To Fly the Soaring Tides

Cira mimicked her instructor's blood diamonds without too much effort, although the cuts weren't nearly as pristine as his. Regardless, she had six identical blood sculptures floating around her.

"Fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds. Not bad for a beginner, but you really didn't have to make such complex shapes." Cira only shrugged and he had no choice but to continue, "You may consider these 'passive reservoirs', which isn't wrong, but in the realm of blood sorcery we have a different name for this technique.

"As you know, any personal well is conjured with mana—either from your own mana or that of the environment. But these can actually be conjured directly from your blood." Roman continued his lecture, "This is why we call a reservoir of this specific element a 'bloodform'. The risks are obvious, but in the right hands blood pulled from one's own living veins—or someone else's—can result in far more potent conjurations."

"Okay…" And none of that made Cira any less revolted by blood sorcery. She seemed to recall her false father saying something similar once about utilizing her victim's souls as raw aether. "If you are trying to bolster my enthusiasm for the subject, you're doing a terrible job."

Cira gazed out into the endless sea of humanoid corpses which was somehow just a few doors down from her bedroom. This much was her fault, but blood sorcery just struck her as inordinately vulgar.

"Nothing so trite," He laughed, "I can tell by the look on your face how uncomfortable you are in your own home right now. I am explaining the principle of corporeal sorcery to you because it is the key component to the specific techniques you wish to learn. Before we go any deeper, however, I would like to see how capable you are of forming a blood domain. Expend only a single one of your bloodforms for this task." He felt the need to elaborate after Cira winced, "It will typically take the form of something like fog."

Ahh, that's what this field of corpses was missing. Blood fog.

A standard domain was almost like an extension of one's aura. This meant they were well-poised to perceive or utilize any given element as the need arose. Exceptions outside specialty domains would be a caster whose aura leans heavily to one particular affinity—such as witches.

On the other hand, Tawny's domain tinged with flames here and there while Elos' and Lero's would often drip condensation or hold pockets of fog or ice crystals. This was just their affinities naturally displaying themselves in a similar composition as their aura.

Cira prided herself on having a very even domain unless she felt like making a statement or had some specific task to accomplish. That said, she could conjure a domain of any element she wished. Especially the primary elements, and a vast array of auxiliary elements. Blood had never been one of them, as she had never wished to do so.

That said, Cira also prided herself a competent enough sorcerer at this point to form a domain out of truly any element she if the situation called for it.

Sadly, blood just wasn't one of them. Roman kept a straight face, but inwardly Cira cringed at each pathetic attempt. She was basically just throwing handfuls of blood everywhere at varying velocities. The simultaneous condensing and expansion required to form a domain left her all out of wack.

It wasn't water, which was incredibly easy to turn into fog. While it was liquid, it did not behave like any other. 'residual will' wasn't the right word for it, but she could tell it did not belong to the sky like a plummeting ball of rock might, nor did it belong to her. Blood was just incredibly tough to work with, as if she was trying to evaporate clay.

This went on for a good while as Cira grew increasingly uncomfortable pulling these peoples' blood out just to pour it all over them again, but Cira was no quitter. Not when it counted, anyway.

Learning a new skill was difficult but rewarding. It took a whole hour to form something she would consider a domain. The fake sun above cast rays through her bloody mist, and she thought it looked pretty good, but Roman seemed intent to have her refine it. Evidently this was an important part of the lesson, and she spent much of the afternoon working on it.

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Still, there was only so long Cira could hang out here. The smell of death was nauseating, and her and Roman parted ways around early evening.

These lessons were added to Cira's daily schedule, but her focus shifted back over to the village. While she had plenty of time left to receive her first mark before her father had, this had drawn far past her initial estimate of nine days.

With an average of five or six hours of sleep, combined with her lessons and duties in Icarus' core, this left Cira with at least twelve hours to read books each day.

From housekeeping to animal husbandry, to economics, gardening, carpentry, orienteering, and philosophical nonsense. The list went on endlessly, but Cira had read all kinds of books over the past few weeks since she landed. Yet still there hadn't been a single magic tome in the mix. Not one.

She wasn't upset or anything, but there was no sign of progress toward receiving her first mark. Only bits and pieces of relevant texts along the way.

The Archive's nature was still a mystery, and marks appeared to be akin to sigils. A mark on the soul, put simply. Instead of an inherent manifestation, however, these marks were bestowed by the ambiguous Archive.

So, not all the books she read were irrelevant. This was a very enlightening period of time for her, but her own sorcerous nature made her restless.

What do we have on the shelf today? Cira closed her eyes and ran her hand gently along the shelf until she found the spine that felt just right. This is the one. Let's see what we got.

"The Man Who Stood Against the Demon"

Ominous… She thought for certain that this book would be about her father, who stood up against all manner of fiend semi-regularly. Cira was delighted to discover how wrong she was on the very first page.

The protagonist of this story—something of a biography—was a man born to a family untouched by mana. Named Gier, He was no different. A mortal, as they said on the Boreal. Stonemason by trade, and father to three children. His wife died while away on business during what came to be known as the primordial genocide.

The sun hasn't risen in ten years. My children have done what they can to move on with their lives, to live their own, rather. Yet now I am alone. My purpose has been served, and not even the Pathfinder shines in the night sky.

There is nothing left for me to accomplish, and nothing which compels me to draw breath any longer. I am a man at the end of my life. No two ways about it. Why not spend my final days doing what I've wanted to do for so long?

This was not an autobiography, but much of the book used direct quotes hand in hand with narrative, composed dramatically like a story. The mundane nature of this person's life gave all too much credence to the idea that it was in fact nonfiction.

The author held no other name but 'Trent'. A young scribe who grew close with Gier in his golden years.

Before Cira even became engrossed, that first passage stuck with her on two notes. One, she felt she could empathize with this man's loss. The way Trent strung words together wove a profound web of sadness to her. Many of the things he said resonated deep, and Cira was reminded of all the aimless wandering she did after her father's passing.

On the other hand, this man was closed in from every direction. Fate nipped at his heels as his body grew weaker by the day. He lived his entire life more helpless than Cira had ever been, but he didn't simply roll over in bed and let mortality wash over him.

No, he stood up and walked forward. He said no purpose existed in his life any longer, but that was wrong. The same light as always told him where to go, but she existed only in the stars nowadays. This did not stop her from becoming the impetus of this old man's will.

Revenge. Or something like it.

His children had long left the roost, and all he could do was wither in hard-earned peace.

That just wasn't enough. Whether he could meet her in the next life or not was of no consequence. He refused to leave this one without throwing everything he had at the man that robbed him of his light. Even if he had nothing to throw.0

Ever since they found out who was responsible for the purge, Gier just hasn't been the same, Cira read They say the elderly go through a spat of life just before death, but Gier seems truly driven. I don't know what he's planning, or what he hopes to accomplish… but he's done a lot for me. I don't think I would feel alright if I didn't stick with him. Worse comes to worst, I can share his story with his children.

Early on the scribe told his story through journal entries, but it was clear he found a focus. Gier and his foolish desires. The man once helped him get back on his feet, even feeding and housing him for intermittent periods of time, and it could be said Trent felt indebted.

Moreso, however, the journey of a man at the end of his life was sensational enough that Trent became inseparable from his friend after a point.

"They found out his name." Gier said to me.

"Gier… You can't." I tried and failed to reason with him, "He's a demon who killed half the sky in an afternoon."

"I don't care!" Gier shouted, only to be slowed by a raspy cough, "I will face Kazali or die trying."