Chapter 5: The Unseen War
The training began at first light, but it was nothing like the martial drills Captain Vorlik oversaw on the other side of the courtyard. There were no practice swords, no shield formations. Leander gathered his small, uncertain group in the dusty square where the Awakening had begun—Elpis, Roric, Orion, Delia, and a handful of others, including the shamed youth from the day before, who introduced himself as Cyrus.
"Close your eyes," Leander instructed, his voice calm but carrying. "Don't try to grasp your power. Don't try to command it. Just feel it."
Orion, the brawler, shifted impatiently. "What good is feeling it? I need to punch harder, faster."
"And you will," Leander said, meeting his gaze. "But if you throw a punch fueled by blind rage, who might you hit besides a demon? Your power is an extension of your will. If your will is scattered and fearful, so is your power."
He had them sit. He walked them through breathing exercises, feeling the energy within them as a current, not a weapon. For Elpis, he described it as the gentle heat of an oven, needing careful control to bake bread, not incinerate it. For Roric, it was the steady, unwavering light of a lantern in the dark, a shield against the shadows, not a blinding flare.
It was slow, frustrating work. Orion grumbled. Cyrus struggled to focus. But then, something shifted. Roric, his brow furrowed in concentration, managed to sustain his shield of light for a full minute without it flickering. A quiet sigh of relief went through the group. It was a small victory, but it was theirs.
The real test came that night.
Leander was pulled from a shallow sleep not by a vision of Azhoroth, but by a creeping sense of wrongness. It was a subtle pressure against his mind, a whisper so faint it was almost inaudible, urging him to distrust, to doubt, to despair.
*They fear you,* the whisper slithered through his thoughts. *They will turn on you. Vorlik watches, waiting for a reason to lock you away. Elpis is terrified she will hurt someone. You are alone.*
He shook his head, fighting it off. But then a scream ripped through the night, followed by another.
He burst from his room to find chaos in the barracks. Two awakened soldiers were locked in a frantic, terrified battle, one lashing out with gales of wind, the other hardening his skin like stone. Their eyes were wide with a panic that wasn't entirely their own.
"It's him!" one of them yelled, pointing a trembling finger at his friend. "He's one of them! I saw it in my dream!"
"It's a lie!" the other roared back, a note of hysteria in his voice. "He's trying to confuse us!"
Pythios. He wasn't attacking the walls. He was attacking their dreams, twisting their fears into weapons.
Leander didn't hesitate. He didn't summon a brilliant light or a concussive wave. Instead, he did what he had been practicing all day. He focused his will, not on stopping them, but on calming the turbulent energy around them. He reached out with his own awareness, the one that could feel the "hum" of their power, and he pushed back against the corrosive fear that poisoned it.
It was like trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands. The mental pressure intensified, a cold, mocking laughter echoing in the back of his mind. *You cannot protect them, little spark. I am in their minds. I am their fear.*
Sweat beaded on Leander's forehead. He felt a sharp pain behind his eyes, the strain immense. He was losing.
Then, a warm, steady presence appeared beside him. Roric. The guardsman didn't try to fight. He simply stood, his own shield of light springing to life, not as a barrier against physical force, but as a gentle, radiant calm that pushed against the oppressive dread.
A moment later, a different kind of heat joined them. Not a wild inferno, but a focused, comforting warmth. Elpis stood on his other side, her hands outstretched, her flames dancing in a controlled, hearth-like circle around them, burning away the chill of the psychic assault.
One by one, the others emerged from their rooms, drawn by the conflict. Orion, Delia, Cyrus. They saw Leander, Roric, and Elpis standing together, not fighting, but holding. They didn't understand what was happening, but they felt the call. They joined the circle, not with attacks, but by focusing on their own core, on the control they had begun to learn.
A network of stabilized power began to form, a web of shared resolve. The discordant symphony of their awakened energies began to harmonize, if only for a moment.
The two fighting soldiers faltered, the wind dying down, the stone-like texture fading from skin. They blinked, looking at each other in confusion and shame. The whispering pressure in the air shattered and receded, leaving behind an exhausted silence.
Leander swayed, utterly drained. Roric caught his arm.
"You did it," the guardsman breathed.
"No," Leander said, his voice hoarse. He looked at the circle of faces around him, lit by Roric's soft light and Elpis's steady flames. "We did."
From the shadows of a nearby alleyway, the elegant figure of Pythios watched, his molten gold eyes narrowing with not anger, but a spark of intense interest. The Catalyst was learning. This was no longer mere pest control. It was becoming a game.
And in the deep, cosmic darkness, the fallen god Deimos felt the faint, resonant chord of unified will. A flicker of annoyance crossed his consciousness. The kindling was trying to put itself out. He would have to send a sharper spark.