The Spirit Wielders of Mazia

Amora vanished as silently as he had appeared, leaving Onish and Drona standing in the grand hall of the library. The vast chamber was a spectacle to behold, with moonstones embedded in the painted ceiling casting a soft, enchanting glow over the space. Scroll cases gleamed under the magical light, while metal-bound books lay scattered on the green-carpeted floor like treasures awaiting discovery.

For a fleeting moment, Onish thought the library was deserted. Then, the faint, crisp sound of a scroll being unrolled broke the stillness. In a shadowed corner, amidst the fortress of books, an ancient man sat. He seemed as old as the parchment he studied, oblivious to the arrival of uninvited guests.

"Be quiet. Old Suta doesn't like to be disturbed when he's with his scrolls. Let's go upstairs where we can talk freely," Drona whispered, gesturing towards a winding staircase.

On the upper floor, the scene shifted dramatically. Unlike the cluttered hall below, this chamber was starkly minimalist. A large wooden table with four cushioned chairs stood at the center, illuminated by an ethereal blue sphere hovering above it. The sphere, as large as the moon peeking through the open window, pulsed faintly like a living entity.

"It's our family tree," Drona said, pointing to a small sapling painted on the wall opposite the window. Its three tiny leaves seemed unimpressive at first glance.

"This was a gift from a Mitra to one of our ancestors. We often trace its roots during our leisure," Drona explained, pride gleaming in his eyes.

Onish examined the sapling skeptically. "What's the point? The roots are right there, aren't they?" he remarked.

But as he focused, the sapling transformed. Its leaves writhed and extended, turning into a sprawling vine that crept across the wall. The roots seemed to delve endlessly, forming an intricate, untraceable network.

"Ha! You could stare at it for days and never find where it ends. It's a mystery we've never solved," Drona chuckled. "The Mitras never do anything without a reason, though. It's said the whole of humanity descends from Manu and Shatrupa, the first man and woman of Mazia. If that legend holds true, every person should find their place somewhere on this tree."

Onish's mind raced. The names Manu and Shatrupa struck a chord. In the Puranas, Manu and Shatarupa were described as humanity's progenitors, born from Lord Brahma himself. Was this the same tale, or merely a parallel legend? Either way, the connection seemed too strong to be mere coincidence.

"So, what would you like to know first?" Drona asked after they settled in the quiet chamber.

"These spirit-wielders… Who are they? Spiritualists, falconers…" Onish trailed off, his curiosity piqued.

Drona leaned back, thoughtful. "It's a bit complicated to explain to someone who can't sense spirits. But I'll try.

"Everyone has 72,000 energy channels, or nadis, running through their body. When spirit flows through specific sets of these nadis, it grants supernatural abilities. These sets are called spirit paths or diagrams. Each diagram has unique powers. For instance, the diagram of telekinesis grants telekinetic abilities. Telepathy, healing, strength—they all have their respective spirit diagrams.

"While spirit-wielders learn basic diagrams in spirit schools, our innate abilities are dictated by the sturdiness of specific nadis. For example, someone with developed spirit-paths for telekinesis would naturally excel as a spiritualist. Others might show aptitude for agility and strength, making them fit to be yoddhas, or warriors."

Drona paused, then continued, "Falconers and tamers, like our sister Esha, have the unique ability to bond with spirit beasts and birds. They form mental connections and command them, though it's not easy. My forte is telekinesis, much like my father's. He was a great spiritualist and once annihilated an entire army of defilers before meeting his end in Haldi."

Drona's voice faltered, his smile fading briefly. Onish sensed a deep sorrow buried beneath his cousin's cheerful facade.

"I'm sorry," Onish said gently.

"It's alright," Drona replied with a faint smile. "I was too young to remember him. Anyway, there are many kinds of spirit-wielders. Suka, the bard, creates vivid scenes in the air with his songs. Nimoi communes with plants, while Sutas memorize everything they hear, never forgetting a single detail. Even landscapes, like the moving mountains of Okala or the living sea of Nemariya, bear the spirit's mark. The spirit's power is boundless, and we spiritualists can only tap into a fraction of it."

"Can I become a spirit-wielder?" Onish asked suddenly, holding Drona's gaze.

Drona looked startled. "Your nadis were fragile before, but I've noticed changes in your body. You might have potential now. You should consult Chalukya, our awakener. I can take you to him in the morning."

Relieved, Onish agreed, though he sensed Drona's weariness. They left the library quietly, passing Old Suta still immersed in his scrolls.

Outside, the moon shone brightly, illuminating the garden's otherworldly flora. Butterflies with glowing wings fluttered among the flowers.

"Moon-fairies," Drona remarked. "They collect moonlight and condense it into nectar. One drop, and you'd be drunk for a week."

Onish wanted to linger, but Drona's exhaustion was evident. He promised himself he'd return to explore this magical place alone.

When they reached the dining hall, the feast had long ended. Oman sat deep in conversation with a bald, robust man who radiated an intense energy.

"The lad hasn't woken from his coma," Onish heard his father say. The bald man, Griva, chief of the city guards, responded, "Lady Avantika refused me entry."

Oman sighed, frustration etched on his face. Griva hesitated before suggesting, "Should I speak to her again?"

"No, Griva. I owe Ronan and Avantika too much to disturb her in her grief," Oman replied firmly.

As Griva departed, Drona inquired about Guha, their childhood friend.

"He survived an assassination attempt last night," Oman revealed grimly. "Though he escaped the Blue-Blade's wrath, his life hangs by a thread."

The news cast a shadow over the room. Oman eventually dismissed them, arranging for Drona's departure to Taxila at daybreak. Despite the weight of the night's revelations, Onish felt a flicker of hope. Tomorrow, he would meet the awakener and begin unraveling the mysteries that bound him to this world.