Lessons of Atta

The thin, vein-like metal appendages on Czenth's head shifted slightly, almost mimicking thought. "The Augur broke into their minds. There's not much that can be done."

Mirak's brow furrowed. "It did the same to me."

Czenth stopped mid-step and turned to him. "Explain."

"It felt like molten lava pouring into my head," Mirak said, his voice low. "It stopped, though—after Will put a hand on me."

Czenth's mask tilted, as if he were considering the implications. "Interesting. That shouldn't have happened. By all rights, you should be unconscious."

Mirak frowned. "So, we're just going to leave them here?" he asked, glancing back at the shipbuilders lying motionless in the dockyard.

Czenth's voice turned dry, almost mocking. "We are thieves, Mirak. Revenants who prowl in the night. None of our members are here out of a sense of charity."

"Selene—" Mirak began, but Czenth cut him off.

"—Selene is a hypocrite who lies through her teeth while fluttering her lashes," Czenth said sharply. "You're in Koona, Mirak. Resin is what defines this kingdom—nothing else. If I'd bribed the shipbuilders with a few prisms of resin, they would've let us in whether or not we had the seal of House Mallum. Everything here revolves around that currency. Don't let Selene's theatrics confuse you."

Mirak fell silent. He had almost forgotten that they were, in fact, thieves. But every member of the Revenant had their own reasons for being here—goals that didn't always align with Czenth's cynicism or Lancelot's grand plans. Maybe, just maybe, they could do some good for the people of Koona. Then again, who was he to judge? He wouldn't stand on a soapbox and deliver meaningless sermons. He had what he wanted—or at least, that's what he told himself.

Czenth took Mirak's silence as agreement. "Come, Mirak. The mission isn't over. Even with these new variables, we have work to do."

With a flick of his hand, Czenth sliced a shallow line into the hull of a nearby ship using Atta. The flow cut cleanly, leaving a fault near the ship's bow that would doom it to failure at sea.

They moved through the shipyard like ghosts, dismantling the vessels as they went. Wheels, wires, and keels were severed, delicate mechanisms destroyed, and hulls split asunder.

Mirak released a slow, controlled sigh as Atta hissed around him, sharp and wild like a tempest. His cloak billowed from the force, his hands outstretched as a tide of Atta descended on one ship. The wood groaned and splintered, cracking apart with a deafening snap before the vessel sank into the harbor.

"Leave the last one to me," Mirak said, his eyes on the towering Man O' War at the far end of the yard.

Czenth gave him a curious look but nodded, departing to continue his work elsewhere.

Mirak approached the massive ship alone. It was a marvel, its hull gleaming even in the faint glow of the Lunar Storm. He raised his hand, prepared to unleash the Atta—but he paused. He lowered his hand slowly, his gaze lingering on the vessel.

They had spoken of it with such reverence. It would be a shame to destroy something so beautiful.

Moments later, he caught up with Czenth, who was finishing off the last of the smaller ships near the front of the harbor.

Czenth glanced at him. "Who taught you how to use Harmony?"

"I'm self-taught," Mirak replied evenly, untying a knot on a nearby crane.

Czenth nodded faintly, but his tone remained critical. "Your technique is passable—for someone self-taught. But your Atta flows like a hammer driving a nail. It lacks finesse."

Mirak bristled. "The job is done. I don't see how my technique matters if the results are the same."

Czenth's expression was unreadable beneath his mask, but his voice carried the faintest edge of exasperation. "It matters because you lack understanding. Atta is not brute force. It is not merely power at your command. It is a fundamental force in our world—one that requires precision, control, and above all, respect."

He reached out, fingers brushing the air as it shimmered faintly around him. The mist of the Lunar Storm seemed to ripple in response, bending toward him like threads being drawn into a loom.

Mirak watched warily. "I don't understand what you're getting at."

Czenth's tone shifted into something resembling a lecture, though his words carried a subtle impatience. "You think of Atta as if it's magic—as if it dances on strings you pull. That couldn't be further from the truth. Atta is not magic. It is a force—one that flows into our world from layers beyond our understanding. It is not something you command. It is something you guide."

Mirak's frustration boiled over. "It takes force to exert it! I know that much!"

Czenth raised a brow, his metal appendages twitching faintly. "Do you truly understand, or do you simply know it works when you call it?"

Mirak clenched his fists. "Is there a point to this?"

Czenth inclined his head slightly, as if he'd been waiting for that question. "What is Atta, Mirak?"

Mirak frowned, his mind racing. Most books described Atta in vague, almost poetic terms—a gift of the gods, a divine force to be revered. He'd read countless theories, most of them speculative at best.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question," Czenth prompted, tapping the side of his mask.

Mirak exhaled sharply. "It's… more than just a force," he said hesitantly, his thoughts wandering to the stormy, all-consuming waters he'd felt when channeling Atta.

Czenth sighed, clearly unimpressed. "If you continue to think that way, you'll remain a hammer."

Mirak straightened. "Atta is ever-moving, free… but there's something in it. The Pureblood Elves manipulate its flows, and their gods—Essences—seem to alter how it behaves. Other religions do the same, whether they realize it or not."

Czenth waved a hand dismissively. "An interesting theory, but it can be explained by ignorance. Where there is no understanding, humans and elves alike turn to divine explanations."

Mirak narrowed his eyes. "There's more to it than that."

"Believe what you will," Czenth said, his tone indifferent. "All I'm trying to teach you is that Atta requires control—true control. The best sorcerers, the most skilled Harmony users, achieve their goals with the least amount of force. Efficiency, precision—that is the key. Finesse will serve you far better than brute strength."

Mirak's jaw tightened. "And yet, my approach hasn't failed me."

"Not yet," Czenth replied evenly. "Your control is passable, yes. But you throw your full weight behind every movement, whether it's needed or not. You'll exhaust yourself—and your Atta—before you reach your true potential."

Mirak tugged down his hood, exhaling slowly. "It's something to think about, I suppose."

"Perhaps a demonstration will help," Czenth said.

He stretched out his hands, and the air around them began to shift. Slowly, the mist of the Lunar Storms seemed to freeze, congealing into a near-stillness. Mirak's ears rang in the silence—total, oppressive, soundless.

"What is this?" Mirak tried to ask, but no sound escaped his lips.

Czenth dropped his hand, and the mist surged back to life, the sounds of the harbor rushing in to fill the void.

"That," Czenth explained, "is a soundless domain. A place where a sorcerer manipulates Atta to push away all other flows—including sound. It requires precise control—far beyond what you currently possess."

Mirak stared at him, his mind reeling. "Why show me this?"

"So you'll stop pestering me about Harmony. Learn to control Atta properly, and you won't need to ask me anything."

The words died on Mirak's tongue. He finally asked, "That Augur… what did it do to you?"

Czenth's laughter was sharp, mechanical—almost inhuman. "It showed me the faces of the thousands who have fallen by my hand. Their screams are forever etched into me."

Mirak stepped back, unsettled. "You have no remorse?"

Czenth's mask tilted. "None. This world thrives on lies, and I was once the force that cut through them. I do not regret being that force."

Mirak lowered his gaze, reminded yet again that they were criminals.

He adjusted his hood, hiding the shackles on his wrists. There would be no point in showing them when they returned to the thieves' amphitheater. An hour later, they sat at a rickety table, their mission complete.

Mirak ordered two green resin drinks from a passing barmaid. "He's paying," he said, gesturing to Czenth.

Czenth didn't protest. Instead, he leaned back, watching Mirak carefully. "You'll think on what I've said," he stated, rather than asked.

Mirak nodded, but said nothing. In the end, Atta was something he'd have to master on his own.