Clyde threw his arms up, his voice echoing through the chamber, rebounding off the ancient stone like a declaration carved into history itself."I did it. I'm an Ichor now."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Soren studied him in silence, his pale eyes tracing the faint shimmer still clinging to Clyde's skin, the residual echo of Hollow Star resonance bleeding softly into the air. Then, slowly, he allowed himself a small, calm smile. It was restrained, measured, the kind of expression earned through centuries of watching others rise and fall.
"Congratulations, Clyde."
The word carried weight. Not pride. Not celebration. Recognition.
Then, as if stepping fully back into the role of a keeper of truths far older than the academy itself, Soren clasped his hands behind his back. His posture straightened, and the warmth in his voice cooled into something steadier, heavier, layered with experience hard-won.
"There are eight phases an Ichorborn must pass through," he said. "The first is the New Moon, where you stand now. It is the phase of awakening, when the ichor first learns the shape of its bearer."
He took a slow step forward.
"With each phase, your power grows exponentially. Not linearly. Exponentially. What you wield now is only a shadow of what waits ahead."
Soren's gaze drifted upward, unfocused, as though peering beyond the ceiling, beyond the sky, toward something only he could see.
"And when you reach the final one…"
His eyes dimmed slightly, clouded by memory. Regret, perhaps. Or reverence.
"Your strength will rival that of a demigod."
Clyde blinked. The excitement still buzzing through his veins twisted into something tighter, sharper. Awe, mixed with uncertainty.
"How do we advance through these phases?" he asked.
Soren inhaled slowly, deeply, as though steadying himself before speaking words that could not be taken back. When he answered, his voice softened, losing none of its gravity.
"To ascend, you must uncover the Baptism Formulas. They are not spells, nor rituals, but precise alignments of law. And your lunar ichor's frequency must synchronize perfectly with the frequency of the Hollow Star."
A faint hum seemed to ripple through the chamber at the name alone.
"Only with both," Soren continued, "can you climb the phases of the Ichor."
The temperature in the room dropped perceptibly. The torches lining the walls flickered, their flames thinning, as though starved of breath. Even the air itself seemed to grow still, listening.
Soren straightened fully now, his expression sharpening into something closer to a warning than a lesson.
"Clyde, remember this above all else. When you ascend, the frequency in the room must remain undistorted, and the moon itself must be correct."
He paused, letting the silence stretch until it pressed against the mind.
"The New Moon and the Full Moon are stable," he said at last. "Their resonance is balanced. Predictable. Ascension beneath them is considered safe."
Then his gaze hardened.
"But never attempt it beneath a Blood Moon or a Blue Moon."
A subtle chill crawled up Clyde's spine, uninvited and unwelcome.
"A Blood Moon amplifies predatory resonance," Soren went on. "It forces lunar ichor to overreact, flooding the body faster than the soul can adapt. Most who attempt ascension under it lose themselves entirely."
He did not use the word immediately.
"They become Howlings."
Soren's eyes flicked briefly toward the far wall, where faint claw marks had been deliberately left unpolished.
"And a Blue Moon," he said more quietly, "is worse."
The words fell like ash.
"It fractures frequency itself. It pulls the ichor in opposing directions at once, tearing at identity, memory, and will. Even seasoned Ichorborn have failed beneath it."
He looked directly at Clyde now, his gaze unyielding.
"If the moon is wrong," he said, voice low and final, "you will not ascend."
A beat.
"You will break."
Before Clyde could respond, before the weight of the warning could fully settle into his bones, the chamber door flew open with a long, protesting creak.
Aldric strode inside, hands on his hips, boots striking stone with confident force. His presence cut through the tension like a blade through fog.
"So?" he called out. "How was it? Did you become an Ichor or not?"
Clyde did not answer.
Instead, he slowly lifted his gaze.
His eyes glowed deep violet, swirling with fractured starlight. Tiny constellations drifted within his irises, forming and dissolving like thoughts half-born.
Aldric stopped short.
Then he let out a low whistle. "Perfect," he said. "Then you're ready for your first mission."
At that, he grinned, all sharp edges and mischief. "You'll be working with Marlowe Nox Crestfall."
The name lingered.
With a heavy thud, Aldric placed a long, wrapped object onto the table. Dust puffed up around it.
"And I brought you a weapon for the job," he added. "This is the Hollow Edge."
Clyde approached carefully and unwrapped it.
The sword beneath was unlike anything he had ever seen. Its blade was long and mirror-smooth, forged from Lunarsteel, a metal rumored to be folded beneath moonlight itself while ichor was still molten. A faint blue shimmer slid across its surface, slow and alive, as if a fragment of the night sky had been sealed within.
It was impossibly light.
Too light for something so deadly.
Clyde ran his fingers along the edge. The blade answered with a subtle pulse, a quiet acknowledgment, lunar energy thrumming in time with his heartbeat.
Aldric nodded, arms crossed. "Use it well."
Later, Clyde followed the winding stone corridor out of the academy, the Hollow Star Ichor still settling inside his veins, learning him as much as he learned it. The night air beyond was cold and sharp, carrying the scent of damp moss, old stone, and magic that had soaked into the land over centuries.
He spotted Marlowe Crestfall before he even stepped fully into the courtyard.
Marlowe sat alone beneath the shadow of a crumbling archway, a lantern flickering beside him, its light throwing slow, uneven halos across the ground. His posture was relaxed, almost careless, the posture of someone who feared very little. A thick book lay open in his hands, its pages filled with anatomical diagrams, layered annotations, and unfamiliar runes written in multiple inks.
Clyde had barely reached the final stair when Marlowe's voice drifted out, calm and steady.
"Are you ready to hunt the Hollowlings now?"
Clyde flinched.
Marlowe had not even lifted his eyes from the book.
"Yes," Clyde answered, forcing the word past the tightness in his chest.
Marlowe closed the book with a quiet, deliberate thud. When he finally looked up, his golden eyes met Clyde's, sharp and observant, eyes that looked as though they had seen too much and survived anyway.
Without a word, he rose and gestured for Clyde to follow.
The lantern's flame bent as they passed.