Days had turned to months and the chill of late autumn crept into the prison like an unwelcome guest. The yard, once a sunlit refuge, was now blanketed in gray skies and the colder weather signaled the inevitable soon arrival of winter. The changing season mirrored the rhythm of my days, as I was now settled into the routine of life in prison.
Physically, I was healing. I had dedicated a part of each day to working out and rehabilitation. The bruises and cuts that marked my arrival were now faded, replaced by muscle and a renewed sense of strength. My movements were no longer hindered by pain and my mind, was sharp and focused. My goal, clear and unwavering, had taken root: I would seize the power I needed to change my fate and take my revenge.
Elenion's teachings had continued daily, a beacon of purpose in the monotony of prison life. His lessons spanned a range from magical theory, to the detailed history of ancient sorcerers. His lessons were equal parts lecture and hands-on practice. He showed me how to draw simple spell circles, explaining the meaning of each symbol and line. The act of creating the circles felt oddly satisfying, like solving a complex puzzle. He was thorough, patient, and unwilling to let me falter, even when I struggled to grasp a concept. Despite my lack of magical essence, he insisted that understanding the fundamentals would be invaluable in the future.
"Magic isn't just power, Shepard," he often said. "It's a language. Learn it well, and you'll find ways to wield it, even without essence."
As we had grown closer, he shared stories of his past, tales of grandeur and loss that painted a picture of a man who had lived a life far beyond these walls. In return, I told him of my own struggles, the battles I had fought, and the series of events that had led me here.
I also assisted Elenion in tending to the prisoners' injuries, which ranged from bruises and cuts sustained in yard scuffles to the brutal marks left by guard beatings—or worse, the damage inflicted during a visit to the torturer's chamber. Elenion's hands channeled healing magic, while I took on the more mundane tasks: cleaning wounds, setting bones, and carefully applying bandages when his power wasn't enough.
In the yard, we maintained our distance from the more volatile groups, particularly the Sons of Iron. I knew I could not keep up the lie of being the old mages apprentice forever, especially as I got into better shape. So, against Elenion's wishes, I had begun to forge connections with a handful of other prisoners. Most were mercenaries, men who had found themselves on the wrong side of the law through bad luck or worse decisions. They were a pragmatic bunch, bound not by loyalty but by mutual benefit.
One of them, a wiry man named Khar, was particularly useful. A former solider turned smuggler, Khar had a knack for procuring contraband and information. Through him, I managed to acquire a wide range of books and pieces of writing. History, politics, and most importantly, magic filled the pages of my growing collection. Khar never asked why I wanted them, and I never explained. It was a transaction, simple and efficient. It often meant sacrificing a meal just to have something to trade.
Elenion, however, wasn't thrilled by my extracurricular activities.
"I don't want to know where these came from," he grumbled one evening, thumbing through a dusty tome on magical theory. Despite his protests, there was a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "Just make sure they don't get found. If the guards catch wind of this, we're both in for it."
We hid the books in a small hollow beneath a loose stone in the floor of our cell. It wasn't much, but it kept them safe, dry and out of sight. Each night, after the guards' final rounds, I would pull one out and read by the faint light of a candle, absorbing every piece of knowledge I could.
The knowledge I gathered from the books and my connections painted a vivid, complex picture of the world outside the prison walls. The empire's intricate history and tangled politics began to unfold before me the more I read.
The Supreme King of Man, Caedric Vyn, ruled with an iron grip, his authority unchallenged on the surface. Yet, cracks in the foundation were evident. Members of his own council, the seven ruling kings, and countless nobles were locked in their own power struggles, each vying to consolidate influence and secure their position. Rumors circled the prison of the empire's faltering peace talks with the elves. Negotiations had stalled, with neither side willing to concede, and skirmishes continued to erupt along the border. The entire continent seemed—unstable, volatile, and teetering on the edge of chaos. It was a world ripe for both upheaval and opportunity.
My studies extended beyond the empire too. I dove into any texts I could find about the other races and kingdoms that shared our continent. The elves, orcs, and beastfolk all held their own histories, alliances and rivalries that shaped the world. But when it came to the demonic creature I had faced—my search led nowhere. Every trail ended in silence, as though their existence was a secret too dangerous or forbidden to record.
Yet, for all the knowledge I amassed, one question still continued to gnaw at me: how could I, someone born without essence, truly wield magic?
One evening, I pulled together the courage to confront Elenion about it once more. He sat on the bench, poring over a diagram of a spell circle I'd sketched earlier that day. His fingers traced the lines with meticulous care, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Elenion," I began, my voice stumbling as I try to formulate my request. "Over the past months, you've taught me a lot about magic—its theory, its history, its applications. But I need more than knowledge. I need to wield it."
He looked up, his expression guarded. "And how do you propose to do that without essence?"
"That's what I need you to help me figure out." I leaned forward, my hands clenched together in front of me, but my eyes fixed on the floor, weary of what Elenion might say. "You've hinted before that there are ways. Forbidden rituals, ancient texts. I'm willing to do whatever it takes."
Elenion's face darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze piercing. Finally, he spoke, his tone low and measured.
"Shepard, you don't understand what you're asking for. The methods you're referring to are dangerous—not just to you, but to everyone around you! Magic drawn from unnatural means is unstable!"
"I don't care about the risks," I replied, my voice rising. "Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life powerless, stuck in this prison, at the mercy of the empire? I need this, Elenion. I need to become something more."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Damn it, Shepard. I know you won't ever let this go. So, I'll just warn you once again now—if you walk this path, there's no turning back! The price of power is steep, and the cost is often more than you're willing to pay. This path will be lonely and no doubt there will be blood on your hands."
"I have made up my mind Elenion," I said firmly. "Just tell me what I need to do."
Elenion studied me for a long time, his eyes searching mine for any hint of hesitation. When he found none, he nodded slowly.
"Very well," he said. "If you're determined, then we'll begin tomorrow. But understand this, Shepard—once we start, there's no room for doubt. Your resolve must be absolute."
"It is," I said, the weight of my words sat heavy in the room.
I suspected sleep that night would elude me once more, as I found myself staring into the darkness. The weight of my decision pressing down like the cold stone ceiling above. What I had just agreed to—what I had set in motion—was nothing short of madness. But, perhaps madness was the only way forward.
My restless thoughts were interrupted by a commotion outside the cell. The usual hum of the nighttime in the prison gave way to the clatter of boots, the echo of guards' orders, and unfamiliar voices. Peering through the cell bars, I caught sight of a group of prisoners being ushered in under heavy guard. Even in the dim light, their appearance set them apart. They were elves, their clothes tattered but undeniably regal, with patterns and embroidery.
These weren't common criminals—they must have been captured from the border skirmishes. Their stoic expressions masked what I could only imagine was failure and defeat. One elf, however, looked far worse for wear. His once-fine tunic was stained with blood, and his movements were sluggish, as though every step was a struggle. His clothing bore more intricate designs that certainly indicated a higher rank and nobility.
I reached out and grabbed Elenion's arm firmly, giving it a shake to wake him up.
The guards stopped abruptly in front of our cell.
"This one's all yours," one of the guards sneered before unlocking the cell and tossing the elf inside with the same careless brutality I had experienced on my first night. He landed in a heap at my feet, groaning softly. The door slammed shut behind him, and the guards were gone, their laughter echoing in their wake.
I exchanged a wary glance with Elenion who was now wide awake. It seemed the night would bring no peace—not for me, and certainly not for him.
The elf stirred, his eyes flickering open briefly before he collapsed again. I crouched down, studying his injuries.
"He's in bad shape," I said, glancing at Elenion.
Elenion nodded grimly. "We'll do what we can."