The Blackspire is reserved for the most abhorrent creatures in the realm—mortals who wielded their magic to wreak devastation, and shapeshifters who committed atrocities no less vile. Yet, on the voyage to the Veilbound Isle, where inhibitors are fastened to prisoners to suppress their powers, it is Voryn who sits bound by the heaviest chains.
Long before he rose in the ranks to serve the Warmaster or earned his place in the Nytheris military, Voryn had to be more than exceptional—he had to be better than the best. The realm's five quadrants are bound to five core sources of magic, each forming the foundation of a power which many more draw from. Even Dorian, a Morphalen native, hails from a lineage of Lycans, his father a hybrid and his mother mortal. Though diluted, Dorian inherited the strength and sheer stature of his bloodline.
Voryn, however, had no such fortune. Devoid of innate magic or bloodline advantage, so if he did not have powers to use as a weapon, he would become one himself.
Blackspire is a myth that exists in whispers shared by storytellers.
Anyone or anything that was banished to the Blackspire—never returned. A tell to keep those in line and remind those outside of it what fate awaited them.
The only proof of its existence is Veilbound Island itself. The Black Voyager slices through the choking fog, an endless shroud of mist and steam said to trap those foolish enough to seek its shores in an eternal labyrinth. But the ship, its hull blackened like the souls it carries, presses forward, unyielding.
When the vessel finally touches desolate shoreline, the capital custodians move with mechanical precision, dragging their cargo of condemned souls. Muzzles of dull, glowing iron encase the mouths of halflings, each one pulsating faintly with each forced breath, a cruel reminder that even their breaths are not their own. Voryn alone is spared the muzzle, his punishment less visible but no less deliberate. His wrists and ankles are shackled in short, their restrictive length granting him just enough movement to stumble down the ramp onto the ashen sands.
The island's surface is a wasteland, barren but for the solitary monolithic stronghold looming ahead—a narrow, jagged spire of obsidian rock. To the unknowing eye, it appears lifeless, deserted, but beneath its jagged facade lies a labyrinthine hell.
The condemned are marched in single file. Voryn's chains pull taut as the custodians force him to step closer to the spire. Within, the threshold opens to reveal the true masters of this prison: grotesque, hulking figures barely resembling men, their forms slick with oil-black flesh stretched unnaturally over malformed bodies. Their eyes gleam like embers in sunken sockets, and each grips a branding rod glowing with infernal heat, the seals at their tips writhing as if alive.
Voryn is freed from his chains only to be shoved to his knees. His arms are yanked outward by the custodians at his sides, muscles straining against the pull. A third custodian grabs his tunic and jerks it up, baring the pale expanse of his back. The air grows heavier in his chest as one of the demonic wardens steps forward, its guttural chant resonating like the growl of an ancient beast. The branding rod bursts into a searing crimson flare, heat radiating so intensely that it singes the air.
When the warden strikes, the seal burns into his flesh with a hiss like molten iron meeting water. Voryn's body convulses, his back arching violently as pain tears through him. The pain almost double from when he first removed his brand—the emblem of his oath all those years ago. His lips part in a silent scream, but no sound escapes, his restraint holding as tightly as the chains that bound him. Steam rises from his branded flesh, the mark smouldering as if alive, a living curse etched into his skin. The wardens move on without pause, their cruel efficiency ensuring every prisoner is seared with the same seal. Free of his chains but no less tethered, Voryn and the others are forced onwards.
"A mortal," says a Solarion, likely from Luminethria or some other domain from the light energy quadrant. "What could you have done to damn your soul to these depths?"
"I trusted the wrong man," Voryn says with a raw edge of resentment.
He lets out a whooshing breath like he relates to the sentiment. "And for that you will walk with wounds that will not heal," he says to spare sympathy, but then intrigue shifts his tone into something questioning. "But not just any criminal or killer is condemned to these confines. What of your crimes merited eternal damnation?"
Voryn casts a wary glance at the Solarion beside him. The man's bald head is etched with convoluted markings, splitting symmetrically from the crown and branching across his face. His gold-flecked irises catch the faint light, glinting with a mirth that feels entirely out of place in the suffocating darkness of their surroundings. His radiant aura practically hums, an affront to the grim despair of Blackspire.
"Believe me," the Solarion says, his voice jovial and unbothered, "I am in no place to judge."
Though inexpressive, Voryn's tone is scathing. "And what did you do? Step on an ant?"
The Solarion gasps in genuine fright. "I could never commit such a cruelty. No, you see there were heretics who dared to mock the Goddess, desecrating a sacred monument in their blasphemy. So I... melted their insides. Slowly, of course." He smiles, bright and serene, as though recounting a fond memory. "Then I made them burst, their flesh scattering across the courtyard in an avenging tribute to Her glory."
The sheer cheerfulness of his expression paired with his grotesque words comes off somewhat terrifying.
Voryn looks at the Solarion, curiosity clung to the edge of his dark look. "The Goddess Elyndra?" he asks, his tone accusatory. "You serve an elemental divinity?"
"As a Solarion, we are bound to the light," the man replies matter-of-factly, "and who better to honour than She who embodies all that is pure?" His smile widens as if that statement should be self-evident.
Their exchange is abruptly cut short by a guttural snarl. An infernal warden looms past them, its grotesque form steaming with heat as it exhales a blast of fetid breath. The Solarion flinches, recoiling in clear disgust, and slaps a hand over his nose and mouth.
"By the light," he mutters, his voice muffled through his fingers. "That is the stench of a tongue that hasn't touched water in a millennium."
The prison's structure defies natural laws. While the surface of the Veilbound isle is marked by a towering, needle-like edifice, the true spire descends deep into the earth, spiralling into a molten underworld. This inverted spire houses a living labyrinth of cells, constantly in motion. The cells, spiralling down endlessly, only to rise whenever a rare new batch of prisoners arrives. The ever-shifting design prevents any semblance of permanence or escape.
The deeper they descend, the air thickens, choking and searing their lungs with a torment that is ceaseless. The heat grows unbearable, the sensation like a thousand razors of fire slicing through flesh. The main chamber sprawls before them, an infernal cavern vast as the belly of a volcano. Its molten walls pulse with veins of blackened lava, oozing like open wounds. At its core, a massive, gaping maw belches out waves of blistering heat, swallowing piles of shimmering, dimly pulsing stones shovelled in by endless lines of prisoners.
No chains bind them, no shackles restrain their movements—only the branding. A sigil, burned deep into the flesh between their shoulder blades, glows faintly in the oppressive darkness, marking them as property of this wretched place.
A feral shove from the infernal wardens sends them stumbling forward. Voryn steadies himself, his gaze sweeping over the raw-boned figures around him—hollowed husks of men and creatures alike, their faces etched with suffering. He feels the first beads of sweat tracing paths down his face before his skin erupts into a slick sheen of perspiration.
Beside him, the Solarion adjusts his posture, his once-luminous presence dulled by the oppressive gloom. Voryn thrusts a shovel into his hands.
The Solarion glances at him, his golden-flecked irises dim. "My name is Zias," he says, his voice soft but firm.
"Voryn," he offers in return.
A voice rasps from the shadows. "Names are useless here."
They turn to see a veteran prisoner step closer, his gaunt face framed by a grimace, viper-like fangs glinting in the molten light. His body bears scars and burns that have long since healed into grotesque patterns.
"Those names no longer belong to you." His words slither out like venom. "In this abyss, you're nothing but meat to the fire."
Around them, the cavern groans, its molten veins surging like arteries. The infernal wardens watch silently, their twisted forms illuminated by the volcanic glow, their presence as inescapable as the heat that suffocates the air.
"I don't plan on extending my visit," Voryn mutters.
The heat within the Blackspire is insufferable, emanating from the furnace maw, a core of molten fire that sustains the prison's grim machinery. Prisoners are tasked with shovelling ice coals into the furnace that momentarily mitigates the overwhelming heat. These stones, cold to the touch but forged in alchemical ice, temper the flames just enough to keep prisoners alive, ensuring they do not perish from sheer incineration.
The labour is merciless, and survival is the only reward. The prisoners are forced to shovel as much ice coal as possible to meet the relentless demands of their masked overseers. Failure to meet quotas invites brutal punishment, simply for warped amusement, as the wardens ensure no labourer escapes unscathed. The wardens themselves, forged from the furnace maw, are unaffected by the heat, their demonic physiology enabling them to endure and enforce their will without respite.
There are only three things they can do: lay, labour, and eat. Sustenance is rationed cruelly—just enough to stave off the gut-wrenching agony of dehydration and the gnawing ache of hunger. Water trickles down their throats like molten metal, quenching thirst just enough to keep them alive. And when others collapse into restless sleep, lost in the timeless abyss where day and night are meaningless, Voryn remains awake.
The oppressive heat saps his strength, but still, he trains. Fists to the ground, he pushes his body to the brink of failure, practicing forms as sweat carves rivulets down his dirt-caked skin. Zias watches nearby, the dim glow of the molten maw casting flickering shadows across his expression. There is no other entertainment here, nothing to break the monotony but pain and quiet madness.
Days—or what might be days—blur into a relentless churn of labour and exhaustion. Over time, Voryn begins to notice one of the oldest prisoners: a stooped man with squinty eyes, his bat-like ears twitching to every clang and scrape of shovels. His tail, thin and wiry, sways lifelessly as he lumbers beneath the weight of his toil. The old man seems a relic of this infernal prison, a monument to its cruelty.
One day, the man falters, his knees buckling. The light pulsing from the ice stones he hauls flickers, and he crumples. Around him, the other prisoners barely glance in his direction, their apathy as scorching as the air itself.
Voryn hesitates only a moment before offering the last of his precious water.
"Ye'd be wise not to do that," a gruff voice cuts through the molten din.
He turns to see a hulking figure with corded muscles, but the lumps on his chest tell that he is in fact female. Her lips twist into a bare but grim smile as she leans against her shovel.
"But ye strike me as the sort who sails his own course. So, I'll let the tide teach ye its lesson."
Ignoring her, Voryn kneels and presses the canteen to the old man's trembling hands. The prisoner snatches it with savage desperation, guzzling the liquid greedily, his animalistic heritage laid bare in the way his eyes dart and his nostrils flare. He doesn't spare Voryn so much as a glance, let alone a word of thanks. But Voryn doesn't need one—he never has.
Only later does regret creep into his mind. The air feels hotter, heavier, each breath scorching his throat. His lips crack, and his strength wanes. The moral assurances that drove him to help dissolve into a gnawing thirst that poisons his resolve.
"Here."
Zias steps forward, his canteen outstretched. His voice is steady, but there's an edge to it—a warning.
Voryn looks at him, startled.
"Take it," Zias says. "But if you waste this on another dying wretch, you'll understand what it's like to feel your insides boil."
"I already do," Voryn mutters, tipping the canteen back and savouring the water, though it's not enough to quench the inferno within.
As he lowers the canteen, his eyes land on the woman who spoke earlier. She sits apart from the others, not in silent clusters like most, but entirely alone. Her lips move in soundless whispers, gesticulating as she speaks to herself. The gestures are ones common amongst slavers.
Speculation churns in Voryn's mind, his thoughts a welcome distraction from the searing thirst. Perhaps she once killed slavers, he muses, or perhaps she was one herself. Either way, her isolation speaks volumes in a place where survival often demands allegiance, however fleeting.
The molten chamber stretches on, the distant cries of laborers echoing endlessly, and Voryn feels the weight of the place pressing deeper into his soul. Here, the only currency is suffering, and debt is paid in blood.