"Interesting, isn't it?" Aether said by my side, observing the trail of memories with an indifference that was beginning to frighten me. He snapped his fingers, and in the blink of an eye, the scenery shifted again.
This time, there was no sunlight or luxurious marble. We were in a damp, dark place; the smell of mold and iron betrayed it as a dungeon. The silence of the place was broken only by the desperate sound of someone drowning.
We looked toward the corner of the cell. It was the boy again. His hands were bound by short chains to the wall, forcing him to stay on his knees. A guard with an impassive face held his head, violently plunging it into a basin of water. Little Aether struggled, his feet kicking the stone floor in search of support that didn't exist, while air bubbles rose frantically to the surface of the basin.
"All of this because my blood is different from theirs," said the voice beside me, staring at the scene without blinking. "After this... how does someone not break?"
"Say it again!" the guard ordered, pulling the boy's head out of the basin without a shred of compassion. Water ran down the boy's pale face, mixing with tears and sweat.
"I will never use the Web again..." the boy said, his voice failing, desperate for a single breath of pure air. "Please... don't kill me."
The guard let out a dry laugh, a sound that echoed like the clattering of bones in the cold cell.
"Lucky for you your father is the King," the man spat, squeezing the boy's neck even harder. "Because if it were up to that whore of a mother of yours, you wouldn't even have a grave."
Without waiting for a response, he plunged the boy's head back into the water with a sharp movement. The sound of the struggling body and the rising bubbles was the only music in that cursed place.
The scene shifted again. The smell of mold was replaced by the pungent odor of cheap alcohol, tobacco smoke, and cloying perfumes. We were in what looked like a tavern, but the shadows revealed half-naked women walking to and fro, offering hollow smiles to drunken men.
The boy in front of me was now a teenager. His features had hardened, and the look of terror I had seen in the dungeon was replaced by a mask of boredom and contempt. We were in a high-end brothel, the kind of place where royal blood hid to get dirty.
I saw the young Aether drain a mug of dark liquid while one of the women sat on his lap. He wasn't smiling. He merely existed, as if waiting for time to pass or the world to end. He kissed the woman, but there was no love in the gesture. It seemed like a mechanical obligation or a desperate wish for escape—an attempt to silence the screams of the dungeon that still echoed in his mind.
Suddenly, the door was thrown open. I looked at the door; the image was vivid and caused a jolt of recognition.
It was Lygni.
But her features were much younger. She wasn't wearing her heavy armor, but her clothes were of impeccable military quality, and her gaze already carried that sharp seriousness that could cut through steel.
"Let's go," she said, stopping beside Aether. Her voice was low but carried an urgency that brooked no argument.
"I'm not going anywhere," the boy replied, returning to kiss the woman on his lap—a gesture of pure rebellion and despair.
Lygni's expression hardened even further. "I have orders to take you. Will you come quietly, or by force?"
Young Aether pulled away from the woman, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A bitter, self-destructive smile appeared on his face.
"Lygni... you've always been the King's perfect watchdog," he mocked. "He gives orders, and you execute them without thinking. What did he promise you this time? A medal for dragging the bastard son back to his cage?"
She didn't respond to the insult. Instead, she stepped forward, invading his personal space. Her blue eyes flashed under the dim light. "Quietly or by force," she repeated, each word sounding like the strike of an anvil.
Aether shrugged and made a move to return to the woman's arms. He didn't have time to finish the motion. In a blur of speed, Lygni grabbed him by the collar and slammed him hard onto the wooden table.
"Force it is, then," she said coldly.
Aether tried to break free, fury beginning to glow in his eyes, but he froze the moment he felt the chill of steel. A dagger appeared before his face, its sharp tip millimeters from his eye.
"Killing you is the least of my concerns, Aether," she hissed. "Do not test the limits of my patience. I will take you back to the King in a carriage or in a coffin. The choice is yours."
Her expression never wavered. Her eyes, blue as a frozen ocean, were fixed on his. Young Aether finally relaxed his muscles, accepting defeat. Lygni hauled him up, tossed a few gold coins onto the wine-stained table, and dragged him out of the tavern.
As they crossed the threshold, the light was swallowed by a sudden darkness. The adult Aether began to disappear, becoming a mere shadow in the void.
"Never trust people too much," he said, his voice now distant. "This could be your end... just as it was mine."
As I was being transported, I heard another voice. "You are not ready yet," whispered a distant sound, coming from somewhere beyond the void. It wasn't Aether's voice.
I snapped my eyes open.
The freezing air of Valenreach hit my face. I was hanging by my hands, my wrists throbbing under my weight. My vision was blurred, but the sound was clear: the crackling of flames and the harsh voices of merchants celebrating.
I looked up. My hands were bound with chains, reminding me of the vision where Aether was drowned, unable to defend himself.
"Look who finally woke up," one of the men mocked.
I looked at them. They were drinking and laughing. But something in me had changed. After witnessing Aether's life—the dungeon, the humilation—that injustice became my own. They took everything from him. I didn't feel sadness. I felt a deep disgust. The sadness had evaporated, leaving only a cold, crystalline rage in its place.
"Call your leader," my voice came out low and hoarse. The mercenary nearest to me hesitated, his laughter dying in his throat.
I lifted my face. I felt the Web on my skin in a way I never had before. It wasn't just a tool; it was vibrating against my pores, whispering, as if it were desperate to act. It wasn't just waiting for a command; it was hungry.
"We need to finish what we started," I completed, staring the man directly in the eyes.
Silence spread through the room. They realized, instinctively, that the man hanging there was not the same boy they had knocked out in the courtyard. The fear was gone. In its place was only the cold void of someone who had already lost everything—and the burning desire to collect the debt.