I fall through colours I don't have names for. Through time, space, memory until all I know is that I've given too much and maybe not enough.
Then, silence.
Not the kind of silence that means peace, but the kind that holds its breath before a storm breaks.
And then… light again. Softer this time. Warmer. Natural.
I open my eye and find myself lying on cold stone, beneath a vaulted ceiling carved with swirling constellations. Faded banners hang from curved beams above, embroidered with symbols I don't recognize but feel strangely drawn to. Candles flicker in iron sconces along the walls, casting long shadows over rows of cracked stone pillars. The air smells of incense, age, and wildflowers.
I'm in a temple small, ancient, quiet. Not the kind built to impress. The kind meant to endure.
My head swims. My body aches. But it's not just pain. It's… absence.
I push myself up with my right arm the only one I have left and immediately freeze.
Where my left arm should be, there's nothing past the elbow. Smooth, bandaged skin stops just above where my forearm once was.
I twist my hips to look down. My left leg gone above the knee. Clean. Wrapped. Numb and aching all at once.
And my left eye… I already know it's not there. The world is half-shadowed now, the edges of vision unbalanced, unmoored. I reach up and feel the cloth covering the empty socket.
Three blessings. Three sacrifices.
And somehow… I'm alive.
For a moment, I just breathe. Not because it helps, but because it's the only thing I can do. I remember Deyinara's voice cold and calm, telling me I would awaken in Florence.
I glance around again, and spot a bowl of water beside the altar, and a set of folded robes in a deep violet. There's a mark on the wall behind the altar a crescent sigil woven with flame and crystal, pulsing faintly with magic.
Deyinara's mark.
This temple… it must be hers. Or perhaps it's mine now, in some quiet, unsettling way.
I don't know how long I lie there on the stone floor. Time feels slower here. Or maybe I'm just afraid of what happens when I stand.
But eventually, I whisper aloud just to hear myself speak:
"What the hell have I gotten myself into?"
The temple doesn't answer.
But something inside me shifts.
A hum of power.
A promise.
And I know: the blessings are there, waiting to be claimed. Waiting to be understood.
They didn't come as a burst of strength or a lightning strike of knowledge. They came quiet. Woven into me.
I sit up, slower this time, and as I do, something in the air around me shifts like a lock turning.
A low hum echoes from the altar. Three runes shimmer faintly above the offering bowl: one in silver, one in gold, and one in deep amethyst. As I look at each, I know them not because I was told, but because the knowledge has been stitched directly into my thoughts.
The first rune pulses, and I hear its name in my mind:
"Tongue of the Veil."
I blink as understanding floods me. I know what it is.
I can read, write, speak, and comprehend any language Deyinara knows mortal, divine, forgotten, forbidden. Every tongue she's encountered is now mine to wield. I think back to the strange symbols carved above the altar and now I understand them. They're not just decorations.
They're prayers. Warnings. Secrets.
I whisper one of them aloud and the temple itself seems to shiver in acknowledgment.
The second rune glows gold:
"Companion of Many Faces."
This one comes not as knowledge but as instinct. A bond, dormant but coiled, ready to snap to life. A familiar not just a pet, but a shapeshifting magical creature bound to me, drawn from Deyinara's own arcane essence. It will take the form I need most. A scout. A shield. A sword. A spy. I haven't called it yet, but I feel it waiting, watching from the other side of something thin and transparent. It knows me already.
The third rune flares brighter than the rest. Amethyst fire. Ancient ink. The power behind it buzzes like static in my skull.
Its name speaks into my soul like a whisper being etched into parchment:
"Spell Weaver."
I see it not in front of me, but behind my eyes. A spectral book, leather-bound and blank, and a feathered quill glowing with violet light. Once a day, I can call it forth. By writing a detailed spell description in the language of magic (which I now somehow understand) I can craft a brand-new spell. Anything Deyinara has the arcane knowledge for, she can shape through me.
New magic. My magic.
Not copied. Not borrowed.
Created.
I sit back against the pillar, breath trembling. These aren't simple boons. They're tools and weapons.
And yet… they came at a price. I glance down at my missing limbs, at the phantom echoes of pain still pulsing where my hand and leg used to be. The bandages are clean. The wounds are sealed by some invisible magic. But the loss is real.
I traded pieces of myself to become this. A linguist of the gods. A summoner. A spellwright.
There's a sound then, a distant creak of stone on stone. A door opening somewhere behind the altar.
I pull the robes over my shoulders, bracing against the chill, and grip the edge of the stone table to stand. My balance is off but I grit my teeth and adjust. I didn't survive this far just to fall now.
Whatever lies beyond that doorway… I'm ready to face it.
Blessed. Broken. Becoming.