Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (my reading book .txt) 📕

“W-will it f-find one?” Milo asked, teeth chattering. “A w-weakness, I mean.”

Imrah’s gaze rose from the bowls, and she turned to Milo with another wicked smile.

“We hope not,” she said, then raised the vial so Milo could see the grains filling it. “You don’t want the soul well loose while you assemble your first Si’lat.”

“What?” Milo balked, his mind conjuring the memories of the flapping horror made of black sand that had nearly killed him and Ambrose.

“It is a simple process,” Imrah stated, deliberately oblivious to his disbelief. “Using only your will, though later, we’ll train with a focus conduit, you draw a shade from the soul well and then compel it to occupy the medium you’ve chosen.”

She rattled the dark granules in the vial with a shake of her outstretched hand. Swallowing heavily and still shivering, Milo reluctantly took the vial.

“There you go,” Imrah said indulgently, eyes shining in the amethyst light of the burning bowls. “Now, the hardest part will be drawing the shade out without it dragging too many of the others along with it, which would waste most of the essence at best or breach containment at worst. That is why we are not using a focus conduit yet. It will be harder but safer for you to do it with sheer will.”

“Safety first,” Milo muttered, looking at the vial and then at the soul well. “H-how do I get the s-shade out?”

“Focus your mind and emotions on the soul well,” Imrah instructed. “It will be similar to how you could sense certain ingredients, only the sensation will be more intense. Don’t let it overwhelm you, or the shade will try to affix itself to you. Don’t worry, it can’t because of its containment, but the backlash will sting. Nothing fatal, of course.”

“Of c-course.” Milo frowned.

“If it helps to visualize by holding out your hand, do so. Just be careful not to stick your hand into the well.”

“If I d-do?” Milo asked, his hand shaking in the unnatural chill.

“Well,” Imrah said, considering the best way to answer the question, “let’s just say you won’t be able to make that mistake again, at least not with that hand.”

“Naturally.” Milo huffed, sending up another gust of crystalizing breath. “This would probably be easier if I had my coat. I’m freezing!”

“It wouldn’t help,” the she-ghul replied flatly. “The cold you are experiencing is both a physical and a metaphysical phenomenon. You could be bundled in the thickest furs and sweating, but you would still feel as though you were deathly cold.”

“S-such a p-pleasant thought.” Milo shuddered.

“Quickly now,” Imrah snipped. “I’m tired of your whining.”

Checking his distance to the soul well, Milo raised one trembling arm and tried to keep his gaze and mind fixed on the roiling darkness. For one aching, straining moment, there was nothing but the perpetual cold, and Milo wondered if Imrah had overestimated his abilities as he sensed nothing. Then, like the sub-audible hum of a live wire, Milo felt the thrumming power of the soul well. At first it was a low, vague thing, easily overlooked; then, like some crazed actor rushing to the foreground, Milo realized it was crashing toward him. Finally, it was on top of him.

It was like plunging his head into a swirling maelstrom of not just physical but emotional sensations. Incredible heat gnawed at his skin, while a desperate longing raked his heart. Sharp, grating pain sawed his bones as a towering rage roiled and blazed in his mind. Every sensation was magnified and writ large on his mind and body, and despite his best efforts, he was dragged into their sucking depths.

“Don’t let them drag you down,” Imrah hissed in his ear. “Your will is strong enough. Don’t let them—”

There was a loud snap, then pain, pure and simple, lanced through Milo’s skull. The world vanished in oblivion.

“Get up,” Imrah’s voice commanded across the gulf of unconsciousness. “Get up and try again.”

Milo dismissed the distant demand, yearning for nothing more than vacuous sleep.

“Get up,” the voice pressed. “Get up.”

Milo was dragged back into wakefulness and instantly regretted it.

His head throbbed with pulses of agony, and when he raised his hands to his face, a gaping wound wove a puckered line across his brow. There was no blood, which was even more unsettling, as though the scabby fissure had erupted from within to gape open with exposed bone.

“Not fatal,” Milo groaned, his eyes watering so badly he couldn’t see anything but a shimmering blur that made his head pound worse. He decided it would be better to just squeeze his eyes shut for the moment.

“Stop whining and hold still,” Imrah said, her voice coming closer.

Hard fingers took hold of his, and Milo couldn’t keep a small cry from slipping between his gritted teeth. His face was guided left, then right, and then the fingers released him.

“Don’t move and don’t resist,” Imrah murmured, which did little to ease Milo’s anxiety.

Something cold but mercifully numbing was spread across his brow, and Milo felt the pull of magic sliding across his mind. In a process that was harder than he would have imagined, he tried not to resist the pull, slowly allowing it to have its way. As he did so, a different sort of pain, cleaner and easier to bear, suffused his brow. His scalp itched and the skin tingled uncomfortably, but within a minute, the only sensation left was a faint dampness across his forehead. He carefully opened his eyes, feeling a mixture of relief and irritation at the sight of Imrah standing over him, wiping her fingers on a rag.

Slowly, he raised his fingers and ran his fingers gingerly across his newly mended brow.

“Not fatal,” Imrah muttered dismissively and held out a hand. “Now, get up and try again.”

Milo took her hand and got to his feet.

Imrah pressed the dropped vial into his hand and nodded at the soul well.

Milo hesitated, the vial feeling weighty in his hand. He was neither eager to experience