Osric's Tears

Onish felt his bones dissolving like ice left under a blazing sun, his muscles tearing apart as though invisible claws ripped them from within. Igbo's potion set every cell in his body ablaze, each one screaming in agony. He felt as though he were being cooked alive, his skin crackling under an infernal heat.

Memories, long buried in the shadows of his subconscious, surged to the surface like a flood breaking a dam. Fear gripped his soul with icy hands.

The searing pain consumed him, unraveling his sanity thread by thread. Thoughts evaporated like mist under a cruel sun, leaving him howling like a wounded beast.

Beside the writhing Onish, Bhadra sat unmoved, chanting an arcane spell. His eyes glinted with a strange mix of focus and detachment as he observed the boy's convulsions. The fowler knew this torment was no ordinary trial; it was Osric's tears, a trial so harrowing it had broken stronger souls than Onish.

Idarin's account, etched in the Tome of the Dead, replayed in Bhadra's mind:

"It felt like the volcano of Asharar erupted in my belly, the fiery lava replacing my blood as it rushed into my veins, searing them to the core. Pindar, the hellhound, gnawed at my muscles thread by thread while my bones melted like wax before a flame.

My soul quivered; my mind splintered into countless shards. I relived a thousand lifetimes, each filled with suffering beyond imagination…"

Bhadra shivered at the memory. Idarin was one of the few who had survived this trial, and even he had emerged scarred, his soul haunted by the ordeal. The fowler had warned Oman of the risks—this could leave a permanent wound on the boy's soul, an unhealed trauma etched into his memory. Yet Oman had insisted. If Onish was to survive in this ruthless world, he needed this transformation.

Onish found himself reliving the torments of 8.4 million past lives. Every pain, every agony he had ever endured came rushing back, engulfing him in a tempest of suffering. It was as if the infernal sorcery fed on his despair, trapping him in an endless loop of anguish.

His awareness began to fracture, his sense of self slipping away. If not for his years as a yogi, he might have succumbed entirely, becoming a preta—a tormented soul doomed to wander in perpetual agony.

Desperately, he tried to break free from the illusion, but his attempts only strengthened the sinister magic. Questions clawed at his mind: What has the fowler done to me? Why did I trust him?

Regret swelled in his heart. He cursed himself for coming to the tower alone, without even informing his family.

Then, through the chaos, he heard it—a sound as faint as a whisper yet as powerful as a storm. The eternal hum of the Shabad-brahman, the transcendental sound, Om, resonated from a distant realm. The melody grew stronger, filling him with a strange, unearthly calm. It emanated from his heart chakra, the seat of his soul, known in yogic lore as the Atman.

The sacred sound shattered the invisible prison binding him, like sunlight dispersing a dense fog. His awareness surged back into his body, clinging to every cell, unwilling to let go.

For a moment, Onish felt alien in his own form. His bones, now blackened like obsidian, seemed infused with solidified darkness. Fiery red lava pulsed through his veins, illuminating his body from within. His muscles gleamed an inky blue, radiating an otherworldly aura.

Spirit energy coursed through his nadis, tracing intricate, unknown pathways. Within him, the energy coalesced into a glowing blue pearl, just like the one he had seen in the enchanted parrot.

"How long will he stay in this state?" Oman's worried voice broke through the silence.

"There's no way to know," Bhadra replied. "Idarin's account didn't mention this phase. But rest assured, my lord, the boy has survived. Now it's only a matter of time."

"I hope you're right," Oman said, his voice heavy. "If anything happens to him, I wouldn't know what to tell Padma."

When did Oman arrive? Onish wondered. Despite his inward focus, he could hear their conversation clearly. Slowly, he decided to open his eyes.

Onish woke in a dingy room, the weak flicker of an oil lamp casting long, wavering shadows on the walls. Oman stood by a small window, his broad shoulders slumped. The fowler sat nearby, leafing through a dusty tome, his hood slipping back to reveal his face.

For the first time, Onish saw Bhadra's features. His olive-green eyes glowed like a cat's in the dim light, intricate black tattoos curling across his forehead and around his left eye.

"Ah!" As if sensing Onish's gaze, Bhadra hastily pulled his hood back up, snapping the book shut. Rising to his feet, he announced, "Lord, the young sire has woken."

Relief washed over Oman's face, softening the deep lines etched into his forehead. "How are you feeling, son?" he asked, his voice tinged with guilt.

"I'm fine, Dad," Onish replied, and for once, it wasn't a lie. He felt reborn, his skin tingling as though kissed by the morning breeze.

Oman patted his back, pride flickering in his eyes. "You've done well. Welcome to the world of spirit-wielders. Your mother will be overjoyed."

Then, wrinkling his nose, he added with a chuckle, "But you need a bath. You stink worse than a dead rat!"

Onish laughed weakly as he was ushered into the bathroom. Stripping away the old, peeling skin, he revealed new flesh—soft, wheatish, and faintly luminescent. He truly had been remade.

When he returned, draped in an oversized cloak belonging to Bhadra, the fowler was waiting with a bowl of shimmering silver liquid.

"Drink," Bhadra said, his tone firm yet amused.

Onish recoiled. "No more potions. I've had enough torment for one night."

Bhadra laughed. "This isn't Osric's tears. It's the ambrosia of forest nymphs—a gift from Mazia herself. You should feel honored I'm sharing it with you."

Reluctantly, Onish took a sip. The liquid sent waves of euphoria coursing through him, washing away every trace of fatigue and fear. He closed his eyes as the divine energy swept through his body, rejuvenating him completely.

"How was it?" Bhadra asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Indescribable," Onish replied, bowing lightly to his mentor.

"Good. Now rest. Dawn is near, and tomorrow will be another test."

As Onish descended the spiral staircase, the once-ominous tower seemed alive, its walls humming with an energy he hadn't noticed before. For the first time, he felt a connection to its mysteries, a bond forged in fire and shadow.