Aether Nexus: Curse of Love & Hatred

Okun took a moment to study Miuson's flow, making sure it was enough. Deciding that it was enough, his palms tightened and at the same instant, he sent a pulse of soulura through his hands and into Miuson's back.

Miuson felt the surge slam into him, causing his eyes to shoot open. The pressure was immediate and absolute. However, unlike Liam, his body answered with what training and experience had taught it, prepared.

He braced: ankles flexed under him, core locked, every muscle taut as wire. The memory of Miron's tiny fevered chest beneath the blanket and of his mother's weeping face was a blade at his ribs. Instead of letting it cut him, he pressed against it, not flinching at the pressure nor outright rejecting it.

Like always, he let his anger and drive to protect fuel the fire he felt within, nurturing it into a focused mound of will. Miuson could feel it building and building in his chest, like a hot gas expanding in a tight space, just waiting to be ignited.

Only a few moments passed before Miuson felt that this time was different. He felt the usual heat bubbling up from within, yes, but there was now something else, another force alongside his own heat—filling in the gaps. It was Okun's soulura, mixing in and coursing through Miuson, pushing up against Miuson's being.

Miuson's body reflexively tried to push back against the foreign force. However, Miuson focused, trying his best to accept Okun's soulura rather than fight it.

As Dama, Mumu, & Nini watched in anticipation, all three would bear witness to the fires in front of Miuson moving unnaturally. Unbeknownst to Miuson, the more the feeling of compressed heat built within, the more the fires began to lash out.

Then, the critical point; Miuson felt the exact moment everything changed—amidst the hot gas solution of his own and Okun's will, a single spark emerged.

All it once, Miuson's soulura burst forth from every surface of his body. At the same time, and only for a second, the three fires in front of the group all puffed up to around three times their size, painting the inside with their orange glow before dying back down. Dama & his stitched pals stepped back in both awe and slight fear.

To Okun, Mumu, & Nini, the soulaura was visible—first clear and translucent, then a living, flickering orange. It was as if someone had dipped his very body in flame and set it blazing.

Dama could not see it, but he still felt it like a physical thing. It was like a massive press of wind that filled the air between them. At first, it was a hard gust that shoved the breath from his lungs and moved his hair, then settled into a continual, tangible pressure radiating from Miuson.

"That's it!" Okun said, making sure to put some bass in his voice so the comment cut clean through the crackle of the torches. Pride laced his voice like warmth. "Don't force it—guide it. Treat it like a limb. Channel it. Move it where you mean it to go."

It was easier said than done.

Miuson's features tightened into a map of concentration and exhaustion. His breaths came ragged through nostrils. He gritted his teeth, palms shaking as he tried to draw the burning current together and into the cupped bowl of his hands. He couldn't yet see his own soulura, but the pooling heat coursing from his chest, down his arms and into his hands was information enough.

The sensation—the power and heat—was intoxicating, yet also overwhelming. With a pained grunt, Miuson squinted his eyes further in exertion, but then...

"H-Huh?" Escaped Miuson's lips as a flickering orange light phased in and out from his vision. He could see it: a viscous shimmer of energy, a translucent slime of light pooling like molten amber around his fingers—his soulura.

His eyes widened with shock seeing his soulura instead of just feeling for the first time. However, his focus wavered for a split second as a result, leading to his soulura fading back into nothingness.

Miuson realized his mistake, panicked, then locked back into focus, not keen on losing what progress he has made. The flickering of his aura reflecting in his gaze a moment later put him at ease, taking a slow breath.

The more he focused, the more his soulura not only became more opaque, but also took form. The more his soulura took form in his hands, the more Miuson focused. This created a feedback loop, and for a second, he held his soulura there, the vision of his brother sharpening his will which was in his very hands.

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Then, something miraculous began to happen: a small ember of flame appeared at the height of Miuson's focus. It writhed and crackled weakly in the middle of his cupped hands. So small, to the point no one else saw it, but him.

Miuson's focus didn't flinch at this, remembering Okun's words about people being able to generate their element out of pure soulura. For all he knew, this meant he was doing the right thing, so he focused even more, almost forcing the uninhibited flow of soulura into his hands.

The small flame didn't respond at first, but it began to move. It almost seemed like it danced in his hands. Then, it got faster, circling in the middle of his cupped hands. Then faster, and faster. Before Miuson knew it, the flame was moving so fast that it merged with the trail of fire it left behind in its wake, creating a solid ring of fire in his hands. The sight as it reflected in his eyes almost mesmerized Miuson.

Finally, the edge of his mind wavered, the toll of not breathing catching up with him. The sight of his own power made his mind stumble; his body forced itself to breathe, disrupting rythym, concentration splintered. Control slipped.

The pooled soulura answered the break in focus by letting go of its restraints and discharging outward in a quick flash. Miuson pitched forward, unable to steady himself; his hands hit the floor first as he went down, chest heaving, lungs burning. He lay there coughing and gasping, orange afterglow waning around him as his body tried to recoup.

Dama stayed where he was, breath still a little shallow from the gust that had slammed through the room. His fingers twitched as if he could still feel the pressure riding the air. When Mumu moved forward to crouch and help Miuson up, Dama rose too—part curiosity, part the need to confirm what his senses had told him.

"Was that..." Dama began, voice small, "…a success?"

Okun's eyes, still bright with the afterimage of the orange flare, met Dama's. He nodded once, slow and certain. "Yes, it was successful. Because his gates were briefly overloaded and opened, the current had free passage. That discharge you felt, the pressure, was his soulura leaving his body unbidden by his bodily gates."

He turned back to the boy as Mumu, big and careful, folded his arms under Miuson's chest and hauled him up to a standing position. The plush bear's movements were practiced and gentle; he patted Miuson on the back until the coughing eased into breath.

Okun's voice softened as he asked, "Are you all right, Miuson?"

Miuson braced a hand on his knees, drawing measured breaths until the coughing fit dwindled. He blinked, then gave a tight, tired smile. "I'm—" he rasped, flexing his fingers as if to make sure they still obeyed. "I'm okay. Like Liam said, nothing hurts. It's just…not pleasant."

Okun inclined his head, then asked more pointedly, "Do you remember how it felt? The current moving through you, especially when you tried to guide it into your hands?"

Miuson looked down at his palms, fingers splayed on his knees, searching the afterimage of sensation in the hollow places of his memory. For a second his features locked as he chased a feeling he'd only just experienced. "Sort of," he admitted at last, voice quieter, "bits of it. I remember the heat and how it pooled, and then—" he paused, hands curling slightly as the recollection slipped like a fish in nets, "—and then I lost the thread."

Okun's mouth twitched into a relieved, small smile. He gave a soft, approving snort. "That's perfectly fine. You will not, at first, hold the whole thing in your head. Your mind will blur with the sensation, but your body remembers. Muscle memory, mind memory, and soul memory are different, yet kin. They will synchronize in time. The feeling you've just tasted will become a map if you practice it. Today, you've found the gate. Tomorrow, you will learn beyond it."

Okun's gaze slid from Miuson back to Dama, the old chief folding his hands. "Catch your breath and take a break, Miuson. Now for you, Dama. You've seen a failed attempt and a success. Do you understand what this involves, lad? Are you ready to try?"

For a breath Dama's mouth opened and closed, the question settling into him like cold water. He hesitated only a moment, long enough for the room's quiet to press at his ears, before the memory uncoiled: the Curse of Hatred's toothless, stretching grin swallowing Giona; the way its shadow had rolled over her like a wave and crushed her light.

The flash was sudden and brutal, a jagged replay that made his body jerk—a tiny, involuntary shiver run down his spine.

Fear was there, stark and raw. It was still warm in him from the dream-realm's claws, but beneath it something else rose. It began as a tightness in the center of his chest, an odd, weighty pressure that made his throat feel like it had a stone lodged in it. Even when he was able to pull Giona out, the nightmare wasn't over.

Giona's small hands curled helplessly.

The soft whimper that had cut into his ears.

The way her whole body shook with tears.

Her pleading voice. "No… I do not want that… Please, Dama… I'm scared…"

Each memory pressed on him until the feeling hardened into something fiercer.

Anger bled through the fear, sharp as a blade, quick and hot. Not a blind, eruptive thing, but the heavy, slow kind that steadies as it burns: the kind that settles into the bones and makes a person refuse to let the same injury befall the ones they love again.

Determination followed—cold, clear, strict—lining the edges of that anger with purpose. When Dama looked up, his green eyes had an odd clarity to them.

Finally, he nodded once, small and sure. "I'm ready..." he said. Not boastful, not loud, just a plain statement that carried the weight of everything he'd seen in his nightmarish struggle.

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Next: (Chapter 89) Dama's Trial