The boy drew a breath and closed his eyes.

This action lasted only a moment. But in times such as these, there is much that can happen within the scope of a breath.

Time can become slippery. Almost anything can transpire in one’s mind.

What Maedoc required was a complete reset. Were he to begin this absurd test of strength now, the man would certainly feel him shake. It goes without saying that the boy was currently quite anxious.

The last thing he wanted was a proclamation of this to the bar. People already saw him as perpetually on edge. Timid, even.

In this single moment he allotted himself, he was careful to take the cleanest, surest breath he could muster. His lashes were closed with utmost fluidity and care, as if ferried on water. The eyes were “shut down,” momentarily dead — this way the muscles would slacken. They had incrementally tightened as the evening had worn on, for reasons not entirely mysterious.

This ritual had been done verbatim a thousand times before. And a thousand times before that.

Each of those times, its effect on stress was minimal, but palpable. Limbs loosened, a few knots were combed out of his innards. His heart slowed down a beat. It did what it could, and he was thankful for whatever he could get.

But this

time

was

different.

He found himself kicked into another gear, which is the opposite effect hoped for when one deadens his or her body.

It was as though the muscles in his face and head had slackened to the point of snapping apart entirely. There was nothing holding him together. He felt himself falling.

Falling into himself.

And he was a terrifyingly deep pit, as it turned out.

Maedoc squeezed his eyes open wide, arms flailing out to his sides as he tried to catch himself. Looking around, he saw that he was still sitting firmly in his provided chair.

From the way everyone had their eyes glued to him — dumbstruck by his spontaneous flapping episode — he would be hard pressed to fall off of anything.

Thinking quick, he put a hand on his right shoulder and gave his arm a wide, vertical spin. He then did the same to his left.

“Ahhhh that’s a g-good stretch! Yup.”

Maedoc stretched his vision to the corner of his eye, curious if anyone had bought it. The slowly encroaching tunnel vision didn’t make this very feasible, so he gave it up and simply hoped for the best.

The boy could still feel his core on the cusp of shivering. His “reset” did little to quell this, likely due to its mortally terrifying nature. He may have to hold off on the reset rituals for a little while…

Thinking quick, he came up with an idea. He decided to give the Aether a chance to do its work.

If Cynwrig was right about people like Bearnard, then perhaps he was right about Aether’s effect on them, too.

But for this to happen, he had to buy time.

“So, Bearnard,” Maedoc queried, “do you two really tie all the time? I mean, one of you has to win a little more often, right?”

As he spoke, he eyed the Ray resting in his left palm. Was there perhaps a special, advantageous way to hold it?

“Wellllllll!” the man drawled through an even larger smile, leaning back in his chair. “We have our good days. And our b-bad days.”

“Yeah! By that he means I have the guh… the good days, and he takes all the bad days,” Frang chimed in, maintaining this eerie, cheery energy that they, for whatever reason, were determined to keep.

As they carried on with their banter, Maedoc swiveled the Ray in his palm. The tapered end spun around, now facing away from him. Wrapping his fingers around the reversed geometry, he gave it a squeeze and drew a breath.

This simple act brought about serious results.

Bearnard’s smile quickly died down to a hard, forced grin. His eyes widened, but not in shock.

It felt as though he wanted to devour the boy with nothing more than a look.

“Put up your arm, Maedy.”

All semblance of mirth had faded from his voice. The air surrounding the table seemed to double in density. Maedoc found it difficult to breathe. His lungs simply refused to do the work.

Heart racing, he forced himself to choke the air down, widening his mouth and elongating his neck.

This was just too much. He had to get out. Get away.

Nausea was beginning to set in alongside a ripening headache.

As fear and panic trickled in, a lone image brought itself front and center in Maedoc’s mind.

Of all the things it could have been, all he could see before him was that blasted furnace.

Maedoc groaned inwardly. What fortunate timing this was. It wasn’t enough to burden him with this fiasco; he had to be reminded of his other trauma to boot.

The tall, dark silhouette loomed starkly before him. Its viewing panel shone blood red across his vision.

The shudder that Maedoc had resisted so proficiently could no longer be held back. It began in his stomach as a menacing purr, threatening to collapse him from the inside out. It grew slowly along the length of his spine, which had began to sway like a spindly pine in a windstorm.

He felt just about ready to be uprooted.

As his physical vision began to dim, another image ripped through his head like lightning.

He saw himself approach the furnace without a second’s hesitation.

Flash.

He saw himself drive his arm deep into the heart of the contraption, sealing his entry with the other hand.

Flash.

He saw himself persist as his body felt ready to combust.

Flash.

One after another, these scenes burned into his brain. Yet they did not irk him.

Quite the opposite. They provided a sense of genuine awe.

That was him doing these acts. Doing what he had to. For himself. For another.

Doing what he knew he had to.

Even if he had to go straight through.

“ALRIGHT!” Maedoc bellowed, driving his arm across the table to meet Bearnard’s palm. The man’s hand dwarfed his, but the boy’s vision couldn’t tell shadow from light at this point.

Bearnard was visibly startled, as was most everyone witnessing the spectacle. Where had this sudden change sprouted from?

“Ready?” Maedoc grunted, securing his positioning on the table. Bearnard, mouth agape, closed it and nodded. He quickly regained composure.

The boy’s left hand found itself nestled against his right bicep, though he couldn’t say he knew why.

It was the stance he took to take the furnace down, so maybe it was simple muscle memory. Or maybe it was to stop his arm from shaking.

“3, 2, 1…” the boy counted aloud, flexing his arm muscles early to prepare for the oncoming strain. It was then that he felt the Ray pressing against his arm, sandwiched underneath his left hand. He had forgotten it was there.

Not surprisingly, Bearnard began his advancement right as the number one had been uttered. If Maedoc had not been expecting it, his arm would have certainly ended up sprained from wrist to shoulder.

The man opposite him did not hold back. A large vein popped up across his forehead, and the humidity in the bar began to climb steadily. It was all Maedoc could do to simply hold his position. He knew it would be near impossible to push Bearnard’s arm back, even a few inches.

Luckily for Maedoc, his years of digging irrigation and hauling heavy bags of mulch did a body good. While his wiry frame was not what anyone would consider an impressive physique, his tendons and ligaments were built to last. Continuous strain was the name of the game when it came to fieldwork, and it was this which fortified his stance. Much to the consternation of Bearnard.

“You’re a little… less wimpy… than expected,” the man grunted through grit teeth.

“…but not by much.”

Bearnard’s grip tightened as he began twisting Maedoc’s wrist backwards.

The boy winced aloud through ragged breath. It was beginning to hurt.

He started thinking to himself: why continue?

Bearnard only wanted a match. Once it was over, he would leave everyone alone and likely go home.

There was no need to take it any further. No need to endure any more pain.

Just let it go. The rest will take care of itself. Everyone goes home happy.

This was an alluring train of thought. Maedoc closed his eyes, accepting that his resignation from this struggle would take place the instant they opened.

It felt good, to quit. It was such a relief.

But before he could make his exit, a scene blasted itself across the inside of Maedoc’s skull. Within the scope of an instant, a probable future presented itself.

Bearnard wouldn’t stop here. He would come back the next day, and the next. The man practically lived here.

By obliging him this once, he had paved the way for innumerable matches to take place in the days, months and years that awaited him.

All Bearnard had to do was threaten to go after the customers, and he’d have Maedoc right where he wanted him. Day in and day out.

It would never end. This would be his new life.

As the scene faded from his mind, another scene took its place. Making its return once more, the furnace crept across his field of vision. As before, the images so very familiar to him flashed in sequence.

He saw himself drive his arm deep inside.

Flash.

His hand felt the intense wind whistle past it once more, as he pressed into the very core of the contraption.

Flash.

Maedoc couldn’t place it, but something about this felt correct. This was the way out.

“…so it’s begun.”

A dreamy sort of stupor befell him. A unique numbness. Perhaps it was a lack of circulation. It must have been, for Maedoc’s hand was feeling less like it was smashed against a sweaty slab of a palm.

It was as though his grasp had reached through it.

Past Bearnard’s palm. Past his wrist. Even the elbow and shoulder no longer felt like body parts sovereign to him.

The man’s arm felt like an extension. A continuation of Maedoc’s own.

The vision of an invisible branch sprouted in his mind, intrinsic to it a robust eagerness to advance beyond its container. To grow blindly into new directions, heights and depths. All these new and unknowable places to occupy space in. Yet there was no need to know. Only to press forward.

He pushed further still, as far into Bearnard’s core as this newborn phantom limb would go.