The Shattered Crowns

The fires in the Publici camp had died down to embers, the once crackling flames now reduced to faint glows, their light barely reaching through the ever-thickening mists of the Lunar Storms. The cold tendrils of the storms clung to everything, wrapping around the camp like a suffocating shroud. Most of the Publici lay huddled in their tattered sleeping rolls, their breathing uneven and shallow as they fought for warmth. The air hung heavy, each sound dulled, as though the world itself were holding its breath.

Mirak sat a short distance from the others, his back pressed against a jagged rock. He preferred the isolation. The occasional muffled whispers of prayers to the Lady of Flesh grated on his nerves. Faith had no place here. The Lunar Storms were not something you prayed through — they were something you endured, just like everything else in Koona.

He reached into the folds of his tattered clothes and pulled out the resin shard, its glistening surface catching faint traces of Temperance's red light above. It sang to him, not with words but with a feeling, a hum just below the edge of perception. The pull of Atta called to him constantly, a silent temptation that never truly left. Tonight, as the storm whispered through the camp, Mirak felt the ache in his chest grow unbearable.

He needed to try again.

Clutching the shard in his calloused hand, he glanced toward the sleeping forms of the other Publici. Lock's rhythmic breathing near the dim embers assured Mirak that he wouldn't be interrupted. A quiet moment like this was rare, and he couldn't let it slip by. If there was ever a time to practice, to push himself further, it was now — when the world outside the camp was nothing but swirling mist and silence.

Holding the shard tightly, Mirak closed his eyes and drew a slow, deliberate breath. He let his thoughts narrow, the noise of the camp fading to the edges of his awareness. The Atta came to him first as a gentle warmth in his chest, like an ember sparking to life. He focused on it, coaxing it forward, willing it to flow from within him. It was slow at first, sluggish, like thick syrup pooling into his veins. But as he reached deeper, the warmth grew, spreading through his arm and pooling in his fingertips. The resin shard responded immediately, its surface faintly glowing, casting a pale light over his trembling hands.

The Atta began to swirl around him, invisible but tangible in the way it pressed against his skin. Mirak grit his teeth as the pressure built. The sensation was maddening — the Atta wanted to flow freely, to burst from him in chaotic waves, but Mirak knew better than to let it run wild. His last attempt had ended in failure, the energy fracturing and dispersing into the air, leaving him drained and frustrated. He couldn't afford another loss. Not tonight.

"Slow… control it… shape it…" he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the soft howling of the storm.

With painstaking care, he guided the Atta through his body, forcing it to follow a steady path. It swirled around his hand in a fluid motion, gathering in tighter and tighter spirals. The shard hummed in his grasp, the energy within it feeding off his efforts and amplifying his connection to the flow. The light it emitted grew stronger, casting eerie shadows against the jagged rocks around him.

The first hint of strain crept into his muscles. His arm ached, the tendons pulling taut as though resisting the unnatural force. The Atta fought him at every turn, wild and unyielding, like a storm barely contained within the confines of his skin. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, dripping down to mix with the ever-present dust on his face.

"Come on," he whispered, his voice tight. "Just a little more…"

He reached out with his free hand, attempting to guide the energy into a shape, a form, something tangible. The Atta resisted, pushing back against his will, threatening to slip from his control entirely. His arm trembled as the force built to a crescendo, the flow of energy roaring in his mind like a rushing river. It was too much — too chaotic, too unstable.

And then it snapped.

The Atta burst from him in a sudden wave, scattering into the air like shards of broken glass. The glow of the resin shard faded instantly, plunging him back into near darkness. Mirak gasped, his chest heaving as he clutched his arm, the lingering ache throbbing deep in his muscles. The storm outside howled louder for a moment, as if mocking his failure.

"Damn it," he muttered, slamming his fist against the rock beside him. The sound barely echoed in the dense, muffled air.

He stared at the shard in his hand, its once-vibrant light now dim and lifeless. The same thoughts crept into his mind — the same doubts that plagued him every time he failed. Was he even capable of this? Could he truly master the Atta, or was he deluding himself? The chains on his wrist felt heavier than ever, their etched markings almost mocking him in the faint light.

But he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.

Mirak adjusted his grip on the shard and inhaled deeply, steadying his trembling hands. The soreness in his arm throbbed with every beat of his heart, but he forced himself to push through it. This time, he wouldn't force the Atta. He would let it come to him naturally, flowing like water instead of fighting against it.

He closed his eyes again, blocking out the world around him. The storm, the cold, the ache in his body — all of it fell away as he focused solely on the ember within. This time, the Atta came to him more easily, a steady warmth that filled him without resistance. It swirled through his veins like liquid fire, soothing and energizing all at once.

Gently, he extended his hand, letting the Atta flow outward. The shard in his other hand began to glow once more, its light soft and steady. The energy swirled around his outstretched hand, forming faint, fluid patterns in the air. It moved like smoke, twisting and curling in intricate shapes before dissipating into the night. It wasn't much, but it was progress.

Mirak allowed himself a small smile, the first genuine one in what felt like weeks. He had done it. It wasn't perfect, but it was a step forward. The Atta could be controlled, shaped, harnessed — he just needed more practice, more time. And time was something he didn't have in abundance.

The shard's light faded as he released the flow of Atta, letting it settle back into his chest. The warmth lingered for a moment before fading entirely, leaving him feeling drained but satisfied. He tucked the shard back into his clothes and leaned his head back against the rock, closing his eyes.

The storm continued to howl around the camp, the cold mist seeping into his skin. But for the first time in a long while, Mirak felt a flicker of hope. It was faint, like the dying embers of a fire, but it was there. And for now, that was enough.

As he drifted off to sleep, the hum of the resin shard echoed faintly in his mind, a reminder of the power that lay just beyond his grasp. The chains on his wrist felt lighter somehow, their weight no longer as suffocating as it once was. He would keep trying. He would endure. And one day, he would break free from this prison — not just for himself, but for the memory of those he had lost.

The Lunar Storms raged on, their howling winds carrying away the faint whispers of his resolve.