The raw, pervasive exhaustion Samuel felt was deeper than anything physical. It wasn't the ache of muscles pushed too far, or the dull throb of a healing wound. It was a weariness that settled in his bones, then burrowed into his very mind, a chilling emptiness where his thoughts had once been whole. The phantom unraveling was a constant, low-frequency hum behind his eyes, a memory of non-existence that made him clutch at his temples even as he stirred on the cot. His breath hitched, a faint gasp escaping him.
"Alright, Aetheria," he rasped, the words dry and brittle. "Point taken. Mental debuffs are the new meta. And my Willpower stat? Apparently, it's a dump stat."
The blue screen, of course, remained serenely in his vision: "SOUL INTEGRATION FAILED." He scowled at it. Such stoic indifference for a near-death experience of consciousness.
He pushed himself up, every movement feeling sluggish, like his mental processing speed had been severely throttled. His internal monologue, usually a rapid-fire cascade of analysis, was now a fractured, stuttering attempt at cohesion. He needed to rebuild his mental firewalls, to re-establish the core processes that made Samuel Raveish, Samuel Raveish.
Weaver feeds on sorrow and doubt. Lyra's words. Tiber's 'sing your truth louder.' It's not about physical strength. It's about mental fortitude. And... Aetheric principles.
His mind, even while bruised, hungered for data. He was beginning to see the world differently. Not just solid objects and living beings, but underlying currents, invisible streams of what he now tentatively categorized as Aether. The Weaver's Umbral Aether. Lyra's mention of "pure Aether" at dawn. It was all part of a larger, unseen network, a system waiting to be mapped.
He slipped out of the inn. Elara was already directing a stable boy with gruff efficiency, her voice a low rumble. Roric was a watchful silhouette against the predawn light, his gaze distant. Samuel paid them little mind, his focus on something else entirely.
He headed towards Lyra's cottage. She was probably up, tending her herbs. But first, an experiment.
He stopped beside a gnarled oak tree just outside the palisade. It was ancient, its bark deeply furrowed. He closed his eyes, concentrating. He remembered the feeling of the Weaver's Aether, cold and invasive. Now, he tried to feel for anything else. He extended his hand, not touching the bark, but hovering just above it. He focused, pushing past the constant, faint mental buzz.
What does a tree feel like, Aetherically speaking? Does it have a signature?
He felt... something. A faint warmth, a slow, gentle hum that seemed to emanate from the wood, flowing downwards into the earth and upwards into the leaves. It was different from the Weaver's chilling drain. He categorized it as Vital Aether – the life force of the living world. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. He tried to mentally trace its flow, imagining it like a faint green current in his mind's eye. It was clumsy, like trying to manipulate code without a proper keyboard, but he felt a flicker of success. He was perceiving. This was the nascent stage of his system.
A small smile, weary but genuine, touched his lips. Okay. System is initializing. Input device is my mind. Output... uncertain. But I can read the data streams.
He then continued to Lyra's garden. She was there, just as he expected, her hands already busy with the dew-kissed plants.
"Good morning, Lyra," Samuel said, his voice quiet, measured. "The dawn air... it feels different today. Cleaner."
Lyra looked up, her expression softening. "Aye, lad. The dawn, that's when the Aether is purest, before the day's hustle stirs it too much. It's why old tales say healing prayers are strongest then, and water drawn at that hour holds potent magic." She smiled wistfully. "It washes the world clean, inside and out."
Samuel nodded, taking mental notes. Luminous Aether. Associated with purity, healing, blessing. A counter to Umbral. Makes sense. He needed to confirm something else. "Lyra, when you spoke of the Weaver... you said it left a lasting mark. Are there others in Oakhaven who've... felt its touch? Before it was taken care of, of course." He added the last bit quickly, trying to make it sound less like he was questioning the village's current safety.
Lyra sighed, shaking her head slowly. "Few, thankfully. But aye. Old Maude, who passed last year, was never quite the same after she wandered too close to the Glade as a young woman. And young Finn, Tiber's boy, like I told you. He was... lost for a time. Dream-moss and sung-water helped him, but he never truly smiled again like a child should."
"Dream-moss," Samuel repeated, carefully. "Where does it grow?"
Lyra's gaze became wary. "Deep in the oldest roots, lad. It's not a common herb. Only those who truly know the Elderwood can find it without getting lost themselves. It clings to ancient, deep roots, far from the sun." She paused, then added, "Why do you ask? You've already endured enough of the Weaver's touch."
Samuel offered a reassuring, if slightly forced, smile. "Just curious. Trying to understand this land. You said it 'calms the spirit,' 'mends the threads of a frayed mind.' Sounds... powerful. Like a high-grade restorative potion."
Lyra chuckled softly, a gentle sound. "It is, for the mind. But like all powerful things, it demands respect. And patience." She paused, then looked at him with a penetrating gaze. "You seem different, young man. More... aware, somehow."
Samuel held her gaze. "Perhaps I'm just learning to pay closer attention." He deflected, unwilling to reveal the agonizing process of his learning. "I could help you with some chores, Lyra. Perhaps fetch water, or tend to some of the heavier plants? In exchange for some more... knowledge of these deeper matters." He needed more time around her, more opportunities to ask subtle questions, to absorb her passive Aetheric knowledge.
"That would be kind," Lyra said, her smile returning. "A strong back is always welcome. Come, then. We can speak while we work."
Samuel spent the morning helping Lyra, carrying heavy buckets of water from the well, carefully weeding beds of pungent herbs. He continued his internal "Aetheric scans," trying to perceive the flow around the water, around the herbs. He theorized the herbs held concentrated Vital Aether, perhaps with unique properties. He was building his library of Aetheric types and their interactions.
Later, as he was returning to the inn, a distant sight caught his eye. High above the eastern mountains, where the peaks scraped the sky, a faint, iridescent shimmer was visible in the clouds. It was too subtle for a normal person to notice, but after facing the Weaver's energy, Samuel's perception felt heightened, attuned. It pulsed faintly, like a distant, silent beacon.
What is that? he wondered. Too far for the Weaver. Too high for local phenomena. Some other major Aetheric source? Another power? It was a new piece of data, hinting at a scale of Aetheria far grander than Oakhaven or its cursed woods. It was a clue, a hint of something beyond his immediate, life-or-death struggles. He mentally logged it, another unsolved puzzle in his emerging system.
He entered the inn, exhausted but satisfied. His mind, though still tired, felt more anchored. He hadn't died. He had learned. He was starting to perceive the unseen threads of Aetheria, slowly, painstakingly. And for the first time, he felt a flicker of understanding beyond mere survival – a hint of how he might truly begin to play this world on his own terms.