TO UNDERSTAND power, one must understand the root.
At first, Maze could not grasp it. He questioned why he must continue to meditate without further lectures, merely remaining focused to keep his body, soul, and spirit intact without leading himself astray. However, as he began to notice the passage of time, the longer he remained within the Soul Tree, the more he formulated the true nature of the soul space.
Truthfully, Maze had been refining his Soul Tree until the hour of lunch arrived. He had meditated for that duration ever since he received the knowledge of the Phantasms from Miss Olivia. From the moment he allowed those truths to sink within him, he realized such an origin possessed many other layers.
Miss Olivia did not join Maze during lunch. Maze sat before a heavy wooden trestle. Before him lay a single ceramic platter. Slices of cold meat were fanned across the stoneware alongside wedges of hard cheese, brine-soaked olives, and pickled onions. A heap of dried figs and dates rested beside blanched almonds and walnuts. Maze tore the flatbread to lift the sops, the heavy chunks of crust sodden with broth. To the side, a small iron pot held the frumenty, its spiced wheat porridge releasing a faint, earthy steam.
In his eyes, these were all unfamiliar, yet the bread remained bread nonetheless. As Maze began to sate his hunger, he found himself familiarizing his sense of taste with the offerings served.
In truth, this meat is cold and stings my tongue with a certain saltiness, he thought as he chewed, then reached for the cheese. Moreover, such cheese was not like the milk from the manor. It possessed a dense and sharp sensation that did grant satiety by the minute.
He even agreed to himself. This taste. Even if it already makes me full, it has a certain quality, like . . . it is leaving a heavy coating in my mouth.
When the turn came for the small green fruits and white onions, Maze winced, for they were sour and harsh. However, as he chewed further, he found the sugary stickiness of the dried fruits. When it was time for the bread, a sudden longing for the sheep-cote and the herd of sheep he shepherded back in the manor struck him.
The bread is soft and wet, he critized inwardly, as it slid down his throat with a warm, savory weight. As for the porridge, Maze found it to be grainy and hot, and he harbored a dislike for the spice within it, for he now realized he was not fond of such pungent heat.
As Maze drank, a looming figure lengthened from behind. Before he could even peer at the Orphan, the subject had already spoken.
"How is lunch, our new Orphan, Maze?"
The voice was the warm, mid-range tone of a man, possessing a charm that was quite pleasing to the ear. Maze turned around and attempted to form a slight curve upon his lips.
"I am not entirely familiar with the food, senior, but I find it to be quite good."
This senior, who still wore an apron and a hairnet, glanced at the empty plate and offered a wild smile.
"I see that you have emptied your platter." He drew nearer and retrieved the ceramic plate from which the dishes had vanished. "Is there anything that you desire, Maze? As the great cook, I can grant you a wish and prepare a requested dish for your dinner!"
The suggestion nearly disoriented Maze. He had nothing in mind, for he remained unfamiliar with such fare, though he found the craft of the great cook quite agreeable. This, however, raised a question.
"How do you prepare such a quantity of food for us . . . senior?" Maze nearly struck his own forehead, having forgotten the man's identity. "I suppose you are being helped?"
Since I have no suggestion, it is best I avert the topic.
"Do not ponder overmuch about it, Maze." The great cook grinned. "It is a manifestation of my special abilities, you see. A power that I have awakened."
As he held the platter, he looked upward as if lost in thought. "Ah! That reminds me of the time when I was not around." He shook his head against the recollections seeping into him. "Those fools, tsk. There was no cook back then, and the kitchen was a storm! If not for me, they—"
He suddenly became stiff and looked at Maze, who stood dumbfounded and shocked.
"I am essentially a support type, Maze." He scratched his nose. "Though I am your senior, you are indeed a promising individual. So when you depart for Camp, ensure you make us proud and strike down those Yonder maniacs!"
The great cook's eyes twitched as if he were infuriated by the words uttered.
Pardon me, senior, but I feel I am not so promising. Even Vaelstrom halted his lecture, passing Maze to Sir Azaniel, who then passed him to Miss Olivia. I am a failure, you see. Maze felt a pang of embarrassment due to such high expectations.
"I cannot promise that, senior." He heaved a sigh.
"Then, forget it! Also, you may address me by my name, if you wish. Like Vaelstrom. It is only three year—" With a furrowed forehead, the senior looked at Maze. "Do you recall my name, Maze?"
Maze was taken aback, yet he harbored no desire to lie. "I tried, senior. But your numbers are many, and it has overwhelmed me."
The great cook tapped Maze's shoulder. "No, no, you should not even bother." Then, he smiled for the second time. "Next time, however, you must remember it, alright? It is Mistletoe to you!"
⠀
AFTER HE RESTED for a while in the dining hall, Maze decided to return to the Chamber of Sanctum. He resumed his cogitation, residing once more in his soul space and staring at the small landmass, with the central sun surrounded by its six stars. He asked of the mystery over and over: how would he truly understand the root? It was true that his Phantasm held the origin, but to what extent must he refine a path that remained not fully realized?
This time, Miss Olivia was not around. No single lecturer was present to grant him the learnings necessary to figure things out. When she had departed before lunch, she offered no further instruction, merely advising Maze to continue what he had begun.
And so, as he sat beneath the Soul Tree, he realized another truth.
The Soul Tree . . . when I think about it, was it not born through my Phantasm, my Vision? If not for him seeking it through his conscious dream, would he even be able to behold it? Therefore, Vision is indeed the key to opening a path to tread.
However, the same truth struck him once more regarding his special abilities, which remained an enigma — the very powers his senior, Mistletoe, had mentioned. Regardless, that merely signified his own unpreparedness. It was his lecturers' attempt to remind him to move slowly forward until he learned to fully realize his path.
And so he did cogitate until dusk, and when the hour of supper arrived, Maze finally knew what was required. What was not fully realized was his power. And power could only be triggered by himself.
How foolish he had been.
It was a confrontation he had needed all along, and now, he knew exactly what he must confront.