As the last of the rain washed past him, Nick floated within the soul-scape, anchored at the center of Oakenhollow by the ironwood staff in his grip. Thousands of silver threads stretched before him, each connecting to a sleeping mind in the town, and every one was still affected by Candra’s false devotion.
He’d known that breaking a Charmer’s hold required more than ordinary magic, but he’d hoped the setting he’d prepared would be enough, that the storm could do it alone.
He’d been foolish. A Great Work required a framework, a story the World could recognize and execute.
Nick tightened his grip on the staff and fed the ancient tale into the ether, for the first time since his failure in Toneburg, daring to invoke the names and let the words echo with the weight of Earth’s forgotten history.
Odysseus. The wanderer. The king who fought the sea. Circe. The witch of Aiaia. The weaver of illusions. Helios. The sun. Her father and source of power.
The moment the names resonated across the spiritual plane, the ether reacted. The power of the myth settled over the array, aligning the magical currents. Here, Candra was the witch. The townsfolk were the swine. And the staff in his hand was the moly, the holy herb needed to break the curse.
But a Great Work demanded symmetry, and the myth dictated that the herb be consumed to grant its protection.
The staff grew unbearably hot. Petrified ironwood began to flake, turning into pale, glowing ash in Nick's hand. The flawless sapphire at its crown cracked, bleeding blue light into the silver threads.
Nick channeled what remained of the raging storm from the physical world, using the dissolving staff as a conduit. He drove lightning through the web, scouring the pink scars. He drew the gales into the ether, letting the wind rip the loosened rot from the townsfolk’s emotional centers. Finally, he called the rain for one last time, washing the remnants of artificial devotion into nothingness.
This time, unlike his first attempt, something seemed to happen. As the ritual reached its zenith, the staff burned to its final splinters, and the sheer volume of mana drawn by his command warped the fabric of the ether. The normally impenetrable boundaries between dimensions grew dangerously thin.
Through the blinding white flash of spiritual lightning, the dark sea of silver threads vanished.
A vision bled into the soul-scape. Nick smelled sea salt, wild garlic, and blooming oleander. He saw sun-bleached stone pillars and a great loom woven with shimmering golden thread.
Standing beside it was a woman.
She wore a chiton spun of sunlight, and her hair flowed like dark wine. She paused her weaving, her hands hovering over the threads. Slowly, she tilted her head as if to catch a faint sea breeze.
Then, she looked up.
Across the incomprehensible gulf of dimensions, time, and the void beyond the ether, her gaze found Nick. Her eyes were pools of liquid bronze, ancient and unfathomable.
A spike of dread shot down his spine. She can see me.
The woman’s golden eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of curiosity and wariness reflected in her stare. Her lips parted.
"Xéne," she whispered.
The word never reached his ears; instead, it echoed straight into his soul, imparting a strange power that felt like magic from an era older than the System. Stranger.
"Tis eî?" she asked. Who are you?
Before Nick could recoil, the last sliver of the ironwood staff turned to ash. The connection severed with the violent snap of a cut bowstring. The sun-drenched island shattered, and the bronze-eyed witch vanished back into the depths of the dimensional void.
He slammed back into his physical body, falling to one knee. His right hand was empty, stained with pale dust. He stared at his palm, breathing in ragged gasps.
The encounter had lasted less than a heartbeat, yet it left a lingering chill in his bones. It was a sobering reminder that, as an [Eidolon], his actions carried weight far beyond what he’d once been capable of. When he reached into the foundations of reality, reality sometimes looked back.
Above Oakenhollow, the storm subsided.
The Great Work had devoured too much of its energy to fuel the cleansing. The black clouds broke apart, scattering into harmless gray wisps, until pale morning light filtered through the branches of the ancient oaks, lending the plaza an otherworldly look.
CONGRATULATIONS!
You have achieved a Major Feat! Cast the Great Work [Ritual of Witch Cleansing]
You have peered through the Blind Eternities and survived.
+6,200,000 Exp
Level up!
Around him, the victims of the Charm began to wake, though the transition was eerily quiet. There was no screaming, no violent thrashing. A guard pushed himself up from the mud, his armor clinking softly. He looked as pale as a corpse, but simply sat on his heels, staring at his hands, eyes wide and unfocused.
Across the plaza, the magistrate pulled himself into a sitting position. He touched his chest, his mouth opening and closing in silence.
Hundreds, thousands of people did the same.
Nick forced himself to stand, wiping the ash from his palm onto his coat. He observed the waking townsfolk with his esoteric senses and was relieved to see the scars had vanished. Candra’s magic had been completely washed away.
Yet their minds remained damaged.
The charm had dictated their love, loyalty, and purpose for months, if not longer. With it violently excised, a void remained, and the victims were experiencing emotional starvation. The space where the false devotion had once burned was now a raw, empty cavity. They looked lost, struggling to remember what genuine feeling was supposed to look like.
It would take time for natural affection and purpose to return to those barren spaces.
Claudius stepped out from the shelter of a nearby archway, his wool cloak damp. He looked at the silent victims, then at Nick. His gaze held both wariness and respect.
“Did everything go well, my lord?” he asked. He could see the people’s conditions but didn’t dare speak of them.
"They are mourning a lie," Nick replied quietly. "The magic is gone, but the emptiness it left behind is very real. They will need a purpose to fill the void and time to recover.”
Even he was not all-powerful. That was another good reminder.
Tim walked up to him with a thoughtful look. He was soaked to the bone, his clothes plastered to his skin, yet he did not shiver. He stopped in front of the captain of the guard, the one who had drawn a sword to protect the witch only hours earlier.
He knelt in the mud, heedless of the dirt staining his trousers, and reached out to place a firm hand on the man’s armored shoulder.
“All is well, Captain," Tim said, his voice steady and calm, loud enough to be heard by the others in the courtyard.
The captain looked up, his eyes bloodshot and vacant. "Master Timothy... I feel... nothing. I remember her face, how important she was, and now there is just... nothing."
He seemed frustrated by his inability to explain himself, but that, in and of itself, was enough for them to understand.
"That is the truth returning to you," Tim told him, his grip tightening. "The witch stole your loyalty, but you survived. You are a man of Oakenhollow, a good man, and I will not have you wallow in the dark. Stand up.”
Tim extended his hand. The captain hesitated, studying it for a moment as his free will gradually returned. After a shuddering breath, he grabbed Tim’s forearm and was pulled upright.
Nick observed the exchange, a slight smile forming on his lips. He also noticed the subtle shift among the other guards as they watched their captain rise, and the emptiness in their eyes briefly flickered with a spark of awareness. A leader had given them a point of stability.
"Claudius," Tim called out, turning to his mentor. "Gather the men. We need the hearth fires lit in the barracks. Get hot broth from the kitchens and distribute it to anyone waking up. Tell them the sickness that has plagued us for so long has passed. I want the gates manned by midday.”
"At once, my Lord," Claudius said. He bowed—not a polite nod to a student, but a deep, formal bow to a ruling noble—then hurried off to organize the recovering servants.
After ensuring those most affected had regained enough strength to stand and go through the motions of their duties, Tim walked over to Nick. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes standing out against his pale skin, but his posture remained straight.
“Will I be able to keep her prisoner?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the still form of Candra.
“She’s not dead yet, but I’d be very surprised if she could awaken, given that her soul is burned out,” Nick replied. "What remains of her mana is still tightly locked. She is just a broken woman now, one without a proper soul. Keep her guarded, but do not let anyone be alone with her. The lingering resentment could provoke someone to kill her, and she needs to face justice.”
Tim nodded slowly, looking around the plaza as the people began to help each other up, their movements sluggish and confused. "My father might be a problem.”
“He might," Nick confirmed. “As he is still in Floria, his scars remain untouched.”
With the benefit of hindsight, perhaps it would have been better to allow Armand Poules to return, but he’d needed proof of Candra’s dealings above all else. He hadn’t been sure he could do anything about the victims.
Tim looked down, his jaw tightening. "When he returns... the charm might still compel him to protect her.”
"I can attempt to cleanse him," Nick offered. "A focused ritual on a single mind will be far simpler than this, now that I know what I need to do.”
Even as he spoke, he wasn’t sure that was the truth. He was leery of invoking another Great Work so soon, and the sight of Circe looking back at him only further convinced him of its danger.
Tim seemed to sense it. "No," he said, looking up, his eyes meeting Nick’s. The uncertainty that had plagued him for months was gone, replaced by the hardened resolve of a young man who had reclaimed his birthright. "Let me handle him.”
Nick raised an eyebrow, genuinely skeptical. "Tim, he is a seasoned veteran, and he genuinely believes he loves her. If he sees her in chains, he will draw steel against you. You cannot defeat him.”
"I will not fight," Tim insisted. "When he comes, I will keep him away from the witch. With everyone else’s help, I should be able to convince him that something has happened, and without her there to reinforce the influence, I might be able to heal him myself.”
Nick observed his friend, noting the iron taking shape in the boy's spine, a desperate desire to fix the corruption within his family without relying on House Crowley. Though risky, it was essential for Tim to establish his authority over his household.
"Very well," Nick agreed smoothly. "House Poules is yours to manage, so I will trust you with this. But if you do need help, you need only call.”
I hope he does it. And if not, that he manages to keep his father busy long enough to consolidate his power.
Tim offered a weary smile. "I will be careful. Thank you, for all of this.”
Nick gave a solemn nod.
With the town secured and the charm broken, he turned his attention elsewhere. Oakenhollow would need weeks to fill the emotional void left by the cure, but the crisis was defused. Candra was neutralized, and Tim had firmly assumed the role of castellan. Nick’s job here was done.
He looked toward the rising sun. The light was pale and cold, promising a clear day over the grasslands.
With two weeks remaining until the King’s Shadow arrived, he was determined to be fully prepared. He had secured the necessary margin and now needed to finish his preparations.