Astral to Reality

Isabella nodded, her eyes still averted, and followed him out of the manor. The opulence of the place now tainted by the dark scene she had just witnessed. "It's all so... much," she murmured as they stepped into the night, the stars winking at them through the treetops.

"Power," Markash said, his voice a low rumble. "It is always much more than what it seems."

"It's not that." She hesitated, "Well it is." Isabella's voice was tight with unspoken anger and confusion as they moved towards the city gates, "How could you be so... lenient with her?" She threw the words out like a challenge.

"We talked about spell craft, yes? About how you can direct the magic, but if you restrict it too much, give it no room it lashes out." Markash's voice was low and calm, as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. "People are the same. I give her a measure of control over her own fate, even if it is false, and she will follow."

Isabella scoffed, unable to hide the frustration in her voice. "So you just let her go, after what she's done? After what her husband did?"

"Her husband is dead." He said with a cold dismissive tone. "If not now, by morning. You know your father well enough." Markash's voice was a low rumble in the night, his eyes not meeting hers as they walked. "He would not let her go without retribution. So she came to me."

Isabella's frustration bubbled over. "And what of us?" she snapped. "You've claimed the estate, made her a spy, and let her keep her son. What of our own family?"

"Really girl? You're the apprentice to a magister of no small talent. You father runs this town, for what that is worth. You are safe, and if you are studious, many doors are open to you." He said as they walked through the gates and into the wilds.

Isabella's cheeks flushed at his words. She knew he was right, but it still stung. "I don't want to be just anyone," she said with a fierce determination. "I want to be powerful, renown, feared." There was an edge to her voice, a fear, as though it was a memory of something past that she could scarcely face. Markash let it pass and they traveled in silence until the fires of the outpost grounds appeared in the distance.

As they approached Markash noted four guards at the gate, two of the Cinn goblins, and curiously, two humans. "And who are you?" he demanded. The human guards looked at him nervously, one spoke up.

"The mayor didn't know what to do with us... I was enlisted by the Sanders three months ago and held them no loyalty." He nervously looked at the other guard. "Anthony here worked for the town. The mayor thought you could use more help up here." Markash knew this was the result of Chelsea's petitioning and let it go, patting the young man on the shoulder. To the goblins, he nodded and joked with them "Keep an eye the humans, can't trust them." The sharp toothed smiles he got in return sent shivers down the men's backs.

Once inside the outpost walls, Isabella's eyes searched the bustling construction site. She saw Chelsea, her eyes alight with excitement as she directed the workers. "You've done well," Markash said to Chelsea, his voice filled with a warmth that seemed out of place on him.

Isabella felt a twinge of something unfamiliar in her chest. It was a strange emotion, one she hadn't felt before. She watched as Markash's hand rested on Chelsea's shoulder, the ease of their interaction making it clear that they had known each other for far longer than she had ever suspected. She felt like an outsider in this place she had called home, her own relationship with Markash suddenly feeling strained and ****.

The outpost was buzzing with activity. The Cinn goblin laborers worked tirelessly, their greenish-gray skin shimmering with sweat in the flickering torchlight. The humans they had brought with them moved with a precision that spoke of their military training. Chelsea, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes shining with excitement, barked orders in a way that made it clear she was in charge. The way the workers responded to her, with a mix of respect and fear, was something Isabella had never seen in the townspeople.

Markash led the way to the tower, his eyes scanning the bustling activity around them. The former military outpost was a flurry of movement, a stark contrast to the quiet town of Merrit's Bend. "The power within these walls grows stronger," he murmured, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Soon, we will have all that we need to begin the true work."

The tower loomed before them, a silent sentinel against the backdrop of the night sky. It had been restored to a semblance of its former glory, the stones gleaming in the torchlight. As they climbed the winding stairs, Isabella could feel the energy coiling around her, the very air thick with the promise of power. The meditation and ritual rooms had become their sanctuary, a place where Markash had begun to unlock the secrets of her icy magic.

The ritual chamber was already prepared by Chelsea, The runic circle's lines fortified, candles and wall sconces casting a warm glow about the room.

"You should consider leaving. I will not **** you but the forces ravaging this room will be intense." Markash's voice was firm, yet held a hint of concern. He began stripping off his cloak, revealing his muscular body, scarred from battles and rituals long past. Each movement was deliberate, a dance of preparation as he arranged his tools of the arcane within the circle.

"We talked about the bridge into the astral that sits in our soul allowing us to draw mana and cast it into the material. The next step is the creation of the bridge's landing. An internal realm unique to each Magister." Markash spoke with an intensity that sent shivers down Isabella's spine. "What does this circle do?"

Isabella's eyes traced the intricate patterns of the runes, her mind racing as she pieced together the purpose of the circle. "It's a... a cyclical conduit," she murmured. "It draws magic from the user, then forces it back in a... a loop."

"Very good." Markash's praise was rare, and Isabella felt a glow of pride at his words. "The amount of magical energy it takes to form an internal realm is astounding. Unguided ascension is remarkably dangerous." Markash paused before letting the next words leave his mouth.

"I have done this before. I know I can ensure my survival, but I cannot limit the extent of the energy overflow. You can gain a lot by taking in the magical overflow, but you will be exposing yourself to the backlash from this ascension." Markash warned.

"What do you mean 'you've done this before'?" Isabella's eyes narrowed in confusion. "And what kind of backlash are we talking about?" Her curiosity was piqued despite the trepidation in her voice.

"Let that be a reflection of my trust in you. I was late third stage, before... circumstances dictated otherwise." Markash's eyes grew distant, and Isabella felt the weight of his past pressing down on her. "The backlash... it can be intense. Anything I cannot contain during the ritual will lash out without direction. It is possible for a second magi to absorb some of it and boost their own strength. It would be a sizable boost to your own progress, but it is not without risk."

Isabella's heart raced as she took in his words. The potential power was tantalizing, but the risks were significant. Yet, she knew that without taking such risks, she would never achieve the greatness she craved. "I'll do it," she said, her voice firm. "I'm ready."

Markash did not acknowledge her. Instead lighting the last of the herbs for the ritual and cautiously moving into the center circle. He sat and closed his eyes chanting softly.

The room grew cold, colder than the outside air. A gust of wind picked up the candles flickered, and then went out. Only the torches remained lit, casting eerie shadows across the room. Markash took a deep breath, and his eyes snapped open, filled with the abyssal blackness of the demon.

Inside his soul realm Markash appeared like he had hundreds of years ago. An image of the young man terrified to be left behind, too small, too cowardly, and unready for the trials he would face. Aesmaram appeared wreathed a cloud of smoke, almost tangible, but still too weak to manifest in full in Markash's soul.

The beach was a memory from his youth, the first time he had seen the sea, a rare trip to the coast with his mother before the war had taken her. The sand was black, the sea a deep purple, almost black. The sky was a swirl of red and purple, like the inside of an open wound, but the gateway above was a stark white, a stark contrast to the grim scene around them.

The incubus looked at him with a mix of hunger and amusement. "You are so eager to ascend, so hungry for power." The demon's voice was like the sweetest whispers of a lover and the harshest bellow of a warrior in battle.

"Demon, you know too well this small town cannot hold our ambitions." Markash's voice echoed through the chamber, the power in his words resonating through the very air as the ritual commenced. The incubus, Aesmaram, watched him with a knowing smile, his eyes gleaming with anticipation as the energy began to coalesce.

The beach of Markash's soul realm grew brighter as the gateway above pulsed with an eerie light. The waves crashed against the shore with an intensity that matched the magister's own fierce determination. His body, now an ethereal form, was bathed in the colors of the swirling astral plane. Above them, the white gateway grew larger, a beacon in the tempestuous sky. And like a flash of lightning, their trial began.

A lance of pure, blinding power shot down from the gateway, bathing the two in a torrent of raw astral power. Markash and Aesmaram stood their ground, bracing themselves for the onslaught of energy that was to come. The **** hit them like a hammer, sending them tumbling across the sand, the incubus' laughter ringing out in the tumult.

The demon's form wavered, his eyes rolling back as he tried to contain the deluge of power. Markash's body, too, was wracked with spasms, his muscles tensing and releasing in a **** dance to maintain control. The air around them crackled with the raw magic that threatened to consume them both.

Slowly, with painstaking effort, Markash began to shape the energy, his hands moving in intricate patterns that matched the runic forms hastily scratched into the ground below for protection. The sand beneath them began to shift, rising up in sculpted forms that reflected the chaotic mix of desire and destruction that swirled around them.

Aesmaram, his eyes now burning with a fierce hunger, reached out and touched Markash's shoulder. His grip was firm, almost painful, but Markash took it as a sign of solidarity. Together, they focused on the task at hand, the demon's power melding with Markash's own, creating a landscape that was both terrifying and beautiful.

The sand grew darker, stained by the demon's lustful essence. It swirled and twisted, forming into sensual shapes that writhed and coiled around them. Yet, even amidst this chaos, the cold embrace of Markash's void magic began to take hold. The beach grew colder, the waves frozen in place as ice began to creep up the shoreline.

The interplay of light and dark, hot and cold, created a breathtaking tableau of power. The sky above churned with reds and purples, clashing with the stark whiteness of the gateway. The very fabric of Markash's soul realm seemed to stretch and distort under the strain of their combined efforts.

Further down the beach the incubus's influence grew stronger, the beach morphing into a landscape of sensuality and desire. The sand grew warm and soft, almost like flesh under their feet, and the air was thick with the scent of pheromones and promise. The dunes took the shape of reclining figures, their forms undulating with an erotic grace that seemed to beckon to any who dared to approach.

The void areas of the beach held a cold beauty emphasizing the true scale of the void, the dark sand and waves reflecting the expanse of the night sky above them. The land further in covered in a winter landscape of a frozen forest.

Where the demon held influence the trees that had once been twisted by the cold had become lush and fertile, their branches heavy with ripe, voluptuous fruits that glowed with an inner fire. The leaves whispered sweet nothings as they brushed against the skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. The very earth beneath them seemed to pulse with life, the very essence of the incubus's power seeping into every grain of sand and pebble.

In the center of this bizarre tableau, Markash and Aesmaram lay collapsed to their knees, heads resting on each other's shoulder, their bodies slick with sweat and magic. The air around them was charged with a tension that was almost palpable, a testament to the power they had just wielded.

The torrent of raw magic finally relented, leaving the beach transformed. The sand was now a mosaic of black and white, the waves a blend of ice and steam. The dunes had been reshaped into a series of peaks and valleys, each one a monument to their struggle. Markash felt his strength returning, the incubus's power pulsing through his veins like liquid fire. He stood, his eyes fixed on the gateway, which was now a swirling vortex of color.

Finally the ritual came to a close, the gateway calm, but fundamentally changed. Markash and the demon returned their combined consciousness to the room around them.

Markash gasped as he felt the cold stone beneath him. His body was trembling with the aftershocks of the power that had surged through him. His eyes snapped open and took in the scene before him. The ritual room was in disarray, the candles had melted into puddles of wax, the air thick with the scent of burnt incense. His gaze fell upon Isabella, lying **** on the floor outside of the circle, her body convulsing slightly with the last vestiges of the magic that had washed over her.

Chelsea burst into the room, her eyes wide with fear. "What happened?" she panted, rushing to Isabella's side. The concern etched on her features was palpable as she cradled the girl's head in her hands. "She's alive."

Markash gasped. "Good." His voice was a gruff whisper as he pushed himself to his feet. "Take the girl to her chambers. I will check on her in time." The room was a wreck, but the power that pulsed through the air was undeniable. The ritual had been a success. The incubus's essence was now a part of the fabric of his soul realm, forever entwined with his own. The bond between them was stronger than ever, and he could feel the demon's influence growing within him.

The room grew quiet as the last of the magic dissipated. Chelsea looked at the young girl in her arms, eyes filled with worry as she carried her out of the chamber. Markash took a moment to compose himself, the demon's power still coursing through his veins.

——————

The next morning, the first light of dawn painted the sky with strokes of pink and gold as Chelsea stepped into the town. The cobblestone streets were still damp with the night's dew, and the smell of bread baking filled the air from the distant bakery. She made her way to the Church of Warmth's Blessings, her thoughts a whirlwind of the previous night's events. Her heart felt heavy, torn between her duty to her faith and family against her loyalty to the magister Markash.

The church's double doors creaked open, revealing the familiar, comforting scent of incense and aged parchment. The priest's quills and inks were already laid out in neat rows across the altar, ready for the day's tasks. Chelsea moved to her usual spot, picking up a dust cloth to begin her cleaning routine. The rhythmic motion of her arm, swiping back and forth, helped to soothe her racing thoughts.

Her father, the town's priest, entered the sanctum, his eyes heavy with sleep and worry. "Chelsea," he called out, his voice echoing through the empty chamber. She turned to face him, setting down her cloth with **** calmness.

"Father," she greeted him with a small nod, her eyes betraying the turmoil within.

Her father's gaze swept over her, taking in the signs of a restless night. "Chelsea, what's amiss?" He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to her. "You've been distant of late, spending your nights at the outpost." He shook his head as if clearing it. "There are rumors that you're close with the magister that arrived last month. Trouble follows his kind everywhere they go."

Chelsea's heart skipped a beat. Her father had always been perceptive, but she had hoped the late nights would go unnoticed. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation she had been dreading. "Magister Markash is a good man," she said, her voice steady. "He's working to make our town stronger. I've been helping him manage the construction at the outpost."

"As though you have any experience with that work. And surrounded by rough men like those workers. Worst still the goblins!" His voice was filled with a mix of concern and accusation. "No, I have reached out to the bishop in Mosspoint and he is sending an Inquisitor. The magic? We are told in the books of light that her grace stands as a bulwark against the chaos of the dark, and those who work hand in hand towards that aim, no matter their strength are allies." His voice raising in passion and intensity to match his sermons. "But those are vile creatures, no better than beasts, and one who cavorts with them no longer has her protection!"

Chelsea felt a cold knot in her stomach, her father's words cutting through the morning calm like a knife through soft butter. "Father," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "the goblins are just workers. They are not 'beasts'. They are sentient beings with their own culture and honor, and Markash treats them with respect."

"See! His words poison you already. You're not to go back to that outpost. Not until the Inquisitor arrives and assesses the situation. Your place is here, with your people, with your faith!" His voice was firm, a command that brooked no argument.

Chelsea felt a spark of anger ignite within her. "Father, I am not a child to be ordered around. I am a grown woman, and I have made a choice to support Markash. He is not evil; he is working for the good of the town." She stood her ground, her eyes meeting her father's with a steely resolve she had never shown before.

The priest's face fell, his hand dropping to his side. "Chelsea, you know not what you're dealing with. This... Markash... he is not what he seems. I fear for your soul, daughter." His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of doubt or fear. But Chelsea's gaze remained unyielding. She turned to leave dropping the rag into the bucket of soapy water.

"Father," she said, her voice firm, "I am not a naive girl to be swayed by the whispers of the uninformed. I have seen the good he does, the protection he offers. Our town has never been more secure, and that is due to his influence. I will continue to support him."

"The inquisitors are coming. I have already sent the request. You will not be spared if you leave to warn him." Her father's voice was stern, a warning that sent shivers down her spine.

Chelsea's eyes searched the sanctum for any sign of doubt in her father's expression, but found none. Only the conviction of a man who believed he was fighting for righteousness. She knew that her father's fears were rooted in his faith, but she couldn't help but feel a twinge of anger at his refusal to see the truth of the situation.

"I understand your concerns, Father," she said, her voice measured and calm. "But I have faith in Markash. I have seen his intentions, and they are pure. He has given us all a chance to improve our lives, and I will not turn my back on that." With a firm nod, she exited the sanctum, leaving her father to his prayers and his fears.

——————

The walk back to the outpost was fraught with tension. The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow over the town, but the warmth did not reach her. Instead, she felt a cold resolve settle over her. As she approached the outpost, she saw the goblin workers toiling away, their green skin shimmering in the light. The sight of them brought a small smile to her lips. Despite their reputation, they had proven to be diligent and surprisingly skilled.

As Chelsea entered the tower, the stark difference between the bustling town and the quiet, solemn fortress was stark. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, and she could hear the faint murmur of Markash's voice from his chambers. She made her way up, her thoughts racing with the revelation she was about to share with him.

Inside, Markash looked up from his desk, the candlelight casting shadows across his face. His eyes searched hers, and she knew he could see the conflict within her. "What is it?" he asked, his tone gentle.

Chelsea took a deep breath, her words spilling out in a rush. "Father knows about the outpost, about us. He's called for an Inquisitor from Mosspoint. He doesn't trust you, he thinks...he thinks you're dangerous." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of accusation.

Markash's expression remained unchanged, his eyes never leaving hers. "I am," he said, his voice calm. "But nothing worth having is without risk." He stood and Chelsea crossed the room falling into his embrace. He kissed her deeply, the power of the demon within him swelling, a dark warmth that washed over her, and she moaned into the kiss.

As they broke away, Markash turned to the window, the light of the new day highlighting the sharp lines of his profile. "Aesmaram," he called out, his voice echoing through the room. He shuddered as the demon pulled himself away from Markash manifesting into his own form.

The incubus's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Yes, my host?"

"You heard what she said. Should we wait to make the offer for her to host?" Aesmaram's form was a whirlwind of shadow and light, his features ever shifting as he contemplated the new possibilities laid out before them. Markash's attention turned back to Chelsea. "Now that I have once again entered the second realm of magical power, my companion here has made it known we have the strength to summon others from his realm. They simply need willing hosts."

"Succubi?" Chelsea's voice was a whisper, her eyes wide with both fear and curiosity. She had heard the stories, whispers of creatures that could invade a person's dreams, grant them power, and feed on their desires.

"Yes. I will not **** this on you, but it is your next step towards power, you have the strength to control the accord with the summon."

Aesmaram bristled when Markash gave the offer to decline. "And let me remind you of our accord Magister..."

"I know demon. I will find you hosts, but I will not **** this on one who has been so loyal this far. It remains her choice." Markash's eyes softened, and his hand traced a gentle path down Chelsea's arm. "Think on it, Chelsea. It is a significant step, and one that should not be taken lightly."

Chelsea felt the demon's eyes on her, his gaze a physical caress that sent shivers down her spine. She knew what it meant to host one of his kind. It would mean giving in to the desires that she had long kept buried, the power that came with it, but she also knew there was the struggle to keep control, demons could do terrible things to their hosts when the contract soured. It was also the power to protect her people, to stand alongside Markash as an equal. The decision was made in the silence of the room, her heart racing with anticipation and fear. She looked into Markash's eyes, the abyssal blackness swirling with the demon's lust, and she knew she couldn't refuse. "I'll do it."