Lira looked between them, unsure.
Tidewhisper rested a hand on Pyrope’s back, steady and reassuring.
“You can go,” he whispered. “He isn’t hostile.”
Pyrope swallowed. His throat felt tight.
He wasn’t good with strangers—especially those who stared through him like reading a hidden manuscript.
But he nodded.
The elder turned with a slow, quiet step.
“Follow me.”
Tidewhisper gently nudged Pyrope forward.
“I’ll come with you. No reason to face this alone.”
Pyrope let out a small breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Lira stayed behind with a soft wave, not wanting to crowd the moment.
A Chamber Beneath Silence
The elder guided them through a narrow hallway carved into pale stone.
The deeper they went, the quieter the world became.
No footsteps from workers.
No distant machinery.
Only their breathing.
Finally, they arrived at a modest door—smooth surface, etched with faint circular patterns.
The elder slid it open.
Inside was a meditation chamber unlike anything Pyrope had seen:
- A circular floor, smooth and polished
? Soft future-tech lamps glowing along the walls
? Threads of light running in geometric patterns, like veins or circuitry
? A faint hum in the air, low and steady
It felt… ancient and advanced at the same time.
Tidewhisper whispered, “An old-world chamber. Repaired by the monks.”
The elder gestured.
“Sit.”
Pyrope hesitated again.
Tidewhisper placed a calming hand on his shoulder.
“It’s alright. You’re safe.”
Pyrope finally stepped inside and sat cross-legged.
The elder sat across from him with practiced grace.
The Diagnosis Begins
“Give me your hand,” the elder said.
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Pyrope offered it reluctantly.
The elder’s touch was light—barely a weight on his skin—yet Pyrope felt the warmth of it travel into his wrist.
The elder closed his eyes.
One second.
Two.
Ten.
Then his other hand rose and hovered over Pyrope’s chest—not touching, sensing.
Pyrope’s breath stuttered.
Tidewhisper watched closely, arms gently crossed, ready to intervene if needed.
The elder inhaled deeply, then exhaled.
“Your pulse is… irregular,” he murmured. “But not in a dangerous way.”
His fingers traced up to Pyrope’s neck.
“Your breath rhythm… different. Too controlled for someone who just survived trauma. As if you are holding something back.”
Pyrope tensed.
Tidewhisper quietly said, “Relax. He’s here to understand you, not judge.”
Pyrope forced his shoulders to ease, but only slightly.
The elder tapped the floor twice.
The glowing lines along the wall brightened—slow, rising light.
The room hummed deeper, shifting into a different tone.
Pyrope blinked.
The elder explained calmly,
“These walls contain old technology that reacts to internal energy. It reveals the shape of trauma.”
Shapes of light drifted across the floor.
Not shadows—more like pulses mapping Pyrope’s internal state.
Tidewhisper watched with fascination.
“Impressive. Your kingdom hides many secrets.”
The elder didn’t answer.
He was too focused.
After a long moment, he opened his eyes.
The Elder’s Diagnosis
“You are in Stage Four,” he said softly.
“But not the usual kind.”
Pyrope looked down, ashamed.
As if the words carried guilt.
The elder shook his head.
“No. This is not shame. Only fact.”
He continued:
“Your Stage Four is unstable. Cracked—but not broken. The foundation remains.”
He traced a finger through the glowing lights on the floor.
“Your stamina… abnormally high. Unnatural even for rabbit hybrids.”
Pyrope’s breath hitched.
The elder leaned closer.
“And there is… something inside you.”
Pyrope stiffened.
Tidewhisper stepped forward, protective but calm.
“What do you mean?”
The elder’s voice softened.
“A dark echo. Lingering trauma. A shadow of what you faced. Not a curse, not corruption… just a memory refusing to fade.”
The statement hit Pyrope harder than expected.
He lowered his head.
“…I let them get killed,” he whispered.
“I ran away. I—”
“That is not your fault,” the elder interrupted firmly.
Pyrope froze.
“You carry a burden that does not belong to you.”
Tidewhisper slowly sat beside Pyrope, placing a supportive hand on his back.
“These things happen,” he murmured. “Trauma forces the body to react. It isn’t your fault.”
Pyrope’s eyes burned—not from pain, but from the sudden release of pressure he didn’t know he was holding.
The elder waited patiently, letting the moment settle.
Then he spoke the rule that mattered more than anything:
“Until you heal inside,”
he said quietly,
“your body will not obey you.”
Pyrope breathed shakily.
The elder continued:
“You cannot train. You cannot grow. Not yet.
Your mind must rest first. Then your body will follow.”
Pyrope looked up, searching his expression for truth.
“Rest?” he asked softly. “But… I don’t know how.”
The elder gave a faint smile.
“That is why I ask you to come here, just sleep here tonight.”
He stood slowly, staff resting against the ground.
“I hope tomorrow, we can begin cleansing your inner storm.”
We’re almost at the end of Volume 1 of Ashborne.
Chapter 42 will be the final chapter of this first volume, and next week will mark its official closure.
I hope you’ll stay with the story a little longer as we reach the end of this volume.