CHAPTER 52: THE SPARK AND THE CORE (2)

The gold in Apollo’s veins warmed suddenly, pulsing in time with the ritual. Something in the dark was answering, not to the priest or his amateur flames, but to the older, deeper power that still flowed through Apollo’s diminished form.

He glanced at his companions, finding them all watching the ritual with varying degrees of unease. Nik’s earlier fascination had given way to something more cautious. Lyra’s hand hadn’t moved from her knife. Thorin’s scowl had deepened, and Renna looked ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

Even Cale, usually so composed, had tensed, his eyes darting between the priest and the exits.

In that moment of shared disquiet, a silent understanding passed between them. They had assumed the city would be a refuge, a place to rest and resupply before continuing their journey. Instead, they had stumbled into something older and more dangerous than mere walls and guards.

The mortals had power of their own. And the city was not the defenseless haven they had hoped for.

"So there are more of these... mages?" Nik asked, eyes darting back to the priest and his conjured flames.

"Of course there are," Apollo replied, irritation slipping into his voice. "But skill varies widely. What you’re seeing is rudimentary at best."

Lyra edged closer, her earlier suspicion now tinged with reluctant curiosity. "How powerful can they become?"

Apollo hesitated. The relic’s warning echoed in his mind, but something in Lyra’s expression, a genuine desire to understand rather than merely exploit, loosened his tongue.

"The Aether core has ten tiers of development," he said, keeping his voice low. "Most people have what’s called a Nascent core...Tier 10. They can barely sense Aether, much less manipulate it. Minor cantrips at most, lighting a candle, warming water."

The priest below finished his display, the flames receding into his palms as the crowd murmured in appreciation. Apollo snorted softly.

"Tier 9 is an Initiate," he continued. "Basic spellcasting, simple enchantments that might last a day or two. Your fire priest down there is probably a 9, maybe a weak 8 at best."

Thorin’s brow furrowed. "And at worst?"

Apollo’s lips quirked into a humorless smile. "At Tier 8, Adept, you get reliable combat magic, sustained enchantments that can last weeks. Tier 7 Scholars can manipulate multiple elements simultaneously, perform complex spellwork that would burn out lesser cores."

Nik whistled low, earning a sharp glance from nearby worshippers. "And beyond that?"

"Masters at Tier 6 can create entirely new spells, understand advanced magical theory that most can barely comprehend." Apollo’s voice took on a distant quality, as if reciting from memory. "Tier 5 Elites can enhance their physical abilities, strength, speed, senses, and their battle magic can level small buildings."

The gold in his veins warmed as he spoke, responding to the memories of power that once flowed through him like sunlight. The relic remained silent, but he felt its attention, sharp and focused.

"The upper tiers are exceedingly rare," he added, almost to himself. "Sovereigns at Tier 4 can alter weather patterns, bend nature to their will. Transcendents at Tier 3 begin to touch reality itself, potentially achieving immortality."

Renna made a small, disbelieving sound. "Immortality? That’s just stories."

"Is it?" Apollo asked, meeting her eyes. Something in his gaze made her look away first.

"The final tiers are practically mythical," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "Tier 2 Celestials possess demigod-level abilities, creating magical domains that follow their own rules. And Tier 1..." He trailed off, the gold in his veins pulsing with bitter remembrance.

"Divine," he finished flatly. "Mastery over fundamental forces. God-like power."

Silence fell between them as the implications sank in. Below, the ceremony continued, the priest now leading the crowd in a call-and-response that echoed against the stone walls.

"You speak as if you’ve seen them," Lyra said, studying Apollo’s face with renewed intensity. "These higher tiers."

The relic’s warning pressed against his mind. ’Careful, golden-boy. They only value what you know, not what you are.’

"I’ve read accounts," Apollo lied smoothly. "Ancient texts, mostly fragmented. The higher tiers haven’t been seen in this realm for generations, if they ever truly existed."

"And you?" Nik asked, eyes bright with curiosity. "What tier are you?"

Apollo felt the others watching him, waiting. The gold in his veins retreated, cooling beneath his skin.

"Nascent," he admitted, the truth bitter on his tongue. "Barely that. Whatever potential I might have had was... damaged long ago."

It wasn’t entirely a lie. His divine power had been stripped, his connection to the cosmic Aether severed when he was cast down. What remained was a shadow, a memory of godhood trapped in mortal flesh.

"So that’s why you know so much but can do so little," Thorin said, blunt as always.

Apollo felt the barb land, sharper than the dwarf could possibly know. "Yes," he replied simply. "That’s exactly why."

Before anyone could press further, movement near the dais caught their attention. The ceremony was shifting to its next phase. The priest raised a ceremonial knife, its blade gleaming unnaturally in the torchlight.

"We should go," Lyra said, tension returning to her voice. "Before they notice we don’t belong."

Apollo nodded, grateful for the interruption. He’d revealed too much already, walked too close to truths he couldn’t afford to share. The relic’s weight pressed against his spine, a constant reminder of secrets still kept.

As they slipped from the chamber, retracing their steps toward the surface, Apollo felt the gold in his veins cool completely. Whatever power had briefly stirred during the ritual was dormant once more, leaving him as he had been since his fall, diminished, mortal, alone with knowledge he could share but power he could not reclaim.

The night air hit them like a blessing as they emerged from the underground temple. Stars glittered overhead, cold and distant as the divine realm Apollo had once called home.

’They’ll never understand what I was,’ he thought, falling into step behind the others as they made their way back toward the inn. ’And perhaps that’s for the best.’

The relic, for once, had no comment. Its silence felt almost like agreement.