Cal took no joy in this god-forsaken cellar. It felt as if his hands grew colder every second. He steadied his aching back once more, arching toward the table in front of him. His hands—which had lost feeling a few moments ago—now began scribbling away his thoughts of unease. His leg, fidgeting beneath the table, produced an eerie sound that echoed through the walls—walls that seemed to serve no purpose but to invite in the cold.
His ears caught another sound, one different from his leg—a rhythmic clang, the unmistakable echo of metal striking cobblestone: the footsteps of an Inquisitor.
He turned and stood in one smooth motion, a bolt of pain shooting through his back. He ignored it, forcing an apologetic smile as he asked, "What do I owe this honor, ser?"
The man could have been carved from stone; his face showed nothing but boredom as he stood for a moment. Cal took the opportunity to look at him directly. He was a balding man in his forties, his beard thin and unkempt.
"Nothing special about him," Cal thought.
But the shivers that ran through him told a different story when he glimpsed the man's hands—bloodied and holding a pincer. He had been working.
"I've been informed about your mission," the man said monotonically. "This is a rather delicate line of work, your first one at that. Which is why I came to warn you about your position. The Headmaster is busy enough to not deal with a mere page's censorship errors, so I suggest you take this job seriously."
Cal spoke without thinking, holding his smile for dear life. "Of course, good ser. You can rest assured I will give it my utmost attention."
"Good," the Inquisitor responded, turning hoarsely. His chainmail clinked and gleamed beneath the blazer hanging from the ceiling. Only when the sound of his footsteps faded into the hallway did Cal dare sit down again, his cheeks flushed from fear and excitement. He didn't like how a single Inquisitor could make him feel like this. He felt as though he had done something wrong, even if he hadn't.
"Can't even imagine having a secret he won't like," Cal muttered, continuing to work. The rhythmic scratch of his quill on parchment filled the otherwise quiet room.
Hours passed in a blur. His hand moved automatically across the paper—until his eyes caught something. Something that made his quill freeze mid-stroke.
The letters before him were unfamiliar—curved and intricate, unlike any script he had copied before. They were... otherworldly. His heart skipped a beat as he leaned closer, his breath catching in his throat. These were not the words of heretic scientists. No, this was something entirely different.
He couldn't look away. What was this?
A soft, almost imperceptible hum seemed to emanate from the page. Cal's fingers, almost against his will, hovered above the symbols. The ink felt warmer than it should have, as though the page was alive. He brushed his fingers against the characters, and the moment he did, an electric chill shot through his fingertips.
He jerked back slightly, his pulse quickening. What? His breath hitched. The warmth of the ink, the way it reacted to his touch—it was unsettling. But curiosity gnawed at him.
Maybe it's nothing. Just a mistake, a strange mark.
But even as the thought tried to settle, another one followed, darker and more persistent: What if this isn't a mistake? What if this is something else? Something hidden? Something secret?
His mind raced. What if it's... a hidden knowledge? A form of power? Something that wasn't meant to be found, not by someone like him? The idea was dangerous, absurd even, but it lingered. He could almost feel the weight of the possibility. What if this is a tool, a key? A secret meant for someone else, left for him to discover?
His thoughts began to spin, weaving stories of forgotten magic and forbidden knowledge. But then he stopped himself. What a fool. The sneer was silent but bitter. What was he thinking? He was a pageboy—someone no one even cared about. He had no place in this.
Yet, despite the dismissive thought, there was something else—something buried deeper—that refused to let go. He wasn't sure what it was. Fear? Or maybe it was just the thought of control—of understanding something no one else did.
No. He would do nothing.
But he couldn't shake the thought. What if this was his chance? His small, insignificant chance to gain some measure of control in a world where he had none.
His hands, trembling slightly, returned to the page, but his mind was elsewhere. What if it could be more? What if he didn't just copy history but understood it?
Cal's fingers hovered above the page, trembling ever so slightly. The text seemed to gleam under his touch, the ink almost shimmering in a way that made it feel... alive.
His heart raced as he read the unfamiliar symbols again, but this time, something strange occurred. The letters seemed to shift, subtly at first, then with a quickness that left him breathless. The page no longer displayed mere marks—it hummed. A vibration seemed to pulse from the paper itself, and then, faintly, a voice filled the silence of the room.
It wasn't a language he understood. It wasn't even one he recognized, but it felt ancient—stranger than anything he'd ever encountered.
He strained to listen, to make sense of it, but the words were foreign, distant. No, this was something different. Older.
The voice spoke again, the same phrase repeating, like a chant, an invocation:
"annglacanntúnafocail?"
Cal's heart pounded in his chest, the words vibrating in his skull like a distant echo. He didn't understand them, not in the traditional sense. But there was something else, something visceral, a tug deep within him that he couldn't ignore. It was as if the words themselves were calling out to him, bypassing his intellect and speaking to something buried deep in his subconscious.
His breath hitched, his fingers trembling. The sensation grew stronger, as if the very air around him was thickening with the weight of something ancient, something powerful. The room, the flickering light, the shadows—they all seemed to distort in response to the hum.
Cal's mind raced. What is this? What does it want from me?
The pull was undeniable. The sense of something hidden, something forbidden, lingered in the air, settling into his bones. The fear that had initially gripped him began to twist into something else—curiosity. Curiosity, and something else. A desire. A desire to know, to understand, to unlock whatever this was. What was the harm in it? This could be the key to something more.
He could feel his pulse quickening, his mind teetering on the edge of uncertainty. The quiet whisper of the words echoed once again, vibrating in his thoughts, as if asking, demanding, something of him.
"Do you accept the words?"
After what felt like an eternity, his mouth moved of its own accord. He didn't question it, didn't stop it. He didn't know what would happen next, but he couldn't resist.
"I do."
The moment the words left his lips, the room seemed to shift. The hum from the page intensified, becoming almost unbearable, and the ink on the paper blazed with a sudden, unnatural light. Cal's breath caught in his throat, and his fingers, still hovering above the text, twitched again. The light seemed to surge outward, not just from the page, but from the entire room, as if it were alive, as if it had been waiting for this moment.
He stepped back, his heart racing, his body frozen between flight and fascination. For a moment, it felt as if the world itself had stopped. The shadows deepened, and the coldness in the air grew more oppressive. The whispers had ceased, leaving only the pounding of his pulse in his ears. And then, as abruptly as it had started, the energy in the room receded. The page settled back into its stillness, the light fading, the hum vanishing like a memory slipping through his fingers.
Cal stood there, his mind reeling. Had it worked? Had he just unlocked something? Or was this just his mind playing tricks on him?
He didn't know. But deep inside, the whispering voice was still there, lingering, beckoning him to continue.
Cal blinked, his breath catching. A chill licked at his fingertips. He flexed his hand—and froze.
His skin had gone pale, the tips of his fingers almost bluish. But that wasn't what made his stomach turn.
A ring now sat on his right index finger. He hadn't noticed it before.
Thin, seamless, and the color of aged copper, it clung to him like it had always been there. It wasn't ornate—no jewels, no symbols—just a perfect band, slightly warm to the touch. It shouldn't be.
"For the sake of Moar—?" he muttered, lifting his hand closer to the candlelight. His voice sounded small, fragile.
The ring shimmered faintly in the glow. Not like metal catching firelight. More like... like it responded. As if aware.
He tried to pull it off, but it didn't budge. Not tight. Just immovable. He tugged harder. Nothing.
His mouth went dry. He reached to pull it off, but the moment his fingers touched it, something struck him—not pain, not exactly. A wave. A surge of emotion not his own.
Grief. Thick, aching grief. The kind that hollows a man out.
His vision blurred for an instant, and in the flicker of candlelight, he saw—
A figure. Elven, cloaked in ash and moonlight, standing over a battlefield of smoke and silence. Not weeping. Not screaming. Just... too late.
And then: a voice, old and tired and full of sorrow.
"Let another never stand as I did—watching, wishing, too late."
It echoed inside him. He didn't know whose voice it was, or why it sounded like it belonged to a memory not his own.
And then it was gone.
The room was quiet again. The candle flickered like nothing had changed. But Cal's hand trembled, and the copper ring still sat on his finger, unmoved.
He stared at it.
No inscriptions. No glow. Just a simple band.
But something had changed.
He had changed.