The subsequent days unfolded as a agonizing cycle. The Thorn-Blight, as named posed a challenge. It wasn't advancing,. It vibrated with a subtle Abyssal hum a persistent irritation, within the core of their refuge. Cleansing it through the Angel's energy risked triggering a disastrous event. It required hands-on removal—a responsibility assigned to Cassiathon.
It was his mess. His lesson.
Every day he stepped into the area, which was now enclosed by barriers Tania and Morgan had collaboratively crafted. Employing the meticulous thread of his ability he would "neutralize" single crystalline formations and tendrils. The process was agonizingly gradual, like disarming a bomb wire by wire. Each eradication sent a surge of that energy back, into him serving as a reminder of the decision he had taken.
"You're taking the feedback to heart " Morgan noted on day three reclining against a section of the wall. He was watching over the arrival of his group—a anxious, yet thankful band of twelve now housed in the lower caves. "That's either extremely foolish or extremely courageous."
"What's the distinction?" Cassiathon groaned, slicing through a black vine. It screamed in silence as it perished.
"The result " Morgan stated plainly. "Your fathers method, the finish leaves no trace. Your approach... It brings wounds. Both on the world and, within you. The real question is, can you bear those wounds without allowing them to shape who you are?"
Cassiathon found himself without a reply. The thorns had taken root within him well. It wasn't the recollection but the genuine lingering resonance of the Abyss he had summoned. It lingered alongside the coldness of his father's death-force, a persistent subtle conflict, within his spirit.
The whisper came back that night.
Fascinating... Nyxs voice was a breeze, in his thoughts. You compel chaos to obey order. You seize the Queens pigment. Apply it to whiten the Reapers canvas. You are turning into a captivating palimpsest.
What do you desire? Cassiathon considered, too exhausted to be afraid.
To observe what unfolds. The blade the Reaper crafts or the armament the Queen retrieves would be foreseeable. Yet you... You aim to be the hand that wields the blade. A hopeful dream. A magnificent one. A feeling like starlight mapping the fresh thorny routes within him. The decay has taken hold in you now child. Do not attempt to uproot it. It belongs to your ground. Discover what springs, from it.
The presence faded, leaving him more unsettled than before. She wasn't guiding him. She was cultivating him like one of his mother's strange plants, curious to see what would bloom.