The rhythmic drip of water from the ceiling of cell thirteen had become Elian Drave's only reliable companion. Three thousand six hundred and forty-two drips per day—he'd counted often enough to know. Five years in the Black Spire had taught him the value of such meaningless routines. They kept the mind sharp when the body was failing.
Elian shifted on his thin pallet, the movement sending fresh pain through his scarred forearms where the Solaran Clerics had attempted their latest "divine purification" yesterday. Five years of their treatments, and they still hoped to ignite the divine spark within him. Five years of failure.
"Drip one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven," he murmured, pushing himself to a sitting position as the prison fell unusually quiet. The normal cacophony of moans, rattling chains, and guards' boots had ceased.
Something was wrong.
Heavy footsteps approached his cell. Not the measured stride of guards but the determined march of someone with purpose. The cell door swung open with a screech of rusted metal, revealing Captain Thorne of the Solaran Divine Guard, his golden armor gleaming even in the dim light of the dungeon.
"Today's your lucky day, scholar," Thorne said, lips curling with disgust. "The High Cleric has decided ordinary imprisonment is too good for blasphemers who question the divine order."
Two guards flanked Elian, yanking him to his feet. His legs, once strong from climbing library ladders to reach ancient texts, nearly buckled beneath him.
"Special execution?" Elian asked, voice raspy from disuse. "I'm flattered."
Thorne's backhand came fast, splitting Elian's lip. "Five years, and you haven't learned respect. The High Priestess herself will oversee your cleansing. If divine fire won't take root in you, then it will consume you instead."
As they dragged him through the winding corridors of the Black Spire, Elian's mind—his one remaining weapon—raced through possibilities. Public executions in Solara were elaborate affairs, designed to remind citizens of divine power. There would be crowds, ceremonial delays. Perhaps an opportunity.
The sudden explosion rocked the entire prison, throwing them all to the ground. Distant screams echoed through the stone corridors.
"Prison riot," one guard whispered fearfully.
"Impossible," Thorne snapped. "The divine wards—"
A second explosion cut him off, closer this time. The unmistakable crackling of fire magic filled the air.
"Umbral assassins?" the second guard suggested, drawing his sword.
Thorne grabbed Elian by his prison tunic. "If this is some Shadow Guild plot to free you—"
"Because I'm clearly their most valuable asset," Elian replied dryly, gesturing to his emaciated form. "Your divine logic is impeccable as always."
The captain's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Chain him to the wall. We'll deal with the riot, then resume the execution."
They shackled Elian to a metal ring in the corridor wall, and the three guards hurried toward the commotion, leaving him alone. Perfect. He immediately began working on the rusted bolt holding his chains, using techniques learned from a former locksmith who'd occupied cell eleven until his execution last winter.
Another explosion, and the ceiling partially collapsed thirty feet down the corridor. Through the dust emerged a figure wreathed in flames—not the pure golden fire of Solaran champions, but wild, uncontrolled red-orange bursts. A failed divine vessel, someone whose body couldn't properly channel their god's power.
The man lurched toward Elian, eyes wide with manic energy. "You... you're the godless one they whisper about."
Elian didn't pause his work on the bolt. "And you're about to be a dead one if you don't control those flames."
"The gods... they speak to me now," the man rambled, flames intensifying around his trembling hands. "They say someone must die for me to ascend. Someone without divine blessing."
"The gods told you to kill a random prisoner?" Elian raised an eyebrow. "Rather specific for typically abstract deities."
The failed vessel lunged forward just as Elian freed his chains. Fire engulfed them both. White-hot pain seared across Elian's chest as he grappled with his attacker. He'd never been a fighter, had always relied on his mind rather than muscle. But five years of rage—at the clerics, at the gods who'd marked him as defective, at the world that worshipped them—provided strength he didn't know he possessed.
His hands found the man's throat. As they struggled, something impossible happened.
The flames began flowing toward Elian.
A strange sensation—like drinking after years of thirst—overwhelmed him. The attacker's eyes widened in horror as his flames diminished, streaming in ribbons of light into Elian's chest. Where the fire touched Elian's skin, small, luminous symbols briefly appeared before fading.
"What are you doing to me?" the man gasped.
Elian was equally shocked but instinctively understood what was happening. He was taking something that wasn't his—something divine.
When the last flame disappeared, the failed vessel collapsed, not dead but diminished, empty. Elian stood over him, heart racing, body humming with unfamiliar energy. He felt stronger than he had in years, warmth coursing through his veins. When he looked at his hands, faint traces of fire danced between his fingers.
"So the blasphemer was right all along," came Captain Thorne's voice from behind him.
Elian turned to find the captain standing amidst the rubble, sword drawn, horror and disgust twisting his handsome features.
"Divine gifts aren't blessings," Elian said, staring at his own hands in wonder. "They're transferable. Stealable."
"Abomination," Thorne spat, raising his sword. "The High Priestess was right to order your execution."
Anger flared within Elian—and with it, fire erupted from his palms. Not the unstable flames of the failed vessel but focused, controlled heat that responded to his will. The stolen divine gift recognized its new master.
Thorne charged, his sword glowing with Solaran light. Elian instinctively thrust his hands forward, sending a column of flame that forced the captain back. The fire wasn't strong—this had been a minor gift from a failed vessel—but it was enough to create an opportunity.
With the captain temporarily blinded by the flames, Elian ran. Not toward the main exit where guards would be concentrated, but toward the library wing where he'd spent his first year cataloging the prison's records. He knew a servants' passage there that connected to the outer wall.
As he raced through the chaos of the prison riot, a forbidden idea crystallized in his mind. If he could take this minor gift, could he take others? Stronger ones? The divine champions, the blessed noble houses, the gods' chosen vessels—were their powers similarly transferable?
For five years, he'd been punished for hypothesizing that divine gifts were not mystical blessings but transferable abilities. Now he had proof.
Elian burst through a side door into blinding sunlight—his first taste of freedom in five years. Beyond the prison walls lay the gleaming spires of Solara City, and beyond that, six more kingdoms with their god-chosen champions.
He flexed his fingers, calling forth a small flame. It wasn't much—barely enough to light a torch—but it was a beginning. And for a scholar who had lost everything to forbidden knowledge, it was the first page of a new chapter.
"Hypotheses require testing," he murmured, a smile touching his lips for the first time in years as he slipped into the streets of the city that had condemned him.