I knew Yashka was waiting for me the moment my consciousness shifted.


    The Plane of Consciousness wasn’t what I expected. I thought it would be cold and sterile, like the endless void that it was when I first arrived—but instead, it thrived with color and movement. The sky rippled in hues of indigo and silver, with constellations twinkling like embers in a dying fire. Floating islands drifted lazily in the distance, their surfaces stitched with glowing veins of energy. Threads of light—thin, shimmering, and alive—wove through the air like a thousand silk strands. They shifted as I walked, curling and parting as if they knew me. I couldn’t help but reach out and let my fingers trail through them, feeling the familiar pulse of magic thrum against my skin.


    A figure appeared ahead—tall, poised, and unmistakably powerful. His robes shimmered like a tapestry of constellations, and the faint outline of wings framed his back like a crown. He nodded, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips.


    “You knew I’d be here,” Yashka said, his voice warm yet commanding.


    “I had a feeling,” I replied.


    He inclined his head. “I suppose I should apologize for not introducing myself properly when we first met.” He tapped his chest lightly. “I am Yashka, former Pharaoh of the Heavens and one of the previous Cardinal Mages of Mysteria. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”


    “It’s been a tough week, but I did learn a few things about this new world.”


    “And surely you have more questions,” Yashka said with a faint smile. His gaze lingered on me, thoughtful. “Fitting for one whose discipline is Wisdom.”


    I couldn’t tell if that was praise or a challenge.


    “You know my discipline?” I asked.


    “Of course,” Yashka said. “It’s rare—powerful in ways most cannot comprehend. But mine was different. My discipline was Interference. I bent the wind, commanded lightning, and summoned storms. Where you shape the flow of magic, I disturbed it.” His eyes glinted with something unreadable. “Our talents may differ, but I understand your power more than most.”


    I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. The questions that had gnawed at me since our arrival in Mysteria burned too hot to ignore.


    “What is Mysteria?” I asked. “What’s the truth about the war that was? And what are the Gems, really?”


    Yashka’s expression shifted — grave and heavy. He took a slow breath before gesturing to the sky. The constellations above rippled, their light weaving into shifting patterns that seemed to tell a story of their own.


    “Mysteria,” Yashka began, “is not just a world—it is the world. The Heart of All Magic.”


    “The Heart of All Magic?” I repeated.


    “Yes,” Yashka said, his voice low and reverent. “Magic doesn’t simply exist—it flows. Like a river, it courses through worlds—binding them, sustaining them. But rivers have a source. Mysteria is that source. Every spell cast, every enchantment woven, every surge of power—no matter how distant the world—all trace back here. It is the pulse that gives life to magic itself.”


    I let that sink in. Mysteria wasn’t just important—it was everything.


    “But what about the Gems?” I asked. “How do they fit into this?”


    “The Gems are not ordinary stones,” Yashka explained. “They are anchors. Primal forces born from Mysteria’s core—ancient fragments of order and chaos that stabilize the flow of magic.”


    He paused, his gaze distant, as though remembering something far away.


    “There were only two once,” he continued, “the Gem of Light and the Gem of Darkness. Each entrusted to a Guardian. For centuries, they maintained the delicate balance of Mysteria. The Guardian of Light guided growth—nurturing magic’s expansion across the worlds. The Guardian of Darkness watched over the wild, untamed forces — magic too dangerous, too unpredictable, too powerful to control. But, alas, power can corrupt. It can turn one greedy. One of the Guardians, consumed by selfish desire, turned against the other.”


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    I stiffened. “The Guardian of the Gem of Darkness?”


    Yashka’s smile was thin. “That’s what most would assume—but no.” His expression hardened. “It was the Guardian of Light who turned. Greedy for power. Obsessed with controlling not just Mysteria, but the flow of magic itself. He believed that with both Gems in his grasp, he could shape magic as he saw fit—dictate who deserved power and who did not.”


    I felt cold. “What happened?”


    Yashka’s voice darkened. “He murdered the Guardian of Darkness, seized the Gem, and with both Gems in his grasp, he became something terrible—a force that twisted the flow of magic itself. Crops failed. The skies darkened. Entire regions of Mysteria withered as he drained power from them.”


    I clenched my fists. “And you stopped him?”


    “We did,” Yashka said grimly. “We—the ten of us—stood against him. We fought for decades, maybe even centuries . . . time itself seemed to bend around the chaos he unleashed. It was Serafina—a Wisdom mage like you—who devised the plan that saved Mysteria. She designed a spell that stripped the Usurper of his powers and extracted the Gems from his grasps. But that came with a cost.”


    I frowned. “What do you mean?”


    “the Gem of Light shattered into ten fragments,” Yashka explained. “Each fragment as sentient as the Gem of Light when it was whole. Those fragents saw us worthy and chose us as their vessels—their guardians.” His hand curled into a fist. “The Gem of Darkness that one was different.”


    He fixed me with a stern look. “That Gem holds dominion over the forces deemed too dangerous—time, death, entropy, reality itself. It was far too dangers to be split or entrusted to someone. So with Asenath’s planar magic, we sealed it away—we placed in a realm beyond anyone who wishes to use, but not too distant from Mysteria that it can still sustain the balance of light and dark magic.” He trailed off, but the weight of the warning hung in the air.


    “And the Vharethi,” I asked quietly. “What do you know of them?”


    “Not much,” Yashka said. “They were stories back in my days. As children, we were told about the Vharethi, and I never expected for them to arrive in Mysteria. All I know is that they seek the Gem—the fragments of Light—to corrupt them and the Gem of Darkness to consume it. Either path spell disaster. Mysteria is a delicate balance—disrupt the flow of magic too greatly, and . . . ”


    He gestured to the sky. The constellations above flickered—stars dimming, threads of magic unraveling into chaos.


    “The worlds unravel,” he finished.


    I swallowed hard, my mind racing. I shook my head as if trying to drive something away.


    Yashka smiled faintly. “You see them, don’t you?” he asked.


    “See what?” I frowned, confused of what he means.


    “Magic itself,” he answered.


    “Yes,” I confirmed. “Ever since I came to Mysteria.” I paused to think. To find the words to better describe how I experience magic. “I see them like floating particles suspended in the air, like snowflakes constantly twirling, always hovering with no intention to touch the ground. I feel them like tangible threads between my fingers, like something I could spin, or weave, or tangle and untangle.”


    Yashka nodded, smiling at me as if encouraging me to carry on.


    “I . . . I always thought everyone had the same experience,” I continued. “It never occurred to me to mention it because I thought we all could see it, could feel it.”


    “That is your gift,” Yashka said. “Only those whose discipline is Wisdom can see magic like that—as something tangible. Others wield it blindly—drawing power, shaping spells—but you? You understand its rhythm. Its flow Not everyone gets that kind of gift. Not even the most powerful names in Mysteria’s history.”


    “Magic in Mysteria is a complex thing. Not everyone is gifted with the same level of magical aptitude. Most spellcasters manipulate ambient magic—the energy Mysteria breathes into the world. Think of them as fuel that’s readily available to light fire. With that kind of magic, some can manage low- to mid-level spells.


    “Others, gifted by the arcane, use their own life energy—their inner magic. They can cast far stronger spells, but it takes a toll on the body. Now those without such talents rely on magical items—power stones, enchanted tools . . . even relics created by artificers.”


    “The Gems,” I muttered.


    “They’re more than just power stones,” Yashka said. “They’re primal—ancient—and far more powerful than anything forged by mortal hands. They can give you endless supply of magical power if you know how to tap into them.”


    He studied me for a long moment, and then . . . he smiled. A knowing smile. One that made me uneasy.


    “Surely you don’t suggest . . . ” I began.


    “I do,” Yashka said, his eyes glinting. “You see the flow of magic. You understand it—shape it — better than anyone else among your companions.”


    “I am not sure if I can,” I protested.


    “There is only one way to find out,” he said, raising his right hand as if calling the heavens themselves.


    “What the fuck do you mean????” I demanded.


    And then, the air around me shifted.