The air was bitter and sharp, an unrelenting chill that seeped through the cracks of the wagon and into Annabeth's bones. She shivered slightly, though not from the cold outside, but from the creeping frost that seemed to bloom within her. There was something about this place—a grim aura that made her stomach churn and her heart ache. It gnawed at her, familiar and unwanted, like a ghostly reminder of all the suffering she'd endured here in past lives.
Annabeth sat in the wagon, her fiery red hair spilling over the soft fur collar of her coat. A book rested unopened on her lap, its pages forgotten. Instead, her sharp eyes were fixed on the view beyond the window, taking in every detail of the slave traders' campsite.
The scene outside was bleak but functional: rows of hastily assembled tents and crude wooden buildings stood in uneven lines, as though even the bandits hadn't cared to impose order. Faint plumes of smoke curled from scattered bonfires, their light throwing jagged shadows against the looming walls that now encased the camp like a fortress. Men shouted orders, wagons creaked under the weight of their grim cargo, and the occasional cries of prisoners mingled with the metallic clink of chains.
Though it was nothing extraordinary by bandit standards, Annabeth couldn't help but notice how much the place had transformed. When she'd first been dragged here— in her first life—it had been far more primitive. Back then, there had been no enclosing walls, no signs of expansion or ambition. It was just another crude den of criminals.
She remembered that day vividly. In her first life, it had been Talin, the current gate captain, who had captured her along with several other girls in Liberdade City. He'd bound them all tightly with rough ropes, throwing them into a wagon like sacks of grain.
Annabeth, just six years old at the time, had wriggled and squirmed with all the strength her small body could muster, trying in vain to free herself. Her wrists and ankles burned where the ropes bit into her skin, but she didn't stop. She had even tried biting Talin whenever he got too close, her sharp little teeth scraping against his arm.
His laughter still rang in her ears—mocking, cruel, and full of the sick pleasure he took from her struggles.
But the moment they arrived at this wretched place, everything had changed. She could still see it in her mind: the single rickety building that had served as their base, its roof sagging, its walls patched with whatever scraps the bandits had scavenged. The open field beyond had been barren, littered only with discarded chains and broken spirits. Talin and the other bandits took turns having their way with her and the other girls. She died on the inside around that time, becoming an unfeeling shell of a human being at a young age.
The memory clawed at her, dragging her back into the weight of despair she'd felt then—a helplessness so raw and suffocating it had nearly consumed her. Even now, lifetimes later, sitting in the warmth of an elegant wagon, she felt its cold grip once again.
This place hadn't just grown; it had evolved, becoming a thriving hub for misery.
Just like some of the other girls in the bandit's den had done, she planned to take her own life if the r*pings continued.
The bandits, merciful only in their indifference, began selling the captured girls one by one. Annabeth was the first to be bought, her fiery hair and spirited defiance making her a rare and coveted prize. Her purchaser was not like the others—he wasn't cruel or greedy, and his soft eyes didn't carry the deadness she'd grown accustomed to seeing in men.
He was kind. Too kind.
The man, whose name she never cared to remember, treated her as though she were a daughter. He promised her freedom the moment he brought her home. Annabeth had laughed bitterly at his naivety, suspecting some darker motive behind his benevolence. But, to her surprise, he had been sincere.
One night, before a crackling fire in his modest home, he burned the slave contract he'd purchased from the bandits. The flames consumed the parchment, and with it, any legal claim he had over her. "You're free now," he said with a warm smile, as though those simple words could erase the scars of her captivity.
Annabeth watched the ashes flutter and fall, her hands clenched tightly into fists. Free? She could barely fathom what the word meant. Freedom to her was nothing but a cruel illusion, one that could be snatched away the moment she let her guard down.
That same night, while the man slept, Annabeth made her decision. She crept into his room, her small hand trembling as it gripped the knife she'd stolen from his kitchen. She stood over him for what felt like an eternity, the kindness in his face battling against the mistrust and rage that had taken root in her soul.
And then, she struck.
The blade sank into his chest, and his eyes flew open, wide with shock and betrayal. His lips moved soundlessly as blood bubbled at their corners. Annabeth stepped back, watching him gasp and struggle, her own breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
A laugh bubbled up from her throat, sharp and hollow, until it filled the room with a manic echo. It wasn't joy she felt but something darker—a grotesque triumph that twisted her face into a cruel grin. For the first time in her short life, she felt truly free, untethered by chains, contracts, or promises of safety.
Yet even as the man's body stilled, the weight of her actions began to settle in her chest. He hadn't deserved this. Of all the monsters she had encountered, he had been the only one who'd shown her kindness. But trust was a luxury she could not afford.
Now, years later, as she sat in the wagon staring out at the camp where her suffering began, the memory of that night clawed at her. The emptiness she'd felt then had returned, colder and sharper than ever. Her chest tightened, and a quiet rage began to build within her.
This place had to burn. Every stone, every chain, every wretched soul that profited from the pain of others—they all had to fall. Vengeance was hers for the taking, and this time, she wouldn't hesitate.
Perhaps she had spent too much time with Canning and his ever-so-polite servants, Annabeth thought bitterly. Images of Canning's playful antics—his ridiculous grins, his peace signs, and the seemingly endless kindness from his staff—flashed unbidden through her mind.
"They're all so f*cking soft," she muttered under her breath, her tone tinged with scorn. "And they made you soft, Annabeth."
Her sharp gaze fell upon a drunk bandit stumbling near her wagon, a whip in hand, as he hurled profanities at a male slave tied to a wooden pole. Each crack of the whip echoed in the air, mingling with the man's slurred shouts. Annabeth's hands tightened around the book resting on her lap.
For a fleeting moment, a palpable chill swept over the campsite. The bandit froze mid-swing, his breath catching in his throat. His bloodshot eyes darted around, his drunken haze replaced by stark terror. For a split second, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread, as though death itself had reached out to claim him.
Yet, when his frantic search revealed no apparent danger, confusion settled in. His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he muttered, "Must've had one drink too many," and stumbled away toward a nearby hut, abandoning his abuse for the solace of unconsciousness.
Unbeknownst to him, Annabeth had been the source of his terror. She had momentarily lost control, allowing her killing intent to slip free, sharp and suffocating like a blade unsheathed. Catching herself, she exhaled slowly, reining in the dark emotions clawing at her.
Memories of her past were stirring too much inside her, threatening the cold mask of control she'd worked so hard to perfect. She needed to stay composed.
Flipping open her book, Annabeth forced her thoughts away from the present. So, Talin couldn't see him either, she thought with amusement. Just like Lord Ollie and Lord Brodie during their ridiculous argument.
***
The world of magic was one of strict rules, profound hierarchy, and endless potential. Annabeth had spent the last nine years not just mastering the standard disciplines but reshaping them to suit her unique circumstances.
Where most mages her age had barely scratched the surface of Tier 4 magic, Annabeth was an anomaly, capable of facing even Tier 5 magic users with confidence. Her abilities were not just the result of hard work but also the result of careful, unorthodox training under the tutelage of Lord Canning—a man who both nurtured and challenged her at every turn.
For most mages, the journey began with mastering their primary innate element, the singular force they had the strongest affinity toward. Whether it was fire, water, wind, or earth, this element defined their magic until they reached Tier 4. It was at this stage that the concept of fusion magic entered the picture.
Fusion magic required integrating a mage's primary element with one of their two secondary elements, innate powers that existed within them but were far weaker in affinity. This step was both a rite of passage and a risk, as the secondary element often introduced instability.
The process was simple in theory but delicate in execution. For instance, a fire mage with earth as a secondary element might combine the two to create molten lava—a searing mixture that embodied the strengths of both elements. Conversely, a mage with water as a secondary element might create steam by merging it with fire, sacrificing raw destructive force for strategic utility.
Rarely, a mage was born with a secondary element that was the polar opposite of their primary element—an inherent contradiction that most viewed as a curse. Fire and water, wind and earth—these pairings diminished the destructive capabilities of the primary element, rendering them taboo in the eyes of most practitioners.
"Fusions exist to amplify destruction," conventional mages would say, dismissing polar combinations as weak or ineffective.
But there was another perspective, one held by a small and esoteric group of mages who valued ingenuity over raw power. To them, polar opposites were a gift, offering the potential for unique effects like steam, electrostatically charged air, or other unconventional results. These effects, though often mistaken for Tier 8 field magic, required skill and creativity to wield effectively.
Annabeth, however, was in a league of her own. Unlike the majority, who were bound by the limitations of a single primary element, she possessed two primary elements: earth and air. Revered for their innate synergy with the natural world, these elements were considered overpowered because of their natural abundance. Mages with these primary elements effectively lived within their own perpetual field, benefiting from a diluted form of Tier 8 magic from birth.
In a world where only about ten people were born with either earth or air as their primary element, Annabeth's dual affinity was nothing short of miraculous.
Under Lord Canning's guidance, she did not follow the conventional path of fusing primary and secondary elements. Instead, she focused on fusing her two primary elements—a feat most mages wouldn't dare attempt. Her fusion wasn't just powerful; it was synergistic, with one destructive force amplifying another.
The downside? She could only form one fusion at her current stage. Intermediate fusions, which allowed for the combination of multiple elements, would only be accessible to her at Tier 7. Until then, every decision had to be deliberate. After much deliberation, she and Canning devised a singular fusion that balanced devastation with control, a signature ability that could carry her through the challenges ahead.
The campsite was no ordinary destination. It was a crucible, a proving ground where Annabeth could test her newly honed abilities in real combat. For Canning, this was an opportunity not just to assess her progress but to prepare her for the upcoming fighting tournament—a stage where power and strategy would be tested in equal measure.
But Canning had another reason for choosing this place. Having recently reached the vaunted Tier 8 stage, he too had a new ability to test. While Annabeth focused on refining her fusion magic, Canning was preparing to unveil a power that could reshape the battlefield.