The cave waited three thousand feet above the temple, accessible only to those who could dance on air or climb sheer rock in howling winds. Master Zephyrus had used it for his own deep meditation forty years ago. Now, it would serve Aetos's transformation.
"One month," Zephyrus instructed, checking the meagre supplies—water skins, minimal dried fruit, meditation incense. "No food after the first three days. Push past the body's demands to find what lies beneath."
"What am I looking for?" Aetos asked, already feeling hunger gnaw at him despite recent breakfast.
"I could tell you, but discovery means more than instruction. When you return—if you return unchanged—we'll know you weren't ready."
The climb itself tested Aetos's resolve. Wind currents that usually aided him turned treacherous near the cave, as if warning him away. By the time he hauled himself onto the narrow ledge, his muscles burned and his breath came in gasps.
The cave was smaller than expected—barely large enough to stand, narrowing to meditation-suitable width. Symbols carved by previous occupants covered the walls, some so old their meaning was lost. Aetos traced one with curious fingers and felt pneuma resonate through the stone.
"Amplification," he murmured. "The cave focuses energy."
He settled into meditation as the sun set, beginning the breath patterns that would sustain him through the ordeal ahead. The first three days passed predictably—hunger growing from annoyance to agony, body protesting the absence of its usual fuel. Aetos had fasted before, but never while maintaining deep meditation. The combination pushed him to new limits.
On the fourth day, something shifted.
The hunger remained but became distant, like thunder beyond mountains. His consciousness, no longer anchored by digestion and physical sensation, began to expand. The cave walls became permeable. His awareness spread outward, carried on wind currents he could suddenly perceive with impossible clarity.
But this wasn't the controlled pneuma sight he'd developed through training. This was raw, overwhelming, transformative. Every living thing blazed with internal fire. Every breath taken by every creature for miles around registered in his consciousness. The life force of the mountain itself—slow, deep, ancient—pulsed beneath him.
"Too much," he gasped, eyes snapping open. But even with eyes open, the visions persisted. Overlaid on normal sight was a world of flowing energy, patterns within patterns, connections between all things that breathed.
He tried to pull back, to contain his expanded awareness within his small human form. But like trying to pour the ocean into a cup, it simply overflowed. Panic rose—was this madness? Had he pushed too far?
Breathe, the wind whispered. Not outside but within his own mind. Stop fighting. You are not containing the ocean—you are the ocean remembering it was once a drop.
Aetos forced himself to stop struggling, to accept the overwhelming input. Gradually, his consciousness adapted. What had been painful cacophony became symphony. He wasn't seeing life force—he was reading it, like text in a language he'd always known but never recognised.
The fifth day brought new revelations. He could perceive the emotional states of creatures through their pneuma signatures. A hawk circling outside radiated focused hunting intent. Rabbits in the valley below pulsed with contentment as they fed. Even plants had their own subtle emanations—growth, reaching, patient persistence.
But it was human pneuma that fascinated him most. From his high vantage, he could perceive the temple below, each resident a unique constellation of energy. Master Zephyrus burned steady as a lighthouse. Brother Benedictus fluctuated with the rhythms of his kitchen work.
He could read their moods, their health, their potential. Not thoughts—that boundary remained sacred—but the general state of their being. Worry, joy, fatigue, determination all had distinct pneuma signatures.
"I could know who approaches before seeing them," he marvelled. "Could identify friend from foe by their energy alone."
As days passed and his body consumed itself for fuel, the visions intensified. He saw pneuma patterns in weather systems, reading storms days before they formed. The mountain's geological breathing became evident—stone expanding with heat, contracting with cold, creating rhythms spanning centuries.
On the tenth day, he discovered he could perceive through solid objects.
It started accidentally. Focusing on a mouse in the cave's deeper recesses, he suddenly saw it clearly despite yards of solid rock between them. Not seeing exactly—more like feeling its shape through its life force, understanding its position and movement through pneuma alone.
"Walls mean nothing," he whispered. "Hidden enemies couldn't hide. But also..." The implications staggered him. Privacy, secrets, the polite fiction of barriers—all illusions to this sight.
With great sight comes great responsibility, the wind counseled. To see all is to understand the burden of gods. Will you bear it wisely?
The middle of his isolation brought the hardest trials. His body, pushed beyond endurance, began breaking down. Muscle mass visibly decreased. His pneuma heart, deprived of fuel, struggled to maintain circulation. Several times, he nearly abandoned the meditation, survival instinct screaming for food.
But each time he considered leaving, new revelations pulled him deeper. He discovered layers within layers of perception. Surface pneuma showed immediate state, but deeper currents revealed character, potential, the shape of who someone might become.
He saw his own pneuma for the first time—not just feeling it but observing it as others might. Where he'd expected to see purely human energy, he found something hybrid. Human patterns wove through elemental ones in ways that shouldn't be possible. His pneuma heart wasn't just efficient—it was fundamentally different, bridging categories.
"What am I?" he asked the cave's ancient darkness.
What you choose to be, came the answer. Human enough to love, elemental enough to transcend, balanced between both worlds. Your nature is not curse but gift—if wisdom guides its use.
The fifteenth day nearly killed him. His body began shutting down nonessential functions. His temperature dropped dangerously. Breathing became conscious effort rather than automatic process. But his pneuma sight exploded to new heights.
He could see the temple's entire history written in stone—every pneuma worker who'd touched these walls left traces. The mountain remembered every storm, every season, every life sheltered in its shadow. Time became fluid. Past and present overlapped in his perception.
"I understand," he gasped through cracked lips. "Everything connects. Every breath affects every other. We're not separate beings but temporary arrangements of universal breath. Individual yet indivisible."
Yes, the wind agreed. Now integrate this understanding before it burns you hollow.
The challenge of the final days was returning to normal consciousness without losing what he'd gained. Like eyes adjusted to darkness suddenly exposed to light, he had to slowly dial back his perception to bearable levels.
He created mental filters—ways to perceive pneuma sight without drowning in it. Surface reading for casual interaction, deeper reading when needed, full perception only in desperate circumstances. It was like learning to squint, to choose focus rather than accepting all input equally.
On the twenty-fifth day, he made a crucial discovery. Strong emotions or intentions blazed brighter in pneuma sight. Someone approaching with violent intent would radiate differently than someone seeking help. Lies created distortions in personal energy. Truth resonated cleanly.
"I'll never be deceived," he realised. "But I'll also see more pain than I wished to know exists."
The final days were integration. Learning to function with normal sight and pneuma sight simultaneously. Understanding when to use which perception. Most importantly, choosing when not to look at all.
Privacy is the gift you give others, the wind taught. Just because you can see doesn't mean you should. Wisdom is knowing when to be blind.
On the thirtieth dawn, Aetos prepared to leave. His body was skeletal, muscles consumed for fuel. But his eyes held depths they'd never shown before—storm-grey now flecked with silver that moved independently of light.
The descent took hours. Where he'd climbed with strength a month ago, now he descended with technique alone, each movement precisely calculated to conserve energy he didn't have. By the time he reached the temple, he could barely stand.
"Aetos!" Brother Matthias caught him as he stumbled through the gates. "Healers! Quickly!"
But even exhausted beyond measure, Aetos saw more than ever before. Matthias's pneuma blazed with genuine concern tinged with fear. Other monks radiated shock at his emaciated appearance. And beneath it all, the temple itself pulsed with accumulated centuries of devotion, practice, and purpose.
"I see you," he whispered to Matthias, not meaning physical sight.
Master Zephyrus arrived as healers worked to stabilise Aetos's failing body. The master's pneuma was carefully controlled, but Aetos read satisfaction beneath the concern.
"You found it," Zephyrus stated.
"Found it. Feared it. Nearly drowned in it. Learned to swim." Aetos managed a weak smile. "Everything is so bright, Master. How do you bear it?"
"By choosing when to see. The gift becomes curse if used unwisely. Rest now. Recovery will take weeks, and then we'll teach you proper use of what you've gained."
But even as exhaustion pulled him toward unconsciousness, Aetos couldn't stop perceiving. Each healer's touch blazed with intention to help. Brother Benedictus approached with broth that radiated nourishing warmth beyond its physical temperature. His friends gathered outside, their combined concern creating aurora of emotion.
"So bright," he murmured again, then let darkness claim him.
He woke three days later, body still weak but no longer failing. The pneuma sight remained but felt more natural now, integrated rather than overwhelming. He could choose its intensity, from barely noticeable enhancement to full perception that still staggered him.
"Eat slowly," Brother Alexei instructed, helping him sit up. "Your system needs to remember how to process food."
But Aetos was reading the healer's pneuma, seeing fatigue from three days of constant care, satisfaction at successful treatment, and underneath, professional curiosity about Aetos's transformed energy patterns.
"Thank you," Aetos said, meaning more than the words usually conveyed. "For everything. For not giving up when my body tried to."
Alexei paused, sensing deeper meaning without understanding its source. "You're welcome. Though you gave us quite a scare. Whatever you found in that cave, I hope it was worth nearly dying."
Aetos considered, then nodded slowly. "It was. Though I'm not sure I'll ever be the same."
"Growth means change," Alexei said philosophically. "The question is whether you'll use that change wisely."
Looking at the healer's pneuma—steady, dedicated, touched with the particular warmth of those who chose healing over harming—Aetos felt profound gratitude. He could see the best in people now, not just the worst. Their light as well as shadows.
"I'll try," he promised. "With help, I'll try."
The wind outside whistled agreement, and for the first time in his life, Aetos truly understood what it meant to see.