The whispers had grown beyond a mere hum; they were a constant, insistent thrum beneath my skin, a restless energy that refused to be silenced. It felt like a thousand tiny needles pricking at my nerves, a low-frequency vibration that resonated deep within my bones.
Every breath I took, every beat of my heart, seemed to amplify this internal symphony of forbidden power. My body, once a familiar vessel, now felt alien, a volatile container for something I barely understood and utterly feared.Sleep was a luxury I could no longer afford. My nights were a torment of restless tossing and turning, my mind racing, replaying the vacant eyes of Joric, the condemned channeler, and the chilling efficiency of the Purification. I'd wake in the dead of night, heart pounding, convinced I'd felt the floorboards beneath me shift, or seen a faint, unnatural glow emanating from my own hands in the darkness.
I'd press my palms together, clenching them into tight fists, trying to physically contain the energy, as if I could squeeze it back into the depths of my being. It was a futile effort. The power was there, undeniable, a living entity within me, and it was growing, making my own skin feel like a thin, fragile membrane stretched taut over a burgeoning storm.My days as a scribe became a minefield of potential exposure.
The mundane tasks, once a comforting routine, were now fraught with terrifying possibilities. Holding a cup of water felt like balancing a volatile liquid; I could almost feel the individual droplets, their cohesive bonds, the subtle currents within the ceramic. Walking near a fountain, I'd instinctively brace myself, fearing my presence alone might cause the water to leap or freeze. Even being near a common hearth fire filled me with a primal dread, the flickering flames seeming to dance in response to an unseen pull from within my core. My senses were hyper-alert, attuned to the slightest elemental shift, a constant, agonizing awareness that made every moment a test of control.
I tried everything to suppress it. In the quiet solitude of my room, I'd sit for hours, attempting the rudimentary meditation techniques I'd overheard Weavers discussing – focusing on my breath, visualizing a calm, still pool. But the elemental hum would only intensify, mocking my efforts, transforming the imagined pool into a churning vortex. I tried physical exertion, running until my lungs burned and my muscles ached, hoping to exhaust the energy. It only left me more aware of the raw power thrumming through my fatigued limbs. I focused on my scribe work with a desperate intensity, hoping to drown out the whispers with meticulous detail, but the ink would swirl unnaturally in the pot, or the parchment would feel strangely resistant to my quill, as if the very materials were reacting to my presence. My body was betraying me, a traitorous vessel that refused to obey my will.I yearned for the simple, ignorant life I'd led just a few cycles ago. The dull routine of my scribe work, the quiet evenings with my family, the easy banter with my friends – all seemed like a distant, unattainable dream, a freedom I had unknowingly squandered. Now, every interaction was a performance, every movement calculated to avoid drawing attention. I felt like a fraud, a ticking time bomb in a city built on a lie I embodied. My very existence was a transgression, and Aethelgard, once a symbol of security and order, had become the walls of my personal confinement. The fear was a cold, constant companion, whispering its own chilling tales of discovery and destruction.