A week dissolved in the quiet routine of the East Aerion garrison infirmary. Under the diligent care of the medics and Sophia's almost constant, watchful presence, Henry's body mended with the same startling speed that had surprised the rescue team. The Lifestream's touch, perhaps, or the hidden power coiling within him, had accelerated the healing far beyond normal parameters. Deep bruises faded, fractured bones knitted with uncanny swiftness, and the crushing exhaustion finally receded, leaving him feeling not just recovered, but subtly stronger, changed.
The timing coincided perfectly with the military's quarterly review cycle. Based on their accumulated mission successes, successful navigation of hazardous situations - particularly the fraught Loknezt Lake assignment - and demonstrated capabilities, both Henry and Sophia had accrued sufficient merit points to formally request promotion. By happy coincidence, Captain Jacobs, having finally met the stringent requirements after years of prioritizing his squad's safety over personal advancement, was also eligible for his long-overdue elevation.
The ascension ritual, a solemn and significant occasion marking the formal recognition and metaphysical cementing of a soldier's advancement to a new echelon of power, was held with due grandeur within the hallowed halls of the Estath Cathedral. Archbishop Ralph himself presided, his presence lending an air of profound gravity to the proceedings. Nearly a dozen soldiers from various units stood assembled before the main altar this day, their expressions a mixture of nervous anticipation and hopeful excitement, awaiting the ceremony that would officially mark their transition - for Henry and Sophia, to the responsibilities and power of Rank 3; for Jacobs, the significant leap to Rank 4 command status.
Henry was slated last. He watched as the others stepped forward one by one, standing resolute within intricately inscribed magic circles that pulsed faintly on the cold stone floor. He observed the varying arrays of materials surrounding each candidate - shimmering mineral stones for some, bizarre anatomical components harvested from powerful beasts for others, rare and exotic herbs emitting strange fragrances for the mages. It underscored a truth he'd gleaned from hushed conversations and old texts: ascension wasn't a uniform process. It was deeply personalized, subtly adjusted by the officiating priests and mages to align with the inherent characteristics, elemental affinities, and latent potential of each individual warrior. The meticulous, almost arcane preparation stirred within Henry a sense of fascination mingled with a burgeoning curiosity about what awaited him.
Finally, his name was called. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Henry stepped onto the designated dais, positioning himself carefully within the flawless circle inscribed with peculiar charcoal-purple powder. His gaze swept across the myriad of meticulously arranged items surrounding him, each radiating a distinct energy signature, their combined scents creating an atmosphere both mystical and vaguely unsettling.
Before him, small vials crafted from dark, opaque glass held a viscous fluid that reflected streaks of dark crimson light, like congealed blood; they emanated a pungent metallic scent, sharp and tinged with an indescribable sour spiciness that made his nostrils wrinkle. Beside them, rough ceramic bowls contained a fine, greyish-white powder, ground, he suspected, from the bones and horns of powerful beasts he couldn't identify; it exuded a strong, almost fishy odor, laced with the damp scent of deep earth. Larger glass tubes filled with a shimmering amber liquid caught his attention - likely the potent blood of a high-ranking magical creature, radiating a sweet, almost intoxicating fragrance intertwined with a stimulating musk. Interspersed amongst these were peculiar herbs unlike any he'd seen gathered: leaves of a lustrous sapphire blue emitting a cool, piercingly minty fragrance; flowers of pure, velvety black, their petals thin as silk, yet emanating an oddly sweet, cloying aroma. They weren't placed randomly but arranged in complex, specific patterns within the circle's boundary, humming with latent power.
He closed his eyes, centering himself, awaiting the Archbishop's invocation. Abruptly, a soft, silvery-white light flared from the intricate lines etched into the stone beneath his feet. The ground vibrated gently, a low thrum resonating through the soles of his boots. The material components arrayed around him began to tremble, then, one by one, slowly dissolved into the ethereal glow. The dark glass vials fractured into shimmering dust motes, melting into the light. The powdered bone and horn dissipated like wisps of smoke carried on an unseen wind. The amber blood lost its corporeal form, becoming warm, flowing streaks of pure energy. Even the strange herbs gradually vanished, their essence merging into the spreading luminescence.
The light of the formation seemed to possess a strange, compelling gravity, drawing in the vital essence of the dissolved materials, concentrating it, refining it, then slowly channeling that potent, amalgamated energy deep within Henry's body. He felt it as a warm, powerful current surging through his veins, flooding his senses, awakening dormant pathways. It wasn't painful, but intensely overwhelming, a profound restructuring occurring at a level deeper than flesh and bone. He focused his will, accepting the influx, guiding it, merging with it, feeling his own aetheric core expand, strengthen, solidify.
As the last mote of light faded and the vibrations ceased, Henry opened his eyes, feeling distinctly different. Changed. A surge of abundant aether, more potent, more vibrant, more alive than ever before, coursed through his very being. His senses felt astonishingly acute, the world around him sharper, clearer, more defined than mere moments ago. And perhaps most significantly, he felt the passive radius of his Mystic Sense automatically expand, doubling its reach, now constantly mapping a full thirty meters around him without conscious effort or energy drain. He instinctively attributed this heightened perception, this expanded awareness, to the natural consequences of reaching a new echelon of power - Rank 3.
"An intriguing result, Henry."
A warm, deep voice drew him from his internal assessment. Archbishop Ralph approached him, stepping carefully around the now-faded ritual circle. The Archbishop's gaze was kind, as always, but today it held a profound, discerning concern that immediately put Henry on alert.
"Would you permit me a brief examination, my son?" Ralph asked gently. "Purely precautionary."
"Of course, Your Eminence," Henry replied readily, forcing himself to relax completely, masking the sudden tension coiling within him. "Whatever you deem necessary." He trusted the Archbishop, but the intensity of that gaze, the subtle shift in atmosphere… something was amiss.
Archbishop Ralph stepped closer, placing a light, warm hand upon Henry's forehead. Henry felt the familiar touch of the Archbishop's own pure, refined aether slowly spreading, enveloping his form like a gentle tide. It wasn't the crushing pressure of Zalogr's probe, but a meticulous, intricate tracing of every vein, every cell, every current of energy within him. It felt comforting, reassuring, yet Henry couldn't shake a prickle of unease.
After a long moment, the Archbishop withdrew his hand, his brow deeply furrowed now, a thoughtful, almost troubled expression clouding his usually serene features. "That is… peculiar," Ralph remarked, his voice contemplative, studying Henry intently.
"Peculiar, Your Eminence?" Henry echoed, unable to keep a note of surprise from his voice.
"Indeed," Archbishop Ralph confirmed, his gaze penetrating. "The sheer volume of aether now residing within your core… it is significantly greater than anticipated. Exponentially more than what is typical for a soldier who has just completed the Rank 3 ascension." He paused, considering. "An ordinary individual, even one with good innate aptitude, would require at least two, perhaps three years of diligent cultivation and accumulation after reaching Rank 3 to possess the abundant reserves you currently hold."
He looked directly at Henry, his expression kind but serious. "The garrison records indicate your potential, while solid, has never been classified as exceptionally gifted, nor have you demonstrated signs of being an innate genius prior to this. Therefore," the Archbishop sighed softly, "this manifestation, this surplus of potent aether… can only be classified as an anomaly."
Henry's blood ran cold. Anomaly. The word echoed Zalogr's suspicions, the Bureau of Investigation's mandate.
"Presently, Henry," Archbishop Ralph continued, his voice gentle but firm, carrying the weight of unavoidable duty, "I am compelled by Church and military protocol to report this unusual state of yours to both hierarchies. You must understand, you will undoubtedly be subjected to a thorough investigation, likely involving rigorous questioning and further examination by specialists. This manifestation is truly most irregular, and in these uncertain times, all anomalies must be carefully scrutinized." He placed a comforting hand on Henry's shoulder. "However, know this: I hold personal faith in your character, Henry. I earnestly hope, and pray, that you will navigate these impending examinations successfully and prove this to be merely a benign deviation, perhaps a late blooming of latent potential."
"Yes… yes, I understand, Your Eminence," Henry replied, managing to keep his voice calm despite the sudden chill of apprehension. He forced a respectful nod. "This is the inevitable course of events. I am prepared."
Leaving the hallowed halls of the Cathedral shortly after Sophia completed her own, less eventful, ascension ritual, Henry found his mind racing. An investigation. Scrutiny. Just as Will had indirectly warned. He pushed the worry down, forcing himself to focus on the present. Today was also a day for celebration. He, Sophia, and Jacobs had all advanced. They had earned this.
The boisterous warmth of the Dunlyre Tavern offered a jarring, yet welcome, contrast to the solemnity and underlying tension of the Cathedral. Laughter, the clatter of tankards, and the smell of roasted meat and spilled ale filled the air. Jacobs had secured their usual large corner table, and the remnants of the squad were already raising mugs in greeting as Henry and Sophia arrived.
"Well, well! If it isn't the exalted Rank 3s!" Jacobs bellowed, his Rank 4 presence adding a new resonance to his familiar booming voice. He clapped Henry hard on the shoulder as he sat. "Took you long enough! Thought the Archbishop decided to keep you for choir practice!"
Henry grinned, accepting a foaming mug from Lumos. "Just ensuring our paperwork was in order, Captain. Wouldn't want any… irregularities… causing problems." He deliberately met Jacobs's eye, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
The feast Jacobs had ordered was truly lavish, a king's ransom compared to their usual fare. Platters overflowed: succulent herb-roasted lamb chops nestled against creamy yogurt dip; rich beef stew, dark with red wine and studded with pearl onions; golden roasted potatoes gleaming with butter. A massive roasted pig leg held center stage, its crackling skin promising delight. Fresh salads provided a crisp counterpoint, alongside baskets of soft bread, sweet rolls, and pots of butter. Wine flowed freely, alongside ale and Sophia's preferred fruit beer.
It was a feast celebrating not just promotion, but survival. The ghosts of the Lykuzt cult cave, the chilling depths of Loknezt Lake, seemed momentarily banished by the simple, profound pleasure of hot food, strong drink, and the unbreakable bonds of shared hardship. They ate like starved wolves, the rich flavors a balm to weary souls. Laughter gradually replaced the earlier tension, echoing in their corner of the crowded tavern.
"To the new Ranks!" Jacobs raised his mug high, his earlier gravity replaced by unrestrained cheer. "May they serve you well!"
"To Captain Jacobs! Rank 4!" Daniel offered, a rare, wide smile splitting his usually stoic face.
"To Squad Eighteen!" Torsan added, his youthful face flushed with ale and excitement.
They drank deep, the camaraderie a tangible force, a shield against the encroaching darkness of the world outside. Henry leaned back, watching Sophia laugh at something Melly whispered, her face radiant in the tavern's warm glow. He felt the solid presence of the Sanctuary Seal beneath his tunic, a secret anchor in the tumultuous sea of his life. He had ascended. He had power. But Archbishop Ralph's warning echoed in his mind. An anomaly. His path forward had just become vastly more complicated, the stakes higher than he could have ever imagined. He met Sophia's gaze across the table, a silent promise renewed in the midst of the celebration. Whatever lay ahead, whatever scrutiny came, they would face it. Together.