Asdras Awakening (VI)

"How it works?" Asdras asked.

He stood near the ancient wheel, his attentions divided between the motionless statue looming at its center and Second. His eyebrows knitting together while his gaze shifted from the man's face to the dark red water circling the statue. Faint moonlight revealed silvery undertones, and as Asdras leaned forward, he observed his likeness dancing across the water's rippling surface. 

Second, appearing oblivious to Asdras's unease, strode toward a pile of lumber on the ground. His bootfalls scuffed against dirt and pebbles, scattering them in his path. He knelt, fingers working deftly to untie a rope that held a dust-ridden piece of fabric. Though discolored and frayed, the cloth remained surprisingly intact; he shook off bits of earth and grit, then spread it wide. 

With measured precision, he draped the material over the blood-streaked carcass of an animal lying nearby, gathering the edges so they overlapped. The hush broken only by Second's short exhalations as he wrapped the bundle, tying two secure knots to form makeshift handles.

He stood, hefting the weight of fresh kill with ease. "It's different, y'see…" His words came soft but purposeful as he raised his eyes to meet Asdras's. Gesturing faintly at the wheel, he continued, "There are different ways to awaken power. Each region and culture has its own method. I heard that in the north, they like brew made of mushrooms. Here, we use the wheel."

The stench of rust and decay rolled off the water, intensifying each time Asdras shifted his stance. He glanced again at the statue, its contours hidden by creeping nightfall. Second's voice drew his attention back, and Asdras turned to watch him approach.

Second set his burden aside, stepping closer to Asdras so they both faced the ancient, water-filled wheel. He dragged out his words, fatigue and wariness clinging to every syllable. "It used to be clean and crystalline," he said, lips compressing into a firm line. "But now…" 

Asdras let the tension bleed from his shoulders, inhaling the night air in a slow, deliberate draw. His focus lingered on the weathered statue, whose carved female figure clutched a petrified crow. The stone surface bore cracks, and where water lapped at the statue's base, an eerie color shift tinted them. At length, his breath steadied, and he ventured a question. "Do I need to drink it?"

Second adjusted his hold on the carcass's makeshift handles and offered one curt nod. "Yes."

Asdras suppressed a grimace, uncertain whether the swirling concoction would harm him or truly unlock any hidden strength. "Any advice?" he asked, his eyes flicking over the black edges of the cloth covering the animal in Second's arms.

A sardonic chuckle escaped Second, and he took a step back, muscles tensing as he prepared to drag the burden toward the forest path they had come from. "Be alone; that's my advice," he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, "And don't drink too much. It probably tastes sour now. I'll wait for you at the campsite — this thing needs cleaning and slicing."

Asdras readied a response, but before words formed, Second was already disappearing between the twisted trunks. Instinct compelled Asdras forward, but he froze halfway when Second glanced over his shoulder, smiling with provocative ease.

"Your sword…" Asdras began, voicing the thought gnawing at him.

Second paused, his expression shifting from playful to resolute in a heartbeat. "Kid, with or without the sword, I'm still awakened. The only thing in these woods that could kill me is that monster." His gaze swept over Asdras — fixing on the muddy boots, the uncertain crouch, the bright blade. "It's yours now. Consider it my gift. See you later."

Their exchange ended with the distinct rustle of leaves underfoot. Standing alone, Asdras watched Second's back vanish beyond the crooked silhouettes of trees. Soon, the hush closed in, and a prickling awareness fell over him. 

In the gloom, insects droned — an unending hiss that rose and fell in a discordant lullaby. Branches overhead rubbed together, forming a soothing yet ominous timbre, as though the forest itself sang in tongues. Occasionally, a crow's caw cut through the stillness, awakening a sensation that Asdras was not alone. The faint silver beams of moonlight grew more concentrated, painting odd, twisting shapes on the ground. Fine dust motes spiraled in those pale shafts like grounded constellations swirling in slow-motion.

His hand clenched around the sword's hilt, and when he glanced down, he discovered his knuckles colored red from tension. He dislodged his grip, letting the sword dip until its tip kissed damp stones. An exhale slipped from his mouth.

"I guess I am on my own…" the young man muttered. Despite his misgivings, he set aside the blade near the stones and kneeled, studying the water's surface. His reflection stared back, features blurred by the rippling current.

He cupped his hands, trembling, desperate. The water slipped through his fingers, mocking his thirst. His patience snapped — he plunged forward, face breaking the surface.

A mistake.

A vile bitterness flooded his mouth, thick and rancid. The taste of rot. Of something long dead. His stomach lurched as the stench filled his nose — familiar, like the twisted trees from before, like decay given form.

He wrenched away, choking, retching. The sour burn clawed up his throat, bile stinging his lips.

_"Madness!"_ he spat, his voice hoarse, trembling. Spittle dripped from his chin — blackened, tainted. The taste clung, would not leave. His chest heaved, a feverish heat surging under his skin. His hands, slick with sweat, braced against the cold stone.

Then — the blow.

Dizziness struck hard, a hammer to the skull. The world tilted, reeled, collapsed. His limbs— weak, useless. The colors — wrong. Red, black, twisting in his vision, weaving into shapes that should not be. He staggered, but his body betrayed him.

He fell.

The ground was unyielding. His skull met stone. Sparks burst behind his eyes, then —nothing.

Time drifted without measure. Somewhere, far away, a heartbeat pulsed. Not his own. Not yet. Then — awareness seeped in, slow, heavy, like drowning in tar. His body ached, leaden. Something warm dripped over his lips. Blood? The thought jolted him upright, lungs dragging in a ragged breath.

His back hit wood — a gnarled trunk, sharp against his spine. The world was too sharp. Each leaf, each ripple in the distant water, every detail carved with unbearable clarity. He wiped at his forehead. His fingers came away sticky. Blood.

A flicker—movement in the dark. His breath hitched. 'There's something there.'

Every nerve in his body coiled, ready. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"Madness! Madness, I say! The fool child tries again! Curses upon his persistence!"

His pulse stuttered. The voice was not human. His gaze snapped to the source. A crow. Perched by his sword, its beak gleaming in the firelight. But it stood wrong — high on stiff legs, head tilted at an impossible angle. It watched him.

Asdras blinked, still grappling with the possibility that delirium had seized him. Then, to his dismay, the crow spoke once more, its beak moving with eerie precision.

"Foolish child! Madness, I say! Glad it was his final folly!"

His breath fled. His mouth — dry, useless. His mind screamed delirium, hallucination, sickness, but — no. The thing spoke. Its beak moved. Its eyes saw him. Rage overtook fear. He lunged. His hands met nothing. Stone bit into his jaw. His vision swam, pain blooming sharp and immediate. He groaned, rolling onto his back.

"Cursed wretch, I declare! Pathetic, so weak!"

The voice again — mocking, gloating. He forced himself upright, his limbs shaking. There — atop a half-rotted barrel. Waiting for him. His fingers curled around the sword's hilt, knuckles white. He swung. A miss. Wood shattered, splinters flying, the empty strike echoing. The crow's laughter rang sharp against the night.

"Dammit! What is this?!" He spat, fury laced in his voice. He flicked bits of debris from the blade, forcing himself to steady his breath.

The crow shifted, perching upon the statue in the center of the wheel. The firelight caught its shape, casting a second shadow against the carved stone. A crow upon a woman's arm — one silent, one mocking.

Asdras' grip tightened. He could leap. He could cut it down. He could — no. The taste of the water still sat thick in his throat. The warning still rang in his mind. His gaze lifted to the statue's face. Weathered. Worn. A sorrow carved by time itself. The crow clicked its beak, impatient.

"Come closer now, little lost one — Uncle's got a tale to share!"

Irrational anger coursed through Asdras. A heartbeat earlier, he had been dazed, nearly helpless; now, a wild fervor pushed him forward. He dashed again, adrenaline fueling his every step. The twisted trunk was severed in one clean strike — wood once massive now flung several meters as though swatted aside by a giant. The raw strength astonished him, bringing him to a standstill.

He stared at his own hands. He tried recalling each motion — how he lunged from the barrel to the trunk, each leap bridging a distance that should've been impossible. Disbelief knotted his brow.

Blood pounded in his ears, and he looked around to find the crow perched on the statue at the center of the wheel. The stone woman's broad shoulders partially obscured it, except for a slender silhouette outlined in moonlight. The carved crow upon her petrified arm made this living one seem like a mocking replica of that silent effigy.

His temples throbbed. He realized he could probably leap across the rim of the wheel and slash at the crow. Yet the memory of that rancid water —a nd a faint sense of respect for Second's warnings — kept him grounded. Besides, another plunge into the lake might take far more than his breath.

He lifted his gaze. The crow clacked its beak impatiently, as though urging him to hurry. With a drawn-out sigh, Asdras took a few steps closer, letting the sword's tip scrape lightly over the stones. A breeze slipped past, rustling the crow's ebony feathers.

'Is this the awakening?' The thought knifed through him. A wave of conflicting emotions —alarm, curiosity, anger — crashed in his chest. Seconds earlier, he had struggled to remain upright, now he wielded enough power to rip trees apart. All from that disgusting water?

"Step forth at once! Answer my three queries true; delight me, and your name shall be known," the crow crowed. Its voice reverberated oddly, each word laced with sing-song mockery.