The chamber had no windows.
No seasons.
No measure of day or night.
It was only stone and silence. Silence so thick it swallowed footsteps, blurred the edges of thought, made every breath feel borrowed from someone else. Cold seeped up through the floor, settling deep into his bones, until even breathing sounded alien, a rhythm stolen from a stranger's chest.
Erevan Vale no longer counted time in lectures or meals. He counted it by sound. The scrape of iron locks, the shuffle of boots echoing beyond the warded door, the faint hum of runes flickering back to life when he was left alone. For a while, that had been enough.
But the days bled together. Hours slipped into one another, indistinguishable, until even the sounds faded.
Only the whispers remained.
The Council no longer spoke to him directly. Their voices came through the walls, muffled, disembodied, a layer of cold instruction over his senses. Commands. Instructions. Fragments of doctrine delivered as though he were a subject, not a man.
They made him recite patterns of sigils until his throat burned raw.
They made him channel energy through etched circles pulsing against his skin, veins carved into stone, alive beneath his fingers.
When he faltered, the wardlight flared, slicing through the dimness, leaving his hands trembling, burning with failure.
But the worst voice… was not theirs.
It came in the silence afterward.
At first, he mistook it for exhaustion, for the fragmented echo of his own mind. But the whispers grew clearer, sharper, forming words. Words that were not his, yet carried the shape of something familiar, intimate.
You resist. Always resist. Why?
The first time it spoke, Erevan staggered mid-chant. The scribes behind the warded glass jotted notes without looking up, muttering about instability. Harrax's eyes, sharp and unyielding, lingered longer than usual.
Still, it returned.
You are told to bind. To yield. But binding is breaking. Yielding is death. Do you not see?
He clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. Yet the thought slithered through him, curling like smoke that would not dissipate.
Now, he heard it more often than his own heartbeat.
He tried to convince himself it was hallucination—exhaustion twisting into sound—but hallucinations did not respond when ignored.
You pretend not to hear me, it whispered one night, when his palms pressed against the cold stone, trying to center himself. But I feel your pulse. Your breath. You draw on me when you think you reach for light. Foolish child… the light you seek was never yours.
Erevan's stomach clenched. He bit the inside of his cheek until the metallic tang of blood grounded him.
He had promised himself he would not answer. Not again. Not ever.
But silence stretched, too heavy to bear. Sometimes he wanted to speak, just to prove he still could.
He pressed a hand to his chest. Heart stuttering beneath his palm—fast, uneven, like something trapped.
The rune on his wrist pulsed faintly, a thread of black light under his skin. Not painful. Just… alive.
The hum grew louder.
He opened his eyes and froze.
The walls themselves seemed to breathe. Faint ripples of light ran along the carved sigils. Shadows trembled in rhythm with his breath. He blinked. The motion did not stop.
Not real, he whispered. It's not real.
The whisper laughed.
Not cruelly. Worse. Understanding.
You cling to walls because you fear what moves beyond them. You call this place your cage, yet it is your refuge. If you wished, you could unmake it.
Erevan's hands shook.
"Stop," he murmured, almost inaudible.
Stop what? the voice purred. Reminding you of what you already know?
He pressed his palms to his temples, nails digging crescents into his skin.
You're not real.
Then why do you listen?
The question lingered, heavy and patient.
He did not answer.
Erevan's feet moved before his mind caught up, carrying him toward the etched circle in the center of the chamber—the same circle the Council used for his "lessons." Its lines shimmered faintly, alive even without activation. He could feel them under his skin, a faint static in the air, like the tense anticipation just before lightning strikes.
He wanted to step back. He wanted to run.
But something inside him pulled, invisible yet insistent, drawing him forward.
He stared at the runes until his vision blurred. Each line breathed. Each curve sang a tone beneath hearing, subtle and insistent. It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like a living presence staring back.
He closed his eyes.
The air around him shifted—colder, sharper, sharper still.
And then, in the hollow between heartbeats, the voice came again, closer now.
You cannot silence what you are.
Erevan's chest seized. His pulse roared in his ears.
For a heartbeat, he thought he saw something—a faint distortion near the runes, like a figure half-formed from shadow and breath.
He stepped back, knees weak, chest heaving. The figure flickered once… and vanished.
When he realized he was sinking to the floor, it was too late to stop. Knees met stone, hands trembling in his lap.
"I'm losing it," he whispered. Voice cracking, fragile as glass. "I'm—"
But the word crazy would not come. It didn't feel right. It wasn't true.
The voice had gone silent.
And that silence… it was worse.
Cold seeped through his thin robes, but he barely noticed. Time felt suspended, caught in a heartbeat that stretched and lingered.
He didn't know if the voice existed in his mind—or deeper, older, older than thought itself.
But when it spoke, a part of him longed to listen.
And that terrified him.
The door opened. Not a creak, not a groan. It breathed.
The runes along the walls shimmered in recognition. The warded air thickened, bending around him as if in deference.
Harrax.
Erevan didn't look up immediately. He had learned the sound of that voice before it even came—low, deliberate, calm. Harrax never needed to shout. When he spoke, the air obeyed.
"On your feet," the magister said.
Erevan rose, a puppet guided by unseen strings. The cold stone floor bit at his bare feet. The circle pulsed faintly beneath him, heat coiling against his skin, daring him to linger too long.
Harrax's robes whispered against the stone as he walked with measured steps. With a subtle flick, he dismissed the acolytes who usually observed from behind the wards. The door sealed.
Only the two of them remained—the master and the marked.
"Again," Harrax said, calm, unwavering. "Begin with the first invocation."
Erevan's throat tightened. He wanted to ask for rest, to plead that his mind was fraying. But he knew refusal. He knew what it earned.
He drew a trembling breath and lifted his hands, tracing the sequence of runes in the air. Muscle memory guided his fingers, but the tremor in them betrayed him.
Light flickered along his wrists, faint at first, then brighter as the rune beneath his skin pulsed to life.
The power answered him.
Too eager. Too alive.
The air itself trembled, bending around him. Shadows spread outward from his feet, thick and curling, edges glowing ember-red. He could hear them whisper, under their breath, ancient and formless.
Harrax stepped closer, eyes sharp, studying every flicker of shadow, every tremor in Erevan's hands.
"Focus," he said softly. "Shape it. Do not let it shape you."
Erevan clenched his jaw, pulling the energy tighter. The shadows resisted, coiling like living things. Sweat slicked his neck.
"I am trying," he muttered through clenched teeth.
"Then try harder," Harrax murmured, almost kind. And that made it worse. "You are not bound by flesh, Vale. You are bound by fear. Release it."
The shadows surged, waves of darkness pressing outward. The wards groaned, flaring to contain the force. Heat licked his skin, searing, pulse pounding through every vein.
Harrax's movements were faster than sight could follow—one gesture, a counter-sigil—and the pressure constricted back into the circle.
Erevan fell to his knees, clutching his wrist. Smoke curled faintly from the mark, the black lines of magic burning like cooled embers.
Harrax crouched slightly, voice soft, deliberate. "Look at me."
Erevan hesitated, then obeyed.
The magister's eyes gleamed like glass in firelight. No pity. Only intent.
"You speak to something, don't you?" Harrax asked. "When focus slips, I see it in your eyes. Something answers my commands behind you."
Erevan's pulse jumped. "I—no. Nothing."
Harrax tilted his head. "Nothing does not answer to your name."
He stepped closer. The scent of burned ink, salt, and the faint tang of old wards hung in the air.
"You think I cannot hear it," Harrax whispered. "But when the power rises, it speaks through you. Its tone changes, the cadence, your breathing. There are moments when I am not sure which of you I am speaking to."
"I don't… I don't want it," Erevan whispered, voice tight with shame.
"Don't lie to me," Harrax snapped. "You crave it. Every time it burns you, you still reach. I've seen addicts claw at less."
Erevan opened his mouth. Nothing came. Shame coiled in his stomach. Denial hovered, but the truth was too close to skin, too real.
Harrax's lips curved faintly. "Good. Honesty will make this easier."
He lifted a hand, and the runes shifted, rearranging themselves in slow, deliberate motion.
"Again," he said. "Call it fully. Bind it."
Erevan's throat closed. "If I do, it will—"
"Do as I say."
The command struck like a spell. He swallowed hard. Breath returned in ragged gusts. Hands rose, shadows bending, alive, eager.
And inside him… the voice whispered again.
You can break it. You must. They cannot stop you.
The shadows obeyed instantly, coiling like smoke rising from a candle. Faster now. Smarter. Almost sentient. They pressed at his skin, slithered along his veins, hungry for release. Every nerve screamed: hold back, stop, before the lattice fractured.
But the voice—smooth, commanding—whispered certainty.
You can break it. You must. They cannot stop you.
Erevan bit his lip. Sweat trickled down his temple. His chest felt too tight, too full of pressure. He spoke the binding words, syllables rasping against his throat.
The shadows twisted and surged upward. The silver-and-black lattice flared violently, straining under his unrestrained power. Sparks licked the walls. The wards shuddered under the weight of his will.
Harrax's eyes glinted with a dangerous, hungry excitement.
"Push further," he murmured, voice almost a caress. "They will not hold you if you will not be held. Let them break. Let you break."
Erevan's knees buckled. Pain lanced from his wrists where the black marks glowed like molten iron. Light and dark wove together, blurring his vision. The lattice trembled under his surge, quivering like a living thing.
The shadows shrieked without sound, thrashing against the runes, carving shapes in the air.
For a heartbeat, he thought he saw eyes open in the darkness—coals burning in the void—watching, judging, waiting for him to relent.
The lattice cracked. Tiny fissures spread like veins through the runes. Sparks burst as wards failed. The chamber shivered under the hum of undone magic.
Erevan fell forward, hands clawing at the cold stone. Blood mingled with sweat where he had bitten his tongue, tasting copper and iron.
The voice surged, intimate and triumphant.
See how they falter? See how weak they are? We are not theirs. You and I are one. Do not resist. Do not fear.
Harrax's expression shifted—fascination and hunger dancing in his eyes.
"Yes," he breathed, almost to himself. "Yes, you see it. That is the power they could never teach. That is yours."
Erevan's scream tore from his throat, raw and ragged. The lattice shattered with a cry of its own, splintering into sparks and smoke. The shadows pulsed, coiling and writhing as if freed from chains. The chamber walls rattled with the echo, acrid tang of burned stone filling his nostrils.
And then… silence.
He lay there, chest heaving, sweat mingling with blood, every muscle trembling from strain. The shadows had retreated. He was alone with the ruins of the lattice, and the faint pulse along his wrist.
Harrax stood over him, calm now, almost tender in a way that made Erevan's stomach twist.
"Look at what you can do," he said softly. "Even when they try to chain you, even when they demand obedience, the power responds to your will."
Erevan dared not look up. His mind raced, tangled with fear, exhilaration, and a bitter taste of triumph. He had survived. He had not yielded.
But part of him… part of him wanted the voice. Wanted the shadows. Wanted that intoxicating rush of dominance and freedom that came when he let go.
That terrified him more than the collapse of the lattice.
Harrax's eyes lingered, reading every tremor of fear and awe.
"Rest," he said finally. "But remember—you are no longer the same boy who came here. Every choice you make from this moment will be against them, or against yourself."
Erevan could only nod. Limbs too heavy to carry him upright. He crawled back toward his cell, every movement dragging through exhaustion thick as stone.
When the door closed behind him, it sealed him in darkness without a sound.
Only the faint pulse along his wrist remained, the echo of the voice he could no longer deny.
The chamber was empty. Silent.
And yet… he could feel it still. The whisper beneath his ribs, the breath of shadow curling through his veins.
The veil had shattered.
He was awake.
And in the quiet aftermath, he understood the truth: he was no longer theirs. He belonged only to himself—and to the voice that had waited, patient, all along.
Exhaustion claimed him at last, dragging him into a restless, troubled sleep. But somewhere deep in the dark, something had smiled.