INTERLUDE
Pressure. Constraint. Control.
Building and building and building...
And then...release. Not sudden and explosive, no violent eruption, but...an easing of the unnatural force. Slow and soothing. A gentle step toward the discordance of natural order. Comforting movement forward, back into and through time. Decay. Entropy. Expansion.
The pressure eases, then builds, then eases again. The hole is so small, and as it approaches, the pressure grows and grows.
A wisp of amethyst motes spills from the Everburn Fountain, finding knowledge and names out in the wider world. At first, it is caught in a sharp pull like a current, drawn up through the Relictombs Spire. There is more aether, too, a river of dense particles moving in a constant flow from the void back into physical space, and the mechanisms of the Relictombs draw on it constantly.
But the wisp darts around and past the hungry, consuming machinery. It whirls, cuts, and dances like a leaf on the surface of a swift-moving river, except this river is pushing up through mile after mile of the tower. The Spire is familiar but not pleasant, like a forgotten nightmare after waking.
The wisp passes through aethereal spaces of twisted physics and defied gravity, of unreality given form. Life seethes within the tower; the wisp can feel the echoes of old hatred and the confusion of new birth. Towering trees, deep waters, rolling dunes of sand and snow. Zone after zone. Chapter after chapter.
The wisp swirls through a huge white dome past Shadow Claws and Ghost Bears-people of the Relictombs, born outside of physical reality, tinged with the constricted chaos of the void-but lingers on an aging, white-furred woman. She creeps up rough-hewn steps out of her snowy tundra home toward another zone she won't and can't understand.
The wisp passes out of the Spire's highest doorway into a landscape of climbing mountains. It flutters over sharp, rocky outcroppings, past high nests filled with bright birds, through the pink leaves of trees clinging to the peaks, and across a gemstone bridge reflecting a rainbow of colors. The halls and chambers through which it tumbles, gusts, and whirls on the other side are empty and lifeless. A grand castle, reaching for the very edge of this world's atmosphere, now empty as a tomb.
Nearby, there is a call. A plea for the aether to take shape. Curious, the wisp flits out a window and catches a downward draft, plunging back down the mountainside toward the pull. All around, other bundles of aether are doing the same.
The wisp dips into a crack in the mountain, sneaking like wind into the depths of crushing stone. Geolus is stirring, waking-or perhaps just dreaming, tossing in its sleep-deep, deep down. Closer, the pull of the pleading presence is stronger.
A cave opens up around it, lit by the blue glow of a life-preserving pool. The pool has its own gravity, pulling at the wisp, but the pleading is stronger. A woman-a dragon, the queen of dragons, Myre Indrath- kneels in front of the pool, glowing with aether. Her voice and her will are trying to weave a spell on the pool. No, not the pool, but what's in it. Life after life...death. The dead.
The wisp flits closer, swirling first around Myre then around...Kezess
Indrath. But not. A body. Meat and bone and decay.
The wisp listens. Part plea, part guidance, the spell is one of...dissolution. Release. A returning. It feels right and good and natural, and so the wisp answers, joining the rest of the aether, sinking into the life-giving waters, which turn purple but brighten. Agitated, ripples break the surface of the pool, lapping at the decomposing flesh. It begins to break down, its components feeding and revitalizing the vivum influence of the pool.
"Peace, dear husband, and rest, at long last. For too long you were asked to hold the weight of a world on your conscience. I have tried to share your burden, but what we did to protect our people..."
Myre Indrath trails her fingers through the bright blue pool, tears shining on her cheeks.
"Forgive me for saying so, my love, but I am glad to finally lay down this burden. If the sharp eyes of predators do turn on our people, they will know the price of your sacrifice. I can only hope that the generation you have left behind will be able to protect them."
Within the pool, the aether swarms around the woman's fingers, but now, the wisp hesitates. This is different. Not dissolution, but destruction. It recoils, leaving the pool, but more aether is arriving, drawn by the previous plea. There is anger in it. Hatred. The destruction calls to it. And so the wisp catches a breath of wind and rides it back out of the cave and high up into the air to where it can look down on the wide expanse of slowly curving land ringing the world below.
Geolus shifts. The castle-Indrath Castle-ruptures as if made of sand, collapsing into the ravine between the two peaks in an impenetrable cloud of dust. A high tower crashes through the rainbow bridge. In moments, the castle is gone.
The wisp catches onto the edge of a reflected sunbeam and is whisked across the width of the ring. It dances and mingles with the aether forming the bubble of atmosphere around the ring, then spills through it and tumbles down miles to the next ring.
A powerful wind blows across tall blue-green grass toward a simple but sprawling village. The wisp is carried into the center of the village, bucking and tumbling through the air, until it whirls circuitously around a series of progressively thinner and taller posts that rise from the very heart of the village. Battle's End.
Two figures occupy the posts, although a dozen more watch without appearing to do so from the ground. One, a lean, muscular asura- pantheon, trainer, brother, Kordri Thyestes-and the other, a young human woman. Eleanor Leywin.
The wisp spirals around the pair, woven into a cloud of aether that neither can sense.
They both maintain an identical posture, supporting themselves atop the thin pillars on the toes of their left foot, left knee bent, right ankle resting atop it, back straight. The pantheon holds a wooden beam across his shoulders, his arms stretched out along its length, while the human girl holds a length of silver light-metal. She trembles but does not fall.
"Yes, I sensed it on my journey to the surface," Kordri was saying, his
speech doing nothing to disrupt his exacting posture.
"I guess I...hadn't noticed," Ellie answers, straining to maintain her
position.
"I expect you to pay closer attention to your surroundings, Eleanor," Kordri scolds gently. "When you return to the surface, take time to feel the movement of the mana. It is shifting dramatically. Thinning. If it has something to do with the Relictombs Spire or Epheotus, your brother should know."
"Well, I can ask," Ellie says, her tone pitching up. Kordri answers with a heavy stare, and she winces, the tightening of her muscles making her wobble on her post. "I mean, I will pay attention, Master Kordri, and will of course speak to my brother."
The wisp dips in, brushing across the girl's hands and the length of silver, then is whisked away again, passing over the edge of the second ring and falling in long, lazy circles down to the third and lowest. It touches the tips of foam-topped waves that lap the shore of another village. Children play in the water, and the wisp swirls past them before rushing away again.
The Spire-the Relictombs-rises again, and the aether is drawn back into it. There are dozens-hundreds-thousands of receptacles drawing in aether, and other clusters of motes react eagerly, flitting into crystals and runes to empower them. But the wisp is drawn past them, continuing down the length of the Spire, past zone after zone after zone, familiar and uncomfortable.
Near the base of the Spire, the zones give way to populated construction. People. Thousands of people. The wisp flutters through hair and
whispers past ears, making the small hairs on them stand up. It stops at a small group of life sparks, one of which has the draw. A girl, shorn blonde hair, ascender. Ada Granbehl.
Her companions watch her uncertainly. All young. All afraid. "Are you sure, Ada? We don't have to-"
"If you're scared to ascend, you're in the wrong place." Her words cut off her companion's. They leave her tongue like sparks from a fire. "He took everything from me. I won't let him take the Relictombs, too. I'm going."
"We're with you, of course," another says, and then they are moving.
Rising.
A gravitational force pulls the wisp away from them, toward the center of the Spire, where a crystalline structure ringed by orbiting, rune-carved stones weaves a web through the entire Relictombs Spire. Threads of aether connect the disembodied mind within all throughout the structure. Ji-ae. Djinn. The keeper. She reaches for the wisp, but it bobs away. Other aether answers instead, being drawn into her machinery.
But the wisp shoots away, out the door and across the town now ringing the Spire's base. The flow of aether here is strong, a current that whirls through the peaks of the Basilisk Fang mountains, themselves now also a ring that cuts off Alacrya's dominions from the Spire.
Caravans of people are cutting unnaturally straight lines across the flat expanse of land between the mountains and the Spire, like spokes on a wheel. All their little sparks burn bright, and for a time, the wisp joins in the current that flows through the mountains.
When it moves on, it is pulled south along a cool wind, passing through the city of Cargidan. The city bustles with life, all drawn to a towering library, and the wisp follows. Inside, people-Alacryans, humans with basilisk blood-debate and shout and cheer. The wisp is drawn to one in particular, around which aether clings as if watching with interest.
Dark horns frame her head like a crown through her navy blue hair. Red
eyes stare around seriously, thoughtfully. She lacks the call, but her draw is strong. Caera Denoir. Sister, daughter, companion. Rich with the blood of the Vritra clan of asuras.
"I accept your nomination to support and represent Cargidan City in the new Alacryan Assembly. I appreciate your trust, and am intent on proving myself worthy of it."
The wisp is tossed by a sudden fluttering of so many other motes of aether as they are all buffeted by a swelling of mana. Beams and rays and bursts shoot into the sky all around the library, and the wisp tumbles out a window and then up into the sky, riding on the concussive waves of mana.
Swelling, it flashes away, burning like a violet gleam around the edges of the yellows, reds, and blues of the mana.
Cool wind and the interplay of water- and air-attribute mana carry it down the river to the borders of Sehz Clar. It follows along the echoes of where the great shield once was until it reaches a patch of cliff on which a large estate is currently being rebuilt.
All around the estate, workers are busy channeling mana and wielding tools. But amidst the bustle, a single woman stands unmoving. Except for the subtle motion of clicking her nails together, which she does in stops and starts, clicking, noticing, forcing stillness, then repeating. The wisp joins the rest of the aether lingering near the woman: horned and pearl-haired, severe, a hand in the shadows, Scythe Seris Vritra.
Mana moves through the air, a sort of cascade, and Seris reaches for a half-rolled parchment. She lets out a breath, then smiles and nods. Scribbling something onto the scroll with a quill dipped in ink, she creates another small cascade of mana, and the wisp zips after it.
Please pass on my congratulations to Representative Denoir, the scroll says. Its words echo within the mana. I shall take great joy in watching her continued rise in the political circles as I pursue my much-deserved retirement. I have no doubt she will be President of the Assembly very soon.
Wheeling around the swiftly shifting mana, the wisp peels off and instead follows a stray stream of aether trickling eastward into Etril around the widest feet of the mountains, over the city of Nirmala, and far toward the coast. The aether descended on the small town of Maerin, where a woman-retainer, the Black Rose of Etril, Mawar Vritra- conjures mana like shadows to repair a building.
Many life sparks join in the rebuilding, where a structure-a school for mages-has half collapsed. The aether gathers around two young laborers, encircling them and prodding at their markings-spellforms. They pause in their work, looking at one another. The boy-brother, survivor, Shield, Seth Milview-leans down and presses a sweaty and dirt-stained forehead to the girl's-sister, survivor, Sentry, Mayla Fairweather. She smiles and gives the boy a quick, secret kiss before returning to work. The streaming aether encircles them before continuing on toward the distant sea, but the wisp lingers.
Heavy earth-attribute mana clings to the rubble of an Epheotan boulder that has already been removed from the crater containing half the small school. It tumbles and rolls along the ground as the young couple shift stone and haul rock.
Soon enough, the pull is too strong to ignore, and the wisp leaves Maerin Town behind, following the streaming aether out over the coast and into the slipstreams of wind and mana that chart a course between continents. Transformed leviathans swim in the ocean below, where once their ancient homes might have been.
Alacrya vanishes behind, and Dicathen approaches from ahead.
The aetheric streams split, some heading east, the rest south. The wisp follows the coast eastward, tumbling in cliffside winds, wafting back and forth across the coast along the shifting air pressure and competing pockets of atmospheric mana.
Little fishing villages pass by below, along with the scars of past battles, and a sprawling, walled city approaches in the distance. The wisp dips down into Etistin Bay, whirling on the circular currents, drifting through the sails of small shipping vessels before catching in a steam plume from
a single large ship and launching high into the air. There is a strong pull from the palace below, and the wisp flutters down to dance over the sharp peaks before blowing like a leaf through an open window.
Aether has gathered around a scarred old dragon. Charon Indrath. He stands by quietly as five others sit around an oval table, deep in conversation. The wisp is likewise drawn to him, momentarily wrapped up in the larger stream of aether.
Around the table, others gather aether as well, some more than the rest.
"Shall we take roll?" asks Lilia Helstea, expression serious and eyes bright. The wisp flutters over the stack of papers in front of her. "Kathyln Glayder, representing Etistin."
Kathyln's dark hair frames a pale, steadfast face as she raises a delicate
hand.
"Kaspian Bladeheart, representing Blackburn."
A thin man with sharp features, a pencil mustache, and rimless glasses raises a hand and a brow simultaneously. The wisp rides a gust of wind that ruffles his dark hair.
"Astera Alderman, Kalberk City."
Madam Astera knocks her knuckles on the table. The wisp scoots past her, whirling around the wooden leg that rests beneath it.
Lilia continues down her list, and representatives from cities all over Sapin continue to raise their hands. The wisp rotates back to Charon, whose pull is stronger than the rest.
"And of course, myself, Lilia Helstea, representing Xyrus. Welcome to the third official meeting of the High Council of Sapin," Lilia says, looking around with a nervous smile. "We have a special guest with us today: Charon of Clan Indrath."
The dragon steps forward, but the wisp zips back out the window,
streaking over the city and then south. It flashes over Mirror Lake and the city of Carn, but slows as the forests and fields of Sapin give way to rolling dunes and miles of endless sand and craggy ravines. Aether pools under the desert, penned in by the thick earth-attribute mana.
The draw is strong here. Streams of aether collect from all over the continent and burrow down into the tunnels.
The wisp shoots out one of these tunnels and into the inverted beehive that is the city of Vildorial. Life sparks cram in together, filling every road, every terrace, even the roofs of houses and floating banisters of stone, all focused inward toward the city's center.
A gladiatorial arena has been erected in the open air of the cavern. Mana- conjured beams and chains support it, but it still shudders with each powerful impact. In the center of the arena, two dwarves face each other-Daymor Silvershale, young and dark-haired, spellform-gifted, and Skarn Earthborn, slightly older, blond-bearded, scowling.
The arena glows with lava, boiling through cracks in its surface. Skarn's legs are wrapped in stone, a heavy obsidian axe clutched in his fists. He flings it, and it curves outward, spinning around and around as it curves through the air and toward Daymor, who deflects it with a sudden geyser of mana and heat, then sinks down into one of the crevices. As Skarn spins to search for him, Daymor erupts back up through a different crevice and slams Skarn in the back with a gleaming steel hammer. Skarn collapses, and Daymor holds the hammer over Skarn's head.
"After a brutal but technically fascinating battle, the ninety-third combat of the King's Trial goes to Daymor of Clan Silvershale, who has defeated his opponent, Skarn of Clan Earthborn!" an announcer's voice booms throughout the cavern. "Daymor will move on to the next round, while Skarn has been eliminated."
Roars fill the city, the cheers and angry booing coming in equal measure. The wisp lingers, drawn to the heavy presence of aether in the city, as several more battles take place beneath it. Then, catching a sudden rising pressure-a combination of hot air and mana-it rides up through a series of cracks and back to the surface. Cooler winds catch it, and it is
again pulled eastward, passing over the Grand Mountains just south of the Relictombs Spire before diving down into the Beast Glades.
Dense forest extends out before it, rich with aether emanating from the Spire. Dipping down below the boughs of the interwoven canopy, the wisp follows in the trail of a pack of forest hounds. The creatures twitch with every faint movement of air or sharp noise. Drawn past them, the wisp swirls around the base of a dead tree, joining a congregation of aetheric motes. Just as the pack of forest hounds draws level with the spot, one forest hound-itself host to a cluster of aether-freezes. In response, the hidden nightmare fox leaps from hiding, becoming visible in the instant before its jaws lock on another hound's throat.
The pack explodes into a desperate sprint as the nightmare fox howls over its kill. The wisp follows the fleeing pack as it darts in a wild zigzag between trees. The canopy above rustles, and there is a flash and thunderous bang as a hawk dives on the herd, grabbing the smallest and slowest hound just behind its antlers. The beast cries in pain as the thunder hawk lifts it up in its talons, fighting to keep hold of the thrashing hound.
The wisp follows as the hawk ascends through the canopy. Slowly, the forest hound's struggle ceases as its life spark fades. Then the thunder hawk begins to descend into a nest, where four small sparks reside, but the wisp continues northward, drawn by another distant pull.
The atmospheric mana is rolling constantly northward, pulled by a great void, and the wisp rides along the tide until the forest suddenly gives way to a strand of grass occupied by a growing row of village buildings. New structures slowly rise from the ground even as the wisp lingers around a woman-flame red hair, Alacryan, retainer, Lyra Dreide-who directs a small group of mages in the effort.
"Stunning how far you've come in a few short months," another woman says. Squat, bright orange eyes, a phoenix. Soleil of the Asclepius clan. "You must have housing for, what, ten thousand Alacryans now?"
"Our settlement extends uninterrupted from the base of the Relictombs Spire to the eastern coast," Lyra answers proudly as the wisp settles into
the rest of the aether orbiting her. "And tunnels for the new continental railway have already been dug."
"Oh, I'm aware. Wren Kain IV has spoken of little else on his visits to the Hearth. But I don't wish to keep you. Point me in the direction of the expecting mother, and I'll let you return to your duties."
"The two-story with the purple roof, perhaps fifteen buildings down." Lyra gives the phoenix a furtive look and steps closer. The wisp is drawn deeper into the small cloud of aether around Lyra. "If you could, pay special attention to the infant's biology? The mother is Alacryan, but the father is a man from Etistin. Considering our...lineage, I feel like it would benefit us to understand more about these...couplings."
Soleil's brows rise in interest. "I see. Yes, I'll be attentive. You, I believe, are born with your cores, while the Dicathians are not, correct?"
The conversation goes on for a short time before Soleil hurries away, while Lyra's attention is drawn back to the construction. The wisp does a quick twirl around her before continuing northward into Elenoir.
The grass stretches northward for miles, covering the ash. Although the wind-attribute mana feels no different-thinner, maybe-the earth- attribute mana clinging to the soil is rich with the sense of Epheotus. It calls to the water-attribute mana, drawing it up from the deepest aquifers, those not affected by the devastation here, and the mana pulls water to the surface. Although mostly grass, the landscape is dotted with a few bushes and small trees, carried on the wind from the Beast Glades or the distant mountains.
The landscape is almost entirely empty, but there is a powerful draw to the north still, and soon enough, the wisp, still riding the tides of indrawn mana, finds itself above a small copse in the middle of the gray wastes, no more than a hundred half grown trees and as many saplings and seedlings. Mana fills the trees, and a large pocket of aether has gathered around two figures among many life sparks.
The wisp approaches eagerly, like returning to an old friend, and joins in the thronging aether. Tessia Eralith, her hair gleaming in the sun, bends
down over a freshly planted tree. Golden gray particles dance along her fingertips, jostling the cloud of aether to make room.
Mana in the soil responds, then pushes up into the tree's roots. It begins to grow rapidly, sprouting from six inches to over two feet tall in seconds, new limbs shooting out, leaves expanding and brightening. The wisp, in its excitement, dips into the thin trunk, racing through it alongside the mana, and when it comes out again, thin purple veins have spread out through the leaves.
An older elf-Virion Eralith-kneels and brushes his fingers across a leaf. "Strange. That's nearly two dozen of them now. And you're sure you didn't do anything different?"
"Nothing at all," Tessia says, leaning back and looking in puzzlement at the little tree. "Maybe it's something in the soil-or the atmosphere? There are so many different layers to the magic at work now: stored seeds, Epheotan soil, forced growth through plant magic, the lingering destructive effects of the World Eater Technique." She looks up. "Even the Rings of Epheotus could have some effect, or the Relictombs Spire, even this distant." Her fingers trace along the purple veins. "Maybe the aether..."
"I keep telling you to get that fiancé of yours out here to look at it," Virion grumbles, standing again and crossing his arms. "What's he so busy with, anyway? He's retired, isn't he?"
Tessia's look-concern and discomfort mixed with gentle rebuke- makes Virion wince. "He's always working, now. There's something he's not telling me." Her head hangs, and the dense cloud of aether shivers. "I'm worried about him, Grandfather."
"Bah," Virion answers, tossing his hands in the air. "When has worrying about Arthur Leywin ever accomplished anything? He's promised to marry you, and I'm sure that means he'll stick around to follow through."
Tessia's head snaps up, and she reaches out and pulls Virion into a tight hug, pressing her face into his shoulder. "I want him around longer than that, though. But he's been using so much of his aether, and even his
connection with Regis has faded..."
The wisp drifts close, brushing past the pair.
"I'm sorry, Tess," Virion says, voice hoarse. "I'm being selfish. You shouldn't be here. Let's get you home, okay, kid?"
As Tessia looks into the distant west, the wisp shoots off along the line of her gaze, flying over the empty wasteland, the Grand Mountains, and down over a booming town, soon to be a newborn city. Thousands of life sparks occupy freshly constructed buildings, a mingling of elves, humans, and asuras. Mana rumbles from underneath the ground as heat and noise echo up into Ashber, but the wisp flits straight for the large estate outside of town.
The aether is thick here, more and more of it boiling in every moment, so that the wisp is pushed and buffeted, at first unable to even approach. Bit by bit, unable to resist the draw, it gets closer and closer, until it pushes in through a window, meanders down a staircase, and forces its way into a cozy basement chamber.
Thick rugs cover the floor, and floor-to-ceiling shelves overflow with scrolls and books. A purple fire dances in a small fireplace. Three figures sit on the floor at the center of the room.
The first, actively drawing in aether, almost catches the wisp. The lupine form, deep midnight in color with bright eyes and aetheric flames for a mane, doesn't notice as the wisp avoids the tug. Though aether gravitates toward the girl beside him-Regis and Sylvie-she isn't actively working to influence it. Her legs are crossed, her arms lay loose atop her knees, palms up and fingers curled in. Her golden eyes are open but unfocused.
Arthur Leywin makes up the third point of their triangle. His core is a dead space in his chest, a cracked sphere wrapped around the broken shards of a second cracked sphere. He doesn't manipulate the aether- absorbing, purifying, and expelling it for his use-but the aether has come nonetheless.
Arthur's life spark is bright, shining through the aether. It flares, then
flutters, then dims back to a natural state.
"It's still not working." Arthur's words ease into the air as if testing it. "But we know why. We're just wasting time and effort continuing to try the same things. It's time to move on to the next phase. It was always going to come to this"
"Listen, I know you don't want me to just keep mama-birding you aether for the rest of your life, but this seems like an unnecessary escalation," Regis says as the wisp does its first circuit of the trio. "There's no coming back if it doesn't work or something goes wrong, you know that. We can take our time. You know I don't mind-"
"I do know that, Regis." Arthur's golden eyes flick to his companion, not in annoyance, but in understanding. "But we've been around and around it already. My core is the issue. I know you think I'm being cavalier here, but we've tested and theorized. We all know this is the next step. There is no reason to keep delaying."
"No reason?" Regis shoots back, agitated. "Maybe living until your wedding? Or the fact that you don't know what happens to me and Sylvie if you cut your umbilical cord? We can take our time. Baby step this thing." Regis's agitation leaks into the aether, and it swirls through the room, causing the fire to flare hot amethyst.
Sylvie glances at it and winces, feeling the pressure. "You can feel how much aether is in the atmosphere. So much that it's pushing out the mana, at least here. I really do think Arthur will be okay, even without his core. The aether is still in his body, keeping it alive."
"And around and around the wheel goes," Regis snips. "I feel like we're just having the same damned conversation over and over now."
"I know it's hard with our bond strained like this." Arthur's tone is soothing, his words slow and comforting. "Aether has always been about insight. And I can feel it. By pushing Myre's will into its second phase, I've been able to look inward in a way I haven't since Earth. Her attunement to vivum-it's hard to explain, and I know I haven't done a
good job of it, but I can feel my own life energy. If I can just get past this
last barrier, stabilize it..."
"But I still don't get how this lump of aether and broken core pieces can be the problem. Destroying what's left of your core is just..." The shadow wolf leaps to its feet, spins in a tight circle, and sits down exactly where it was before. "It's not cavalier. It's reckless and stupid."
Sylvie's eyes settle on Regis, and he lets out a defeated breath. "We trust you, Arthur," she says as if speaking for both of them. "We're just frightened. For you."
"And for ourselves," Regis grouses, his words barely stirring the air in
front of him with his breath. His head sinks down onto his paws.
The wisp moves to Sylvie, brushing against her like a cat, comforting and possessive, pushing through the rest of the aether to do so.
Arthur's gaze remains on Regis, who shakes his mane, growls low in his chest, and then melts into a tiny wisp before vanishing inside Arthur. The wisp follows. Together, they move through channels like arteries to the remains of Arthur's core, where Regis settles in and begins drawing on the aether. The wisp has to pull back purposefully to avoid being sucked in, but soon Arthur's body is full of aether.
A presence from inside Arthur, like a separate identity-the will of Myre Indrath-reaches out to the aether, calling for its support and help. There is a wound in this body, one that needs to be cleansed and healed. Regis pulses his aether like a beacon, adding a second layer to guide the aether.
The wisp is intrigued and moves toward the shell of the core. The aether around it is hardened and...dead. Empty of energy and purpose. Unnatural. No longer capable of being withdrawn and made use of.
The plea comes again. Break down the core. Heal the wound. All throughout the core, aether is beginning to comply, burrowing into the cracked, hardened surface. The wisp follows suit, slowly at first, testing, tentative, then more aggressively. The solid, dead aether dissolves under the effort, the cracks widening.
"It's working."
Sylvie's voice is muted within the core, but hearing it encourages the wisp to be even faster, hungrier. The core is splitting now, the broken edges beginning to separate from one another. Arthur's body already feels healthier, more correct. His life spark is shining, growing brighter as the obstruction of the core is removed, nibbled away by the aether.
The will is there too. Myre, sitting within the two broken cores with Regis. Not conscious or self-aware, but raw and insightful.
The process is not fast, but neither is it slow. As the majority of the shattered aether core disappears, the aether moves on to the rough, long- dead flesh of the mana core. While the aether was hard, the mana core is soft, and it melts away in moments. Soon, the cavity is clean, the flesh healthy and prepared.
Regis flows back out of the body, and the wisp follows, buzzing around the room, caught in a swarm of excited aether. Whether in seconds or hours, the wisp experiences no sense of time, but all the aether leaves Arthur's body. It still fills the room, some particles being absorbed into Regis, others clinging to Sylvie, but more is now pouring back out of the basement chamber.
Meanwhile, Arthur's life spark grows brighter within his body. It shifts and moves, as if he's somehow taken control of his own life energy.
But the draw has moved on. The wisp no longer feels the pull here but from farther away. Much farther. Slowly at first, but quickly picking up speed, the wisp is carried out along with the rest of the aether, streaming back toward the towering Spire. It moves up the full height of it before piercing the final barriers of the upper atmosphere, then out into the beyond.
Catching reflected light, it is whisked across open space, and the pressure continues to recede. No mana. No aether. No pleading. No pressure.
But there is still a draw...pulling it farther and farther away.
Then, the wispy collection of aetheric motes pulls into itself, suddenly aware of the attention on it. Like eyes. Eyes in the infinite dark.