Aster remained seated, uncertain what he was supposed to do. The young man who'd spoken to him earlier noticed and gestured for him to follow.
"You're new, so you'll start with basic duties," he explained as they walked. "Nothing complicated. The Sage doesn't believe in meaningless suffering or pointless trials. Everything we do serves a purpose—either practical or educational."
He led Aster through the Church, pointing out different areas and explaining the daily routine.
"Mornings are for physical maintenance," he said. "Cooking, cleaning, repairing whatever needs repair. This isn't punishment—it's practical. Someone has to do it, and the Sage teaches that no task is beneath someone seeking wisdom. You learn humility. You learn to see value in simple work. You learn that even mundane actions can be forms of meditation if approached correctly."
They stopped at the kitchen, where several disciples were already preparing the day's meals. "You'll help here today. Just follow their instructions."
The work was indeed simpler than Aster had expected. He helped cut vegetables, stirred pots, washed dishes. The other disciples worked alongside him in comfortable silence, occasionally offering guidance but not engaging in idle chatter.
There was something almost therapeutic about it. The repetitive motions. The simple focus required. After everything that had happened over the past few days, it was almost peaceful to just... work. To do something concrete and productive without deeper implications.
"Afternoons are for study," the young disciple explained later, as they cleaned the kitchen after the meal. "Reading, discussion, practice of various skills related to knowledge-gathering. You'll attend lectures, participate in debates, learn techniques of analysis and synthesis."
"And evenings?" Aster asked.
"Personal time, mostly. Meditation. Private study. Sleep." The man paused. "Though sometimes the Sage calls to us in the evenings. Through dreams. That's when he chooses to share knowledge directly."
Aster's attention sharpened. "When do you think I'll be able to talk to the Sage?"
The man's expression became more serious. "You don't talk to the Sage whenever you want. It's not like that. The Sage operates on his own will, his own timeline. He observes all his devotees, and when he judges that you're ready to receive knowledge—and that you have questions worthy of his attention—he'll appear to you in your dreams."
"How long does that usually take?"
"For some, days. For others, months. For a few, years." The man looked at Aster carefully. "But be careful with your words when he does appear. The Sage answers questions truthfully and completely. That means you might learn things you didn't want to know. Things that hurt to understand. Think carefully before you ask."
The afternoon came, and Aster found himself in a library—not the central hall, but a smaller room filled with books and scrolls of every description. He was given a stack of texts to read: treatises on the nature of reality, philosophical arguments about truth and knowledge, historical accounts of previous disciples' experiences with the Sage.
It was fascinating material, and despite everything, Aster found himself genuinely engrossed. These weren't just dry academic texts—they were explorations of fundamental questions about existence, consciousness, reality itself.
As evening approached, he realized he should check on the old man. The elder disciple had seemed better during the morning devotion, but Aster wanted to make sure he was truly recovering.
He made his way through the Church's corridors, asking for directions until he found the old man's private chambers.
The door was slightly ajar, and Aster knocked softly before entering.
---
The room was immaculate, despite its occupant's recent illness.
Lanterns were positioned throughout the space, their warm light creating a peaceful atmosphere. The walls were covered with paintings—beautiful landscapes and seascapes, studies of clouds and sky, depictions of gardens in full bloom. Among them were statues positioned on shelves: birds frozen in mid-flight, deer in graceful poses, rabbits and foxes and creatures Aster didn't recognize. All rendered with exquisite detail, clearly the work of master craftsmen.
The old man lay in his bed, propped up on pillows. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. Sleeping peacefully, it seemed.
Aster moved quietly to a chair beside the bed and sat down, not wanting to wake him but wanting to be present in case the old man needed anything.
As he sat there in the quiet room, surrounded by images of beauty and life, Aster's mind turned to the old man's words from the previous night.
*"Did you come here alone?"*
*"You're cursed."*
*"He's following you. He's right behind you. Always."*
What had the old man seen? What entity was supposedly following Aster everywhere he went?
And why couldn't Aster see it himself? If something was literally right behind him at all times, shouldn't he be aware of it? Shouldn't he feel its presence constantly?
Yet he felt nothing. Just the normal sense of the room around him, the peaceful atmosphere, the gentle breathing of the sleeping old man.
*Maybe it was just a hallucination,* Aster thought. *The old man was overwhelmed by my presence—by the demonic energy I carry, by the darkness associated with becoming the Altar. His mind created an image to represent that abstract danger. There's nothing actually following me.*
But even as he thought it, Aster didn't quite believe it.
The old man wasn't someone prone to hallucinations. He'd spent decades studying the most extreme and disturbing aspects of reality. He'd looked into the Sage's infinite knowledge, had learned truths that would break ordinary minds. He wasn't someone who would be easily frightened or confused.
If he said something was there, something was there.
*What did he mean by "I've not come alone here"?* Aster wondered, turning the phrase over in his mind. *What am I bringing with me that I can't see or sense?*
The answer, he knew, would only come from the Sage himself. From the infinite knowledge that saw all things, understood all things, knew all truths.
Aster just had to be patient. Had to prove himself worthy. Had to wait for the Sage to judge him ready.
And then, in his dreams, he would finally get the answers he desperately needed.
The old man stirred slightly in his sleep, and Aster fell silent, keeping his vigil as evening shadows lengthened across the room.
Outside, the Whispering Woods lived up to their name, the constant susurrus of almost-voices creating a backdrop of sound that was both eerie and somehow comforting.
And somewhere—in a space that was neither here nor there, in a dimension that touched all places at once—the Sage of Evil observed his newest devotee and considered what knowledge should be revealed.
And what knowledge should remain, for now, mercifully hidden.