Ares had been staring endlessly at the drifting motes of light that floated through the air like fragments of breath.They gathered, thinned, and gathered again around Rodan — the old man seated across the table, weaving black strings between his fingers with the patience of a god. Each string pulsed faintly, feeding into the two bright beams that extended from his eyes into Ares's own. The sensation wasn't pain, not exactly — more like countless threads being threaded into his pupils, each carrying a whisper of pattern.
Ares didn't move. He could feel the delicate tension of the process, the weight of Rodan's will pressing through him. He didn't resist. He knew the old man was building something inside him — a lens, a foundation — and if he broke the rhythm now, the work would unravel.Still, he couldn't help but marvel at it.
From where he sat, Rodan's hands moved like old machinery, smooth despite their trembling. The black strings shifted from one palm to another, folding through invisible shapes. Ares could see how they formed — how Rodan's intent caught the green motes drifting in the air, aligning them into order, how each strand carried memory and meaning. It was like watching the laws of the world being written in slow motion.
"Can you teach me?" Ares asked softly — not aloud, but in the shared language of thought. The words brushed against the small, floating creature perched near his shoulder.
Astro tilted his translucent head, eyes glinting. "Teach you? What do you mean — teach you how to move your hands? You move your soul the same way you think. Why would that be hard?"
Ares blinked, though his body didn't quite respond the same way here. "Then show me," he said. "Show me how to use it."
Astro twitched, amused. His form rippled, becoming first a squirrel, then a bird, then a thing of no shape at all. "You still think you're made of flesh. You're energy now — will made visible. You don't need bones to move. You don't even need fingers. You think, and it happens."
"That's not how it feels," Ares murmured.
"That's because you're thinking like meat," Astro replied. "Stop thinking how. Just think do."
He spoke lightly, but his eyes glowed like twin sparks."You move your soul the same way you move your hand. It's just that the soul isn't restricted by the laws of matter."
So Ares tried.He focused on the threads around him, the ones that pulsed faintly with Rodan's spellwork. He tried to move toward them — not with muscles, but with intention. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, his awareness stretched. The edge of his soul pulled forward, trembling, uncertain. The shape of him lengthened — a soft filament of light, clumsy and newborn — and for an instant, it touched one of the motes.
It stayed.
Ares gasped, a soundless intake of awe."I did it," he thought, half laughing. His joy tasted strange and electric.
Astro hovered near his ear, unimpressed. "Barely. You touched one. Don't get smug. You need at least a hundred to make a passable weave — and they have to sit in perfect pattern, or the whole thing falls apart."
Ares didn't answer. He was already trying again.His movements were messy, the filaments trembling and splitting. But with each attempt, he understood a little more: how the motes resisted alignment, how his will shaped their edges, how Rodan's black threads weren't simple tools but woven commands.
The old man hadn't looked up once, but Ares could tell he knew. Occasionally, a faint ripple of light from Rodan's body would surge toward Ares, restoring his fading glow — not kindness, just maintenance. The kind of care you gave to a tool you didn't want to break.
Hours passed unnoticed. Maybe days.Time here was strange, folding and stretching like the weaves themselves. Ares's soul grew thinner, papery at the edges, but his control deepened. By the third day, when he finally managed to hold two motes together in a fragile knot of green, he felt both elation and exhaustion down to his core.
He'd done it — his first weave.
Rodan didn't speak, didn't even glance at him. He simply continued his own work, black strings whispering against one another, endlessly forming. Ares didn't care. The small, trembling knot floating between his hands was proof — crude, imperfect proof — that he could touch the world's fabric.
Astro circled him lazily, tail flicking. "See? Told you. Now don't let it collapse. It isn't complete; it'll fight back."
Ares smiled faintly. "I can hold it," he said — but even as he did, the knot flickered and dissolved.
Rodan's voice came then — not loud, but sharp enough to slice through the stillness."What do you think you're doing?"
The gray air trembled. Ares froze.
Rodan's eyes burned black-blue, their strings writhing. "You think I pour my will into you for amusement? You're to observe, not meddle! Those motes are tied to your soul's edge — play with them, and you'll tear yourself apart!"
Before Ares could speak, a lash of blue light cracked through the air. It struck him across the chest, wrapping him in threads that burned cold. The force of it hurled him inward — into the pulsing dark behind his eyes, through the narrow tunnel of Rodan's magic.
Then —Light.Weight.Pain.
He gasped awake.
The wooden shack came back into focus — or what looked like wood. The walls were carved from stone so finely that each grain carried the illusion of bark. The air smelled faintly of resin and dust. Rodan sat by the table, eyes half-closed, the last few black threads curling from his fingertips like smoke.
"You're awake," he muttered. "Good. Don't waste breath. You're alive because I've been feeding your body light for a week. Get up."
Ares tried to speak, but only a hoarse sound came out.
Rodan flicked his wrist. "No excuses. Get me my fourteen bowls."
Ares blinked — and before he could even move, a burst of unseen force hit him square in the chest. The world folded — and in the next instant, he was thrown out of the shack entirely.
He landed hard on a wooden table.
A sharp scream cut through the air.
Beth stood over him, clutching a ladle like a weapon, her eyes wide with alarm. Then she recognized him — thin, filthy, half-naked — and the alarm melted into irritation.
"You look like you crawled out of a furnace," she said. "And you stink. What happened to you?"
Ares tried to answer, but the sound that came out was a croak. He swallowed, throat raw.
Beth sighed, the corners of her mouth twitching. "You can't even talk. How many times do I have to tell you to take care of yourself? Stay still."
She turned to the stove, stirring a pot with practiced rhythm. The scent that filled the pantry was unlike anything he had ever known — bright and earthy, something that roused his hunger. When she set the bowl in front of him, the liquid gleamed white, steaming faintly.
"Drink," she said simply.
The first sip struck him like lightning. Warmth coursed through him, weaving bone and blood back together. His breath deepened; his skin filled. Within moments, his strength returned, the hollowness in his limbs replaced by something steady and alive.
He looked at her with genuine wonder. "What is this?" he rasped.
Beth smiled faintly. "A secret. And don't you dare ask for more."
He managed a weak laugh. "I wasn't going to."
"Good," she said, though the gentleness in her tone betrayed her concern. "Now wash up before the smell kills me."
Ares obeyed. The bath took long; days of grime and gray sweat clung to him like second skin. When the last of it washed away, he stared at his reflection — pale, unfamiliar, yet whole. His body had changed. Stronger. Sharper. The soup had done something more than heal him — it had tuned him.
When he stepped back into the pantry, the world felt clearer.
Then, without thinking, he opened his Real Vision.
The world breathed differently.Every stone, every plank, every thread of air was carved with patterns — bright and precise, humming with restrained power. The barrier that separated this quiet hall from the sea of fire outside now shone visibly, a lattice of invisible threads keeping the world intact. Even the light itself was structured — flowing in measured rhythm.
He took a step, awestruck.Everything was alive.
Beth's voice broke through his reverie. "Why are you spacing out?" she said from behind him. "Are you still feeling unwell?"
Ares looked back at her. Her eyes were silver, not the black he had seen in Rodan. "Can I get another bowl of that white soup?" he asked.
"Don't get greedy now," Beth complained. "It's not something easy to make. I can get you the gold one as much as you like."
"Really?" Ares said. "Then please make me twenty bowls." He grinned and left without waiting for a response. He could hear her complaints, but he knew those twenty bowls would be ready by morning.
Ares wanted to sleep. As soon as he opened the door to his room, he found Emma waiting. She greeted him.
"Did you manage to make some progress? You've been gone for about a week," Emma said, her usual poker face unchanged.
Ares froze, horrified by what he saw in her. He felt nauseous just looking at her. That horrible thing inside her made him sick — shaped like a salamander, coiled and breathing.
"No progress," he forced himself to say. "Just tired and in need of rest."
Emma studied him for a moment, frowning — but she didn't press. "Very well. But you know, it's been weeks already. Maybe we should find someone else to make the lens for you. You can't start your first semester without one."
Ares looked up sharply. "No," he said. "I'm close. I can feel it."
Emma shrugged, her face unreadable. "As you wish, my lord," she said softly, as if it didn't matter to her, and turned to leave.
The door closed behind her, leaving Ares in silence. He couldn't stop thinking about that horrible thing inside her.