“The Caliber System of Power.” Altaizar clenched a fist before him. “Is a simple and sometimes imprecise way of categorizing a Gift Wielder’s or Life Enforcement Practitioner's skill, or strength and proficiency with their art. However, Divine Breath is a different beast: a cultivator of Divine Breath grows by raising and ascending their Spiritual Tower.”

  “I read something about Towers in one of your manuals.” Matthias glanced in the direction of Altaizar’s library on an upper floor.

  “Ah yes, the manual you were in the middle of stealing.”

  “I wasn’t stealing it!” Matthias looked down in shock. “I was copying from it!”

  “In other words, you were stealing the knowledge inside it?” Altaizar raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean…” Matthias considered his words. “If I learned what was in the manual, but you kept the manual itself, is that actually stealing? I took nothing away from you.”

  Altaizar groaned. “There are mages who would flay you alive for making such an argument. If you were ever to meet Mistress Eldwinter of the Vale of Magi…” The mage’s grey eyes lost focus for a moment, as though examining some distant memory. He shuddered. “Never mind. Whether the knowledge was stolen or not, the point is that you are correct: I was referring to the same Towers the manual mentioned.”

  “What are they?” Matthias asked. “Do I have to build a tower like a mage would? To study, meditate and do experiments in?”

  Altaizar laughed. “Ah, that’s a funny question. No, actually. The Tower you will be building is a spiritual one. A Tower that exists in your soul.” He tapped his chest.

  “And what is this Tower that exists in my soul?”

  “A Divine Breath Cultivator’s Tower is the seat of their strength, a spiritual sanctum they can retreat to through meditation, and a representation of their power. Their spiritual advancement is represented by a new layer or floor being built in their Tower. How many layers one’s tower has is how Divine Breath Cultivators identify and rank each other. For example, if I were a practitioner, I might be referred to as Altaizar of the Tower of All Mystic, Eighth Layer.”

  “And what would that mean?” Matthias frowned.

  “The Tower of All Mystic means that I would be cultivating the Divine Breath of both Laurahasa and Melakar, and that I would have advanced to the Eighth Layer—or eighth tier of power—in my Tower.”

  “If cultivators of Divine Breath are ranked by Layer, how many Layers are there? I mean, I guess I’d be starting at the First Layer—”

  “Actually, you would start at the Foundation Layer.” Altaizar corrected him. “Every building needs a foundation to stand upon, and spiritual Towers of Divine Breath are no different. First, you would create the Foundation for your Tower. This opens you to your path. Then your next step would be to solidify your Foundation, which takes a very long time: once that foundation is strong enough to support the future layers of your Tower, you can begin building it. The highest layer is the 13th, which represents the penultimate level of power of a Divine Breath cultivator.”

  “Penultimate? That means second to last, right? So, what’s beyond that?” Matthias asked.

  Altaizar pointed upward. “The Endless Sky. If I achieved that, you would refer to me as Altaizar of the Tower of All Mystic, Master in the Endless Sky.”

  “That sounds so legendary…” Matthias’ eyes shone.

  “It represents the ultimate boundless freedom of the sky. When one achieves that, they gain invulnerability from aging, disease and many forms of violence, not to mention incredible power. Even the magic that grants the strength, robustness and immortality to the Artenesian elves pales in comparison.”

  “Incredible,” Matthias murmured.

  “Even before reaching such lofty heights, though, a cultivator will achieve fabulous powers, unlocked with each Layer they ascend. Those powers come from the deities that you choose to cultivate. The Foundation Layer is no exception: it will feature a ‘power stone’, which will reveal the power born within that Layer, laid out in cosmic lettering. All other Layers will have their own power stones as well. You will be able to read what is written on them—as well as the name of your Tower—despite what languages you can understand.”

  Matthias was almost drooling. “I can see why people try this, even though it’s so deadly.”

  “Yes, most people want power, Matthias, but very few attain it,” Altaizar said somberly. “Do you know why most people want power?”

  Matthias thought carefully. “In my case, power means freedom. I want to be strong in order to be free. Free from Kari. Free from my father. Free to choose my own life. Free to avenge myself on anyone who takes something away from me. Free to live.”

  Altaizar’s spectacles shone in the firelight. “Most people who crave power want it so that they can be free. The tricky thing is that most people aren’t willing to do very much to gain that power and freedom. Oh sure, if a shiny gold coin rolls and lands at their feet, they’ll snatch it up…but tell them to climb a massive mountain for ten thousand gold coins and they will baulk, cringe and complain, asking why the large amount of wealth doesn’t simply appear at their feet.”

  He sighed. “It’s sad, really. Too many people are too frightened to do what must be done to better their lives. And I can’t help them: I can only help people like you, those who are willing to do what must be done, even if they might pay the ultimate price. Speaking of that, we are going to need you to become aware of your soul. A cultivator cannot Awaken without that awareness. But it will be hard.”

  Matthias’ hands balled into fists. “My life has been hard.”

  Altaizar’s eyes flashed. “This will be harder.”

  “I am going to need you to close your eyes.” Altaizar looked at Matthias gravely. “Promise me that you will not open them under any circumstance.”

  “Why?” Matthias asked. The red of the sunrise had been replaced by the blue of a mostly cloudless day. Mage and student were standing atop Altaizar’s tower, two bags were draped over the teacher’s shoulder.

  “What are you going to do?” Matthias asked.

  “How are you with heights?” The mage raised an eyebrow, his silver hair blowing in the wind.

  “Fine.” Matthias shrugged, looking over the side of the tower. Had he feared heights, climbing up here would have been a problem two nights ago.

  “Maybe you don’t have to close your eyes, then.” Altaizar glanced at the sky. “Fine, you can keep them open. You might enjoy this.” The mage raised his hands. “Winds, carry us according to my will. Hold us close and let sweet air flow through our lungs. Let not your chill sting our faces nor freeze our bodies. Now, let us fly!”

  His words smote the air, it shuddered around them.

  “Wait wha–aaaaaaargh!” Matthias cried; his feet were abruptly pulled from the stones.

  The wind rushed, and howled, then roared.

  As Altaizar’s laughter boomed over the valley, he and Matthias shot into the sky.

  Matthias screamed, his belly clenching.

  The ground, trees, village and Altaizar’s tower shrank below them; the air’s chilly bite deepened as they quickly rose, Matthias fighting the urge to kick at the distant ground below him.

  He could feel something—the air itself, he realised—grasping him from all sides, carrying him into the sky with a gentle touch. His mind whirled.

  “We’re flying?” he cried.

  “Of course we’re flying!” Altaizar laughed. “A half-baked hedge mage might walk, but me? The wind comes when I call it, and carries who I tell it to carry! Isn’t this wonderful?”

  In no time Matthias’ cries fell away, transforming to bubbling, delighted laughter. “This is straight out of legend!”

  “Glad you think so! Now, enjoy it while it lasts: at this speed, we’ll be at our destination in about ten minutes!” the mage called back, his blue cloak whipping behind him like a battle flag.

  Matthias fell silent, his eyes boggling at the sights. For most of his life he’d lived in these mountains, but never had he seen them from such a vantage point.

  His perspective stretched out in all directions.

  The Godshield mountain range reached beyond the horizons to the north and south. To the west, the High Kingdom of Evalmera’s forests and green rolling hills spread out endlessly, while—to the east—the ominous shadows of the Wolfwood unfolded.

  As he marveled, the peaks swept past them at tremendous speeds; a distance that would have taken days to cross on foot, was being spanned in mere minutes.

  Soon, he noticed the howl of the wind lessening; they were slowing as they approached a mountain river to the northeast of his home.

  A river coloured a sickly, orange red.

  He recognized it and his eyes bulged from his skull. “Isn’t this Vein of the Mountain? It’s at least four days from home!”

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  “Not as the wind flies.” Altaizar’s tone was more than a little smug as they descended. “Have you seen it before?”

  “Only on a map,” Matthias admitted, listening as a roar grew in the distance. A metallic tang tinged the air.

  The Vein of the Mountain’s riverbed was filled with iron deposits that leaked an endless stream of rust into the rushing water. It gave the river its bloody, orange tint and name: seeming like a vast blood vessel, pumping out of the peak’s heart toward a great waterfall known as Blood’s Drop.

  At the falls, the river poured into a massive, red plunge pool.

  “Why are we here?” Matthias asked as they floated toward the waterfall’s base.

  “The soul is a quiet thing!” Altaizar called over the roaring river. “But you must learn to hear it under any circumstance! This place brings an assault to the senses: the red of the river draws the eye, the roar of the waterfall drums in the ears, the cold and pressure of the water can crush the body, and the tang of rust overwhelms the nostrils and even touches the tongue. All five senses are overpowered when one stands beneath the falls of Blood’s Drop. And it is here that you will learn to hear, see and touch your soul.”

  “Wait, what?” Matthias looked at the bloody basin. “You want me to stand under those falls? I thought you said the soul was quiet: wouldn’t staying in your meditation chamber help me hear it better? You know, taking out distractions is good for…noticing quiet things!”

  “You would think that.” Altaizar pointed toward the stones beside the rusty falls. “But the world is a loud place. What good is learning to hear your soul in a place of utter silence? Finding a single candleflame in the dark is easy, Matthias. But finding a single candleflame in a field all aflame while the noonday sun beams down? Now that is challenging. You’ll learn far more from finding that candle among the fire than you would in the dark and stillness of the night.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Matthias admitted. “But…what do I do to hear my soul? Do I just listen closely?”

  Altaizar floated above the water, pointing at the falls. “You will step under the waterfall, and begin meditating.”

  “Okay, that seems simple enough—”

  “While under the effect of these hallucinogenic herbs.” Altaizar pulled a packet of dried leaves from one of his bags.

  “Yes, I see—Wait, what?” Matthias froze.

  “Listen, there are monks who spend decades in meditation before finally catching a glimpse of their soul.” Altaizar pointed to one of the nearby mountain peaks. “Often in complete isolation. Do you want to become a monk for the next twenty years?”

  Matthias rapidly shook his head. “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Excellent, then we’ll use a shortcut. Most cultivators do.” Altaizar pointed at the herbs again. “This is Soul’s Lace: an herb that grows in graveyards under the black moon if a child has been born nearby. When dried and swallowed, it can enhance one’s senses for the spiritual. Under its influence, one will hallucinate, may see the spirits of the departed—if they linger in the area—or even gain an awareness of one’s own soul. Of course, if one isn’t careful, the herbs will melt their mind into dregs.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Matthias asked, his voice flat.

  Altaizar looked down at him. “Do you still wish to proceed?”

  “Absolutely.” The boy extended a hand.

  “No hesitation?” Altaizar’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re continuing to impress me, Matthias.” He floated over, placing the packet in the waiting hand. “I am going to go behind that tree over there and study some samples I collected from the Wolfwood. Strip down so that the water can contact your bare skin. Then, take the herbs and slip through the waterfall: there’s a cave behind it where you can sit and let the water hit your shoulders and back. Meditate there for as long as you can, then come out when the Soul’s Lace wears off.”

  He placed a hand on Matthias’ shoulder. “Even using this method, it will take you the better part of a week to gain awareness of your soul: we’ll need to use multiple sessions over days. So please don’t push yourself too hard. It’d be a shame if you didn’t even make it to the Awakening ritual.”

  “Wait, er, what will my soul look like? Or feel like?” Matthias asked.

  Altaizar paused, giving the question a long moment of thought. “All souls are different, tinged by our emotions and personalities. A soul that often gives into rage will be fiery hot. A soul that is mired in sadness will be cool and damp. One filled with love will be warm, comforting and bright. A soul mired in hatred will have a caustic tang to it. But one thing they all share in common is their light: souls emit a powerful radiance, much like sunlight. To know one's soul is to gain power over it; to direct one's own sun. Or...with the right tools, another's sun."

  "What do you mean?" Matthias asked nervously. "Does the different emotions and personalities of one's soul affect if we can succeed?" He silently wondered how the shadow-tendril might affect things.

  "They should not. A soul, even one that has Awakened spontaneously to divine breath, should safely undergo this process."

  "Wait, what about that part about power over another's sun with the right tools?"

  Altaizar's look turned dark. "Do not ask about the ways of Old Magic too lightly, young Matthias. You might not like the answers you'd find. Many have killed for such knowledge. Killed even their own kin."

  Matthias felt his blood chill. There was a glint in Altaizar's eye.

  He felt reassured about one thing: he would make sure to tell only those he trusted most about the shadow-tendril manifesting when he'd gone off the cliff, such as his own family.

  Matthias did not like the mage's expression right at that moment.

  Matthias neatly folded his clothes on the riverbank and stepped toward Blood’s Drop. Wet stones led to the side of the waterfall where one could pass through it and into the cave behind the red falls. In his right hand he clenched the dose of Soul’s Lace. His left clenched nothing.

  Damp, chilled air bit his skin. The tang of rust assaulted his nostrils and tongue. The roar of Blood’s Drop thundered in his ears as he stepped through the falls. His body flinched, cold stabbing through his naked form as he entered the dark cave behind the curtain of red water.

  Matthias strode through the icy river—muscles stiff, his face grimacing—until he reached the middle of the waterfall and looked down at the Soul’s Lace. Beneath it, his shadow twitched.

  Without a word, he opened the packet, dropped the herbs into his mouth and began chewing.

  At first, the taste was like dried grass, then pops of flavour emerged with every crunch; it was like tasting a mouthful of spices.

  The flavours began transforming.

  His eyes grew wide as he savoured things almost forgotten; honey porridge he’d eaten as a small child, salmon pulled from the river and roasted for his seventh birthday, his first taste of Godsreturn mead when he was ten, or the boar and bear stew his mother cooked when they’d been travelling.

  Forgotten flavours rose in his mind, bubbling with every bite of the herbs.

  He swallowed.

  Soul’s Lace slid down his throat in an explosion of sensation; it felt like he’d eaten chips of pure glacier ice and swallowed fire all at the same time, then the herbs landed in his belly like a falling star.

  The ‘impact’ drove him to his knees, and he quickly crossed his legs, sitting erect with the waterfall crashing down on his back, pressing him toward the stones.

  His head bowed forward and he closed his eyes, falling into his breathing cycle.

  The warmth and ice of the Soul's Lace spread through his body. His skin began to tingle.

  ‘Way of Stone. Way of Stone. Way of Stone,’ he repeated the mantra in his mind, trying to focus his thoughts.

  The task grew harder.

  His muscles stiffened.

  The water pounding on his back felt like it had quintupled in weight, crushing him down. The tang of rust became blood, filling his nose and mouth. The roar in his ears exploded like a thousand voices.

  His eyes were shut, but light invaded them—prying its way through lids squeezed tight—raking over his pupils. Colours he could not name flashed before his vision in a torrent of motion, forming millions of shapes, all exploding on each other.

  ‘Way of Stone, Way of Stone, Way of Stone,’ he continued.

  He repeated the mantra through his thoughts.

  All the while he listened, felt, tasted, smelled and saw; in the blaze of sensation, he looked for what lay beneath. What was beyond his five senses.

  It was a struggle.

  With every passing heartbeat, the Soul’s Lace wreaked havoc through his mind. It tore at his senses, destroying his every thought, melting all sensation into a river of chaos.

  Even as everything around him collapsed, his body grew…louder.

  He began to feel the sensation of his organs, how his muscles touched the inside of his skin, the wet slide of his eyes in their sockets. Blood squelching through blood vessels, his heart pounding in his chest, sloshing in his ears. His nose caught every particle of his own scent, he could taste his own teeth and the roof of his mouth.

  Every sensation of his body—all normally beneath his notice—now raged through his senses, overwhelming his mind. He felt as though his form was no longer his own, instead transformed into what it truly was: a wet collection of viscera and organs all wrapped around a scaffold of bone. Even worse, he could feel things too small for his naked eye to see crawling across his skin, through his mouth, in his lungs and guts.

  His mind recoiled from the revelation but, more and more, the sensations forced their way through his consciousness: he saw himself as no different than flesh cut up on a supper table.

  Every bit of once-living organisms that had passed through his mouth and into his belly…he was the same as them. Strange urges struck him, and his teeth clenched so hard, they felt like they would explode from his mouth.

  For a heartbeat—one that seemed to explode on itself stretched endlessly—a powerful, self-destructive desire came over him. His body disgusted him, it was like dead meat that had forgotten to rot.

  ‘This meat needs to be cut up and destroyed, scattered and left for the beasts,’ he thought. ‘Or better yet, dashed off the side of a cliff. Yes, the cliff! I should have died at the bottom of that cliff. Should have been dashed and broken apart for the gamrungs to feast on. I…I need to correct that. I need to—”

  Something touched his leg, startling him.

  He looked down.

  Through the warring menagerie of colours and shapes, he could see his leg—seeming to melt into thousands of centipedes—touching his shadow. His shadow cut through the sensations racing through his consciousness.

  The sight reminded him of why he was here.

  What was at stake.

  What he wanted his life to be.

  The once overpowering urge to destroy himself was now disgusting to think about; a thought outside his own, brought on by the Soul’s Lace.

  It could be overcome.

  ‘Way of stone. Way of stone. Way of stone. Way of stone,’ he thought, the mantra pushing through the torrent of sensations assaulting him, trying to tear his mind apart.

  He felt like he was peering over the edge of a cliff, looking over a sea of blood. If he plunged in, he would die.

  Instead, he simply turned away.

  Grounding himself in the moment, in his body, and his shadow…his consciousness returned. The sensations still assaulted him, but he had regained a measure of control.

  ‘Remember why you are here,’ he thought. ‘To find your soul. To find it and learn to breathe with it. To gain power. To gain freedom.’

  His heart tolled like a bell in the god of death’s temple.

  ‘To gain revenge.’

  He forced his mind to search for the silence in the storm of sensation.

  ‘My soul will be quiet,’ he thought. ‘But where do I begin to look for it?’

  Slowly, he scanned every part of his form, passing by the rush of his blood vessels, the squelch of his muscles and the thundering of his heart.

  Something quieter than that.

  Then, as he looked, a thought occurred to him.

  ‘Is my soul my body?’ he thought. ‘No, it isn’t. I can’t start looking for it in my body. I have to look elsewhere. Like…’

  His eyes found his shadow.

  There it was, lying beneath him; he could feel it touching both his skin and the stones beneath it.

  ‘If my shadow-tendril comes from Divine Breath, wouldn’t that mean it’s already connected to my soul?’ he wondered. ‘Even if it isn’t from Divine Breath, it’s a good place to start looking.’

  He followed his shadow, sliding his attention along it like he would if he was examining his arm…

  …and noticed something.

  The Soul’s Lace was elevating his senses beyond the natural, and with that he found that his shadow connected to something deep inside him. He reached deeper until—

  All fell away: the sensations from his body, the hallucinations from the Soul’s Lace, and the assault on his senses from the Blood’s Drop.

  As the physical turned to nothing, what was left was the mental and spiritual.

  The mental was his own mind, viewing what lay before him.

  And what lay before him?

  A blindingly bright light in the shape of a familiar silhouette floating in a void: that of Matthias Stonebreaker.

  ‘There it is!’ he thought, joy racing through him. ‘My soul…but what’s that?’

  He could see the radiance that was his soul—it bore the scent of acid, blazed hot, yet smelled sweet and was warm all at once—but there was also something else. Something was coiled around his soul like a vine wrapped around a tree—fusing with its light—a vine leading to what looked to be some sort of sprout, like a sapling finally bursting from the earth.

  It was a thing of utter darkness.

  Colder than the heart of winter.

  But smelling of decay.

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