The hours pressed on, each tick of time feeling like a weight pressing down on Morgan's chest. Now so close to his room, the remnants of his earlier ordeal clung to him like a second skin. The walk back had been torturous; every step felt like dragging a boulder uphill, the dark aether pearl nestled uncomfortably on his shoulder. Was that nurse really expecting him to push through this—this searing, biting, stinging pain? Insanity, really. But perhaps she knew better than he did what to do with a body so steeped in dark energy. A physical manifestation of his dark aether leaving his body, she had said. Well, if he didn't know any better, he'd say that for once in his life, he might be extraordinary.
As he entered his room in the barracks, the door clicked shut behind him like a lock sealing away the world. He slumped onto his bed, hissing as he lowered himself down, the cushions offering little comfort against the torture that was his body. Who was crazy enough to create this technique? He already knew the answer, of course. The creator of this technique must have loathed themselves deeply to inflict such suffering on others. But in the strange world they inhabited, he could almost understand their madness. After all, in the realm of magic, no one had much to go off of. The earlier techniques usually got the job done—though never without a cost.
Sitting there on his bed, the ache in his shoulder felt like a brand, searing into his flesh, a constant reminder of his limitations. He wished he could simply power through it. Yet his body was weary, every muscle ached as if he had run a marathon. Was it really worth all this pain? He glanced down at himself—the shirt that hung loosely on his frame, a reminder of the promise he had made to fill it out by the year's end. Yet here he was, still an unformed shadow of what he aspired to be, while his fellow soldiers in the Royal Legion filled out their uniforms, muscles rippling with the vigor of growth. He felt like a ghost, existing in a world of flesh and bone but refusing to take part in its vitality.
The self-reproach crept in, nagging at him like an uninvited guest. He paused at every ache, surrendering to the weight of his inadequacies. How could he expect change and growth if he did nothing to address what was wrong? If he made no move to be better, how would better ever arrive? He wanted more; he needed to be more. With his eyebrows furrowed and jaw tight, he sank to the floor, wedged in the cramped space between his bed and the dresser. He crossed his legs, pain radiating through him, yet he rested his palms on his knees, grounding himself in the moment.
Taking a deep breath, he visualized once again, summoning every ounce of aether within him to coalesce into a mana core. The familiar dizziness washed over him, his head spinning, breath constricted in his lungs as if the very air conspired against him. He could no longer feel the pull of gravity, but he pressed on, the aether resonating with the world around him. The excess—the bits and pieces of aether that refused to settle—he guided out, but the resistance was as unyielding as ever. The sting persisted, that cloying, dark tar feeling clinging to him like an unwelcome embrace, yet he pushed forward.
And then he felt it—the sting of pain where the dark pearl of aether had once been embedded in his shoulder. He was lost within his own body, but he fought through the pain, the ache, the unbearable heat that coursed through him. He pushed on, determined to overcome. He refused to be the architect of his own failure. Morgan Nyxarios would no longer be the obstacle standing in his way. He had once been stuck like static, trapped in a life that felt more tragic than he could articulate, and yet he was the cause of it—no one left to blame but himself.
What was he really expecting? For all the time he had remained stagnant, so many things around him had shifted, transformed, and evolved. The only constant was himself. How could he cast blame elsewhere? The thoughts swirled chaotically in his mind, pressing against the walls of his consciousness like a storm. Then, amidst the turmoil, he felt it: the pop and the slow diffusing of pain. The sensation no longer felt like a white-hot rod searing through him.
His eyes flew open, disbelief coursing through him. The sting had subsided, along with the dizzying spiral that had consumed him. He quickly reached for his shirt, yanking the fabric over his head despite the residual ache in his shoulder. But when he looked down, expecting to see the dark pearl of aether protruding from his skin, he found only a hole—loose skin around what had once been a part of him. The dim light of the room flickered with shadows, the hour late and the nurse likely preparing to retreat to her own quarters.
Lifting his right palm, he placed it gingerly over his left shoulder, murmuring an incantation. The words flowed from his lips, a melody that felt right. Why did it feel so effortless? Something had shifted within him, an unfamiliar ease in the magic that resonated with his very essence. But now was not the time for contemplation. He needed to complete the healing spell and succumb to the fatigue that weighed him down.
Morgan drew in a ragged breath and began again, fingers trembling as he traced the half-formed circle into the air above his skin. As he chanted, a vibrant green spell circle materialized above the open pore beneath his palm. His voice was hoarse, each word heavy with a strange gravity, as if drawn from a well of ancient power. "Ætherion vitae, vulnera claude, corpus novare." The incantation pulsed in the air, each syllable infused with raw strain. The glow of the circle intensified, its light searing against his skin, and for a heartbeat, he feared the power might slip away from him. But he held on, forcing the words into existence, feeling the magic respond—his skin began to shrink and gather, knitting itself back together as breath steadied and life clawed its way back into the broken body before him. The pain faded, and in mere moments, his tanned skin appeared as normal as it ever had. Yet as he examined himself, his gaze was drawn to the dark purple veins snaking across his fingertips. A chill ran down his spine—what was that?
Before he could delve further into that disturbing thought, a sharp pang of pain throbbed in his head, a burning sensation that left him disoriented. Enough was enough. He needed sleep—needed to escape this waking nightmare and hope that by morning, everything would feel distant, as if it had been a dream.
With tremendous effort, he pushed himself up, his arms feeling like lead, his legs like wet noodles. But he wouldn't relent. Finally lifting himself, he heard it—the sound of something hitting the floor beneath him. Confused, he looked down at the dimly lit ground, and there it was—a shimmer breaking through the darkness. He bent down, picking up the aether pearl, heavy in his grasp, thick like two of his fingers. That was madness; that thing had just been inside him.
Spinning on his heels—an ill-advised decision—his legs almost buckled beneath him. He hobbled over to the bedside table, and with weak arms, he nearly slammed the pearl down. The room spun violently, and as he attempted to climb into bed—now moving as erratically as the floor—his vision darkened. He felt himself crash, hitting the floor with a thud that reverberated through his bones.
Oh, bliss—the cold wooden floor against his hot, sticky, sweaty body. The realization struck him like a wave: he was sweating enough to pool beneath him. But before he could ponder any further, consciousness slipped away, and he faded into a dreamless sleep, unburdened by pain for the first time in hours.