Flynn stepped into his room and froze. The door creaked softly behind him, shutting out the bustling sounds of the brothel corridors. This was… different. Unlike the narrow, crumbling apartment he had lived in before, this room had space. Enough space to move without brushing against walls. The floor was polished dark wood, reflecting the soft glow of lanterns hung in the corners. The bed was wide, cushioned with thick blankets and soft pillows—luxury he had never known. Even the air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sweet he couldn't name.
He walked slowly across the room, letting his hands graze the furniture. A sturdy wardrobe stood against the far wall, doors slightly ajar, revealing neatly folded linens inside. A small desk sat by the window, overlooking the courtyard below, with a single feather quill and ink bottle waiting as if inviting him to write. He had never felt anything like this.
"This… this is amazing," he murmured to himself, leaning against the bedframe. He sank into the mattress, testing its softness. It swallowed him whole, a comforting weight he hadn't realized he'd been craving. A faint smile tugged at his lips. For once, he felt… safe.
After a long moment of staring at the ceiling and savoring the stillness, hunger reminded him of its presence. He pushed himself off the bed, stretched, and opened the door. The hallway outside was alive again—voices, footsteps, laughter. He drew the cloak around his shoulders tighter, keeping his face partially hidden.
The brothel's atmosphere was… peculiar, to say the least. Women leaned from balconies and doorways, attempting to catch his attention with smiles, flirtatious gestures, and teasing words. Flynn, flushed and embarrassed, avoided eye contact. "Not now," he muttered under his breath. He had more pressing matters—learning to control the ring, learning to pray, learning to survive.
He passed a cluster of men arguing loudly near a small bar. One of them shouted so violently that a glass bottle shattered, spraying beer across the floor. The women didn't even flinch; this was all routine. Flynn shook his head, impressed and repulsed all at once. This place, with all its chaos, seemed alive in a way the city streets never were.
Pushing forward, he exited into the sunlight. The streets outside were noisy, cluttered with merchants, wandering children, and the occasional carriage rattling past. He followed the directions Bretta had given him, weaving through narrow alleys until he arrived at a small, dimly lit shop tucked between two larger buildings.
"Ah, fresh face! Looking for food or something more?" the shopkeeper called, waving a hand toward his shelves, which were stacked with vegetables, grains, and dried meats. Flynn selected a few items: fresh bread, some dried meat, a handful of rice, and an apple.
Then he remembered why he had really come out. "I need… ritual materials," he said hesitantly. "Candles, incense, things for a proper altar."
The shopkeeper's eyebrows rose. "Ah… you're serious then. You'll want the corner stall, two streets over. Old man Jiren sells all kinds of… spiritual supplies. Candles, incense, powders, oils, herbs… the works. Careful, though. Some of it is meant for more than just prayers."
Flynn thanked him and followed the directions, arriving at a cramped shop with incense smoke curling from a dozen holders. Shelves were stacked with jars of herbs, powders, and oils, some labeled with strange symbols he didn't recognize. He picked up what he needed, remembering Bretta's instructions:
Three black candlesticks – representing focus, protection, and energy.
A small bowl of sand – to create the altar circle.
A bundle of white incense – to cleanse the area and carry the prayer.
A small silver chalice – for water or other offerings.
A vial of salt – to ward against negative energy.
A white cloth – to cover the altar and separate it from mundane surfaces.
A small bell – to signify the start of the ritual and awaken spiritual presence.
He paid the old man, who gave him a look that said clearly: Good luck, boy.
On the way back, the streets were alive with chaos. He witnessed a man staggering out of a bar, face red with anger and alcohol, only to be met by a woman whose fists rained down on him. The crowd gathered, murmuring and laughing, some taking sides. Flynn barely blinked, though his heart raced. One wrong move, and this world could devour anyone unprepared.
Finally, he arrived back at the brothel. The hallway smelled faintly of incense and perfume. He slipped inside his room and closed the door, shutting out the chaos.
Now came the hard part.
He unpacked the materials, placing them carefully on the small table in the center of the room. He remembered Bretta's instructions with vivid clarity. "The altar must be a space of focus, a circle of protection. Everything has meaning. Candles, incense, offerings—every piece draws the energy toward you."
He began carefully. First, he laid the white cloth across the table. The folds were neat, edges aligned, forming a blank canvas. He poured sand from the small bowl into a smaller dish and traced a perfect circle in the center of the cloth. The circle would be the boundary of his ritual space, the line between the mundane and the divine.
Three candles were placed at equal intervals along the circle: black for protection, red for energy, and white for clarity. The incense was set to the north of the circle, standing upright in a small holder, ready to release its cleansing smoke. He added the chalice of water at the center, the salt sprinkled in a thin line along the circle's edge, and finally, the bell at the side, where he could reach it without disturbing the arrangement.
He stepped back, breathing slowly. The room was silent except for the faint flicker of candlelight. Shadows from the candles danced on the walls, stretching like living fingers. He could almost feel the air thicken, as if the room itself were watching him.
Flynn thought of the gods he had heard of in stories: Freya, the Sky Goddess, Morvain, even gods he didn't know. None of them felt right. Their promises of power and guidance felt hollow.
Then, hesitating, he whispered to himself, "Cosmos…"
It was a long shot. A fallen god, barely remembered in the human realm, yet there was a pull in the name. It was vast, cold, and unknowable. If the prayer did not answer, he would know at least he had tried.
He closed his eyes, kneeling before the altar, hands resting on his thighs. He remembered Bretta's words: "Speak clearly, speak from your heart, and let your energy flow through the circle. Respect the boundary. Do not rush. Do not falter."
He struck the small bell, a sharp, clear sound that echoed in the quiet room. Smoke rose from the incense, curling upward, carrying his whispered intentions. He poured a small amount of water into the chalice, letting it ripple as he murmured a silent greeting. He traced the sand circle lightly with his fingertips, imagining the boundary strengthening, forming a protective dome around him.
"Cosmos," he said aloud this time, voice trembling slightly. "I call to you. I do not know if you still hear, or if you care, but I seek guidance… strength… protection. My life is in danger. My world is crumbling. Show me a way, if you still linger in this realm."
The room remained silent. The candles flickered, casting shapes across the walls. The smoke from the incense swirled higher, forming shapes that looked almost like shifting constellations.
Flynn felt a chill creep down his spine. The hairs on his arms stood up. The shadows of the candles seemed to stretch closer, moving as if alive. He gripped the edge of the table, heart hammering in his chest.
A low hum began to fill the room. It was faint at first, like a distant vibration, then grew louder, resonating through his bones. The chalice trembled, ripples forming across the water's surface though no wind had touched it. The incense smoke thickened, curling into patterns that almost seemed to pulse with intent.
Flynn's eyes widened. He could feel something… ancient… watching. A presence that was vast, yet strangely cold and indifferent. His pulse quickened. His lips parted to speak, but no words came. He could feel the ring on his finger respond, warm and insistent, almost alive.
"Focus," he reminded himself. Breathe. Command. Respect the boundary.
Slowly, he extended both hands over the chalice, imagining energy flowing from himself into the circle, into the candles, into the incense, into the salt line. He whispered again, softly this time, "I offer this as a gift. I ask for your attention, Cosmos. Please, guide me, teach me, if you still linger in this world."
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the flame of the red candle flared violently, throwing shadows across the room. The air grew thick, tinged with ozone. The incense smoke spiraled upward, forming a dense, swirling vortex. The chalice trembled once more, water inside glowing faintly under the candlelight.
Flynn's breathing caught. He had no idea what he had just done—but something had heard him. Something had acknowledged the call.
He sank to his knees, chest heaving, heart hammering. His hand brushed the ring. It pulsed gently, almost like a heartbeat.
This… is only the beginning, he thought.