The Fenrir's tense muscles softened and Askeladd fell like a cut tree onto the cold, hard floor of the punitive cave. His eyes kept staring blindly at the craggy ceiling above him. Traces of sweat clouded his skin as his chest rose and fell wildly. However, with each passing second, the Fenrir's breathing steadied, the level of the exhaled grunts diminished, and the dark and strained expression relaxed.
Did he manage to control his vision? Melida narrowed her eyes, taking a slow, inquiring glance over the monster. How the hell did she do it? And why does it seem calmer? As if the worst of the vision had happened when in fact Melida knew it was not the case. The cursed sigil was programmed to show the victim the worst moment of her life, the darkest and deepest memory buried behind layers and layers of protection, while the curse was active, the victim would relive that moment endlessly until the stealth was disabled. Through the centuries many were broken, his psyche in little fragmented pieces, and yet here he was, no more disturbed than a person with a slight bad dream.
The witch's expression turned complicated. On the one hand, she was happy because who likes to see a friend suffer? But on the other hand, his pride as the mastermind of the curse was taking a severe blow. If Fenrir were aware of his old friend's thoughts, an expression of outrage would shine in his eyes.
No more than ten minutes from there, the most likely culprit for the witch's dissatisfaction rolled onto his side. Her beautiful eyes like brilliant emeralds flickered sleepily. A slight frown creased her profiled, beautifully shaped nose.
What had she been dreaming about? Sascha did not remember, she only remembered a terrible feeling of anguish tensing her heart and that she somehow felt alien. As if instead of her being the one who suffered, it was someone else who was doing it while she was nothing more than a convenient spectator.
In the soft light of the moonlight falling from the ceiling, she blinked several more times, and a couple of seconds later, her thick, dark lashes fell gently again on her smooth porcelain skin. Then Sascha fell asleep again.
The next time she awoke, the shed was fully lit and a shrill sound was viciously drilling into her ears. Sascha frowned and blinked, shielding her eyes from the annoying beams of light. Meanwhile, the bell went on and on, ringing irritatingly somewhere in her head. She with one hand she felt between the covers and under the pillow in search of the most likely culprit of her.
"Yes?" she croaked hoarsely, activating the Communicator. A mysterious ruby glow illuminated the artifact. For a whole second, there was absolute silence, then the communicator exploded into activity.
"Did you just wake up?" it was the voice of her master, obviously, after all, it was the only manic signature on the device and therefore the only person with whom Sascha could hold a conversation at a distance.
Something in the old man's tone of voice put her on guard. Sascha tried to get up instantly, but to the great dismay of the human, she was unable to get up. Sascha felt drained and without energy. To make matters worse the world chose that precise moment to lean dangerously on her axis.
She bit her lip, lying on her back. "I do not feel well." She finally recognized. Concerned, she rubbed her still flat belly with her other hand.
"Are you dizzy and tired?" the old man wanted to know. Sascha sighed looking up at the unfamiliar ceiling above her head.
"AHA." The ceiling was not something she was used to. It was the first time Sascha had seen one of this kind. The window on one of the sloping sides was a first for her. The light that filtered through was a pure light blue, thanks to the use of frosted crystals.
The old man muttered a curse, causing Sascha to sigh wistfully. "Do you have your backpack nearby?"
Sascha rolled onto her side and looked at the nightstand next to the mattress. Her expression was that of a soldier sent to run thirty miles away with a backpack loaded with lead. Leaning against the wall and on the table, Sascha's backpack looked back at her, seemed to laugh at her.
"If it is." With a sigh Sascha finally accepted, she could be so tired that even walking that distance seemed like a punishment, but saying otherwise would be a lie. Also, if the old man asked about the whereabouts of the backpack, it must be for something. Like her, the old man did nothing for the simple love of art. The cunning old man always had an ulterior motive.
"Good." Sheamus paused before continuing. "Check the left side bun."
Sascha switched the handheld communicator and reached for the closest one to follow the handle of the backpack. Naturally, her simple movement was enough to make her sweat profusely and clench her teeth stubbornly. After a couple of minutes of cursing in her mind, he finally reached for her handle and tossed the backpack next to her.
Obeying the teacher's directions, Sascha went through the bun, spilling the contents carelessly. Black blisters rolled onto the pallet with a dangerous clatter.
"Careful." The teacher snapped at him from the communicator. Sascha paused and finished extracting the rest of the vials more carefully.
Sascha counted the number of jars, checked the labels on the jars, and blinked. "Master, how did twenty mana pills, five anti-nausea, and five nutritional vials end up in my backpack?" Sascha's voice was calm and collected and therefore much more threatening. The calmer her words were, the more dangerous the human's mood became.
Only the twenty mana pills cost two years' salary. The old man coughed and cleared his throat nervously. "Ah ... me, may I have emptied the magic plant stock?"
"Everything?" Sascha couldn't believe it. She wasn't going to lie, she felt pleasantly surprised and happily valued, but still. "You are an amazing teacher, you do things big when you put yourself at it." She sighed.
The old man coughed nervously again before finally declaring. "You are in the forest, you will need the extra mana to withstand the strain of the ancient magic."
Sascha clearly remembered the choking sensation of her squeezing his lungs, the sensation of breathing through hot molasses. Claws of ice raked up Sascha's spine.
"... Besides, the father of your children is a monster, Sascha, did you think it will be as easy as a normal pregnancy?"