arrogance a day's ride off. Approach with patience and with respect, and some will teach you. Charge in with iron and wrath, and you will learn what being broken feels like."
Elias swallowed. He had hoped for a quick fix, an easy way to catch a spirit and patch his weakness; instead he heard rules and traps and old cautions. His chest tightened around the knowledge that his next steps mattered in a new, permanent way.
"So what should we do?" Lyra asked abruptly. "If we want spirits, how do we start?"
The old man's eyes were a little softer. "First, learn to listen. Learn to feel the edges where spirit breathes. Do not call unless you have both patience and a purpose. If you seek a contract, prepare to be measured. Strengthen yourself not only by fighting but by learning—craft, endurance, restraint. If you are judged, you must be ready to take the hit and to learn from it."
He looked at Elias, his gaze steady and almost kind. "And know this: being unable to read a man's past can draw spirits as much as it draws suspicion. The curious ones will come. But curiosity is not a favor. It is a test."
Elias met the old man's eyes, feeling the full weight of the choice settle on him. A single ask, a single failure—gone. A single acceptance—a partnership, with limits and shared power. The old man's small demonstration had been a doorway to an ocean of consequences.
Outside, the wind sighed. Inside, the three of them sat very still. The paths were clear; they were not easy. The lesson had been given: spirits are alive, proud, and dangerous. The way you seek them shapes what you become.