Ares wished that night would swallow him whole.He lay awake, hoping for oblivion, but the image of that thing — the one inside Emma — wouldn't leave him. It hadn't looked evil, exactly. It had looked wrong. Something alien, something the world itself had rejected but hadn't yet spat out.
He realized then why Rodan was so abrasive toward Emma. Anyone who looked too long into that shape would recoil. Ares didn't blame him. The memory of it left a residue in his soul — cold, sticky, and unbearable.
Eventually, thought unraveled into blankness, and he sank into sleep.
When morning came, he rose wordlessly and stepped into the bath. The water shimmered faintly against his skin. On instinct, he opened his True Sight.
Instantly, the world unfolded.
Every droplet hung in the air like a crystal, each bound to the others by threads of silver geometry. Some formed perfect cubes; others spun in inverted V-shapes, tumbling endlessly and reforming again. The forces that connected them pulsed with a soft, quiet harmony.
Even the plainest things, under True Sight, were magical.
When he finally stepped out, he felt newly made — the dull ache in his body replaced by quiet awe.
The pantry was alive with motion. Beth stood by the stove, her hair tied back, stirring something bright. When she turned, her eyes caught the morning light and flared faintly silver.
That was her lens, he realized — not a device, but a living weave that shimmered inside her pupils. A quiet, gentle power. If Rodan's weave was a black hole, hers was morning light. He noticed that her lens didn't bore down into her soul container but floated like a luminous layer atop her eyes.
She noticed him staring and scowled."Don't just stand there. Help me! Twenty bowls of soup — they won't make themselves."
He smiled faintly. "I don't know how. Can you teach me?"
Beth raised an eyebrow. "I was thinking more along the lines of cutting ingredients. You want to cook?"
"Yes," Ares said. "The orientation's a few days away, and one thing I want to take with me is your food."
Beth beamed at that and started with full gusto. She named ingredients Ares had never heard of. He made quite a few mistakes, but Beth gently guided him through them.
Beth's Soul-Replenishing Soup
Ingredients:
Three caps of glowcap mushrooms — golden, firm, gathered only under the breath of dawn.
One root of sky fennel (ground to pale dust).
Two drops of condensed sunwater, drawn from a mirror at noon.
A handful of grainfire seeds — dry but humming faintly when crushed.
A sliver of dream salt (careful — it hums against metal).
Instructions:
Warm the pot to a steady medium heat; it should remain constant throughout the process. The essence of the ingredients must be guided out, not forced.
Slice the glowcaps thin — seven cuts per cap.
Stir thrice counterclockwise and seven times clockwise.
When the broth gleams with a golden hue, the soup is ready.
Ares followed each step carefully, copying her gestures exactly — but when he tasted his creation, it had all the flavor but none of the magic. No warmth filled his limbs, no energy coursed through his soul.
Beth's version, however, shone faintly and filled him with that same vibrant light as before.
"What did I do wrong?" he asked, frowning.
He leaned closer and caught a glimpse — fleeting but clear — of faint letters glowing inside the broth. They appeared for only a few seconds before dissolving into the soup. Beth was weaving runes directly into the food — a detail she had masterfully omitted from the recipe.
Everyone has secrets, Ares thought, but he didn't press her. Instead, he tried to burn the image of the runes into his memory.
Two inverted omegas, each formed from seven motes of green mana arranged along thin strands of white light. The pattern repeated five times, forming a complete circle — a rune. The weaves weren't written onto the soup; as soon as each rune was complete, it dissolved into it. Ares would never have known if not for the black lens Rodan had given him.
Beth caught him staring."Stop wasting time. We've got ten more bowls to make," she said flatly. He could see the fatigue in her eyes and felt guilty.
"Yes, ma'am. I'll get right on it." He saluted her playfully and started working, carefully analyzing the runes she was creating.
"Ma'am, huh? I like the sound of that," she replied with a smirk.
It took another hour for them to complete the ten bowls of soup. Each one was secretly blessed by Beth under the guise of correcting his mistakes. Ares took every chance to observe the weave from as close as possible.
Beth's cooking — and her weaving — was an art. He could see her silver soul-strings gently guiding the green motes into intricate forms. Her method was utterly different from Rodan's.Rodan's weaving was like a hammer — each mote nailed into place by force.Beth's was like water — she corralled the motes gently, then bound them with a single elegant stroke.
Later that day, Ares tried to replicate Beth's method. It proved far harder than he had expected.
He had promised Rodan fourteen bowls, so he kept six for himself — a small greed, easily justified. The soup's energy would be a necessary panacea for his soul.
He extended his soul, shaping it into the familiar thread of light. This time, when it emerged from his eyes, he found it much easier to control. The white soup had nourished him well. Previously, his soul's form had been the size of a penny; now it glowed as large as an orange.
He smiled. Yesterday, it had been a fragile filament. Now it had weight, and he could extend it nearly two feet from his eyes.
He reached toward the motes drifting nearby and created channels for them to follow instead of forcing them together.
First two, then five, then ten. Each mote slid into place with soft resistance.
"No… this isn't right," he muttered. "Beth's movement felt like water — creating a path. Mine's too rigid."
He adjusted, seeking more fluid control and less friction. He shaped his soul into the form of an omega — a hollow tube — and slowly the green motes began pouring into it. Ten, fifteen, twenty—
Boom!
A thunderclap of blue light tore through the air, scattering the soul channel. Ares barely reacted in time; he had formed the pattern meters away, and the blast only seared the edges of his vision.
The sensation of his will being torn apart was indescribable — a lesson he never wanted to repeat. It took a while for him to gather his wits. His soul buzzed with pain, his will frayed at the edges.
He gulped down a bowl of golden soup. It dissolved instantly, warmth flooding him. He could see his soul knitting back together, even growing slightly stronger.
The failure was terrifying, but it taught him more than success ever had.
He began again.
Twenty motes. Strain on the channel. This time, instead of forcing it, he released.Rebuild. Expand.Again. Again.
Each attempt burned through his energy, but he could feel the gradual growth — his soul toughening, his control refining. The progress was almost invisible, yet undeniably there.
By dusk, his vision blurred from exhaustion, but the light around him seemed gentler, as if the world itself approved.
He leaned back against the wall, smiling faintly.
Somewhere in the gray world, an old man with frazzled hair stared into nothing."Where are my fucking bowls?" he screamed at the top of his lungs.