A deep chill always filled the cavern, seeping from damp, rough stone walls through Kael's thin rags, settling bone-deep. It mirrored the numbness inside him, a constant, aching emptiness. Iron-barred cages lined the chamber. In them, shapes huddled, shadows in the sickly green-white glow of strange crystals. Whimpers and ragged coughs echoed. Somewhere, water dripped. Always dripping. Kael lay curled, cheek pressed to gritty stone. A fat rat scurried near, black-bead eyes gleaming. He didn't move. Fear was a luxury burned out of him long ago. The Alchemist had seen to that.
Even the thought of him—a short, stooped figure, wispy grey hair bald in the middle, a grin showing missing teeth—sent a shiver colder than the cavern down Kael's spine. Beyond the wall, the old man worked: clinks of glass, a scrape of metal, the low, hissing chant. A grating sound. Wrong. Each word scratched at Kael's ears, making his skin crawl. Beneath his rags, Kael wore a small, teardrop-shaped stone on a string. Faintly warm. His only inheritance, a gift from parents he barely remembered, instinctively hidden. Sometimes, when experiments grew worst, or the chanting turned sharp, the stone pulsed—a faint vibration against his chest, as if recoiling.
He'd seen his reflection once—bent metal, black water. Too smooth. Eyes with a pale shimmer. Hair with silver flecks. Not his face. The Alchemist's "work." A mask he couldn't remove. Others looked away. He understood their quiet, sharp fear. He didn't belong to himself.
The chanting rose, growing jagged. One guttural syllable snapped the air. The man two cages down groaned. Kael closed his eyes. Braced himself. Not again. Please—not again.
It wasn't fire—though heat slammed through like a wave—but sound. A thunderous, blinding crash. Kael was hurled against the bars. Crystals burst; darkness rushed in. Then, light bloomed anew. Not the sick green of before. Symbols. Silver glyphs flared across the ceiling, flinging wild shadows. Chaos erupted—screams, falling stone, raw magic in the air. Figures dropped from above.
Eight of them. Cloaked in deep indigo, their movements deceptively smooth, swift as flowing silk. Their arrival was like a song of precision and terrible grace. Silver-threaded script pulsed at their hems; identical silver pins glinted on their shoulders: a wave over a blade. Kael's breath caught. Not raiders. Not rebels. They moved with a power that felt older than language. Clean. Immense. Power that declared itself.
From the larger chamber, a raw, terrified scream. The Alchemist stumbled into view, face a mask of stark disbelief. His small frame trembled, eyes wide and wild. "No—this is impossible! No one knows this place!" He flung his misshapen wand forward. Sickly green flame shot out, crackling, stinking of rot.
One cloaked figure, wand already in hand, traced a swift sigil. A shield of woven light bloomed, effortlessly deflecting the green fire. It splashed like dirty water. Another rescuer, moving with startling speed, leveled their wand. A clear word – "Zar'thir!" – and a whip of pure, cutting light slashed through the Alchemist's panicked shadow-shield. It shattered like old smoke. The old man stumbled back, shrieking. "You fools! I will not—cannot—be undone!" In that shriek, Kael understood: these newcomers wielded power the Alchemist truly feared.
Kael pressed himself tighter to the bars, barely registering the sting on his cheek. His numbness shattered under the clarity of their magic—bright and sharp like cold water thrown across his senses. His stone pulsed strongly against his chest, warmth flooding through him.
The battle was brutal. And fast. One cloaked figure unleashed bolts of compressed sound from their wand, each strike ringing like a god's chime. Another traced golden lines in the air; they hardened into glowing snares, coiling around the Alchemist's limbs. He screamed. Thrashed. And then— The Commander—the figure with hair like midnight and eyes the hard, clear grey of winter ice—moved fluidly forward. Her voice, quiet, absolute: "Aelun'kor Shil."(Soul-bind the shadow.) From her outstretched wand, a silver thread of light. It struck the Alchemist's chest. He froze. The green aura around his wand sputtered. His eyes went wide. Then empty. He crumpled. A faint, dark wisp drifted from his body, vanishing into the cold air.
Silence descended, heavy, broken only by the soft drip of water and the fading glow of ceiling runes. One of the cloaked figures moved towards the cages, wand held aloft. A single, clear word cut the stillness: "Tharun."(Break the bonds.) With a chorus of sharp, metallic clangs, iron bars sprang back. Cage doors swung open. Kael stared, his heart hammering against his ribs. The way to freedom was clear. Light from the rescuers' wands pierced the gloom, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a different kind of shiver ran through him – not of cold, nor the memory of fear, but of a wild, terrifying, dawning hope.