A hall.
Cold. Vast. Breathless.
The sound of footsteps — a soft, deliberate echo across the polished black stone.
Torches lined the walls, their flames flickering low and uneasy, as if afraid to cast too much light into this place.
In the shadow of a towering mirror, a figure knelt.
Cloaked in black, head bowed so low it almost touched the floor.
The Sixth.
"The command has been carried out, Great One,"
the figure said — voice thin, frayed at the edges.
"But… the boy is weak."
Silence.
Then the reflection in the mirror — a shifting blur of shadow and smoke —
smiled.
A smile like a blade hidden in silk.
"Good,"
the Great One said, voice smooth as poison.
"He's supposed to be weak.
For now."
A flicker of hesitation.
A breath too long.
The cloaked figure dared to speak again:
"But he—"
The mirror rippled.
The Great One's voice cracked through the hall like a whip:
"Sixth."
The torches flared violently.
The fire twisted into jagged shapes on the walls.
The Sixth flinched, shoulders trembling, fists clenched so tight her knuckles bled white.
"Stand."
A command.
Not a request.
She rose slowly, wordlessly.
Obedient — but not willing.
Her chin stayed tucked down. Eyes averted.
"Remove the hood."
The command dropped like a stone into the silence.
A heartbeat passed.
Then fingers — thin, scarred — reached up.
The cloth fell away.
Revealing a young woman.
No older than twenty.
Ash-blonde hair tumbled out around her pale face.
Eyes hazel, dulled by time and grief.
But behind them —
the faint, stubborn flicker of something darker.
Something that refused to die.
The Great One stepped closer to the mirror's edge.
"Victoria,"
he said.
And her name hit the air like a funeral bell.
Sharp.
Final.
Unforgiving.
Victoria flinched again, but she didn't look away.
She couldn't.
"Guide him,"
the Great One said, voice thick with cruel satisfaction.
"Bring him pain. Suffering. Doubt.
Everything he needs."
A flicker — an image — burned into her mind:
A boy.
Laughing.
Running barefoot across sunlit grass.
Reaching for her hand.
Brother…
The memory seared.
It carved fresh wounds into old scars.
The Great One leaned closer.
"You want him to live a happy life, don't you?"
Victoria swallowed hard.
Bit her lip until she tasted blood.
"Yes… Great One," she whispered.
"Then do it."
"No words.
No mercy."
She closed her eyes.
Nodded.
Not with rage.
Not with defiance.
With nothing.
Only emptiness.
***
The Forest
Morning.
Gray light slanted through the branches, painting the forest in a wash of silver and mist.
Dew clung to the leaves.
The ground was cold and slick beneath Sam's back.
Stone pressed against his spine.
He opened his eyes.
Pain gnawed at his gut — a slow, steady burn.
Thirst scratched at his throat like broken glass.
The mark on his arm throbbed —
a pulsing brand of heat and warning.
"Two days…
Sapphire Eyes…"
He sat up with a groan, every bone protesting the movement.
The world spun around him — too bright, too sharp.
"Water…"
he rasped, licking dry lips.
Magic is imagination.
He closed his eyes.
Pictured it:
A spring.
Sunlight breaking through the trees.
Water clear enough to see the bottom.
He cupped his hands.
And between them —
A sphere formed.
Pure.
Cold.
Alive.
Water.
Sam didn't hesitate.
He drank like an animal —
desperate, frantic —
savoring every drop until the sphere collapsed into nothing.
The thirst faded, leaving only a hollow ache where hunger gnawed.
He wiped his mouth, breathing heavily.
"Kyle!"
he croaked.
"Wake up!"
No answer.
"Kyle?!"
A grunt.
A thud.
"Whuh—?!"
Kyle groaned.
"What?"
Sam stumbled toward him.
"You want water?"
"If it's real, yeah…"
Sam conjured another sphere — flickering slightly, less steady than the first —
and hurled it into Kyle's hands.
The boy caught it, staring like he'd been handed a piece of the sun.
"You… you just did magic?"
Kyle stammered.
His fingers darted to the medallion hidden under his shirt — clutching it tightly.
Sam didn't notice.
He was already moving — stepping outside the mouth of the cave.
***
Clearing.
Mist drifted low across the ground.
Leaves glittered with droplets of morning dew.
The air was cold enough to bite.
Bushes near the treeline were heavy with small blue berries, swollen from the night's moisture.
Sam plucked one.
Rolled it between his fingers.
Bit down.
The flavor burst in his mouth:
Mint.
Sweetness.
A sudden kick of bitterness at the end.
He smiled — a rare, thin thing.
"Tasty…"
he muttered, stuffing a handful into his mouth.
He stretched a hand to a broad green leaf.
Focused.
"Wind Dagger."
The magic thrummed at his call.
A sharp gust sliced across the leaf's stem —
clean as a razor.
It drifted to the ground, severed.
Sam grinned.
Collapsed backward into the grass, feeling it dampen his clothes.
Above him, the trees whispered.
The sky breathed.
Somewhere, in a life that now felt more like a dream than a memory,
he had stood on a bridge.
One step had torn everything away.
"Vic…"
he murmured.
"Are you really here?"
Or was he chasing a ghost?
***
A voice cut through the mist.
Harsh.
Mocking.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
Sam bolted upright.
Three men stood on the ridge.
Two in gray-blue cloaks — hands casually resting on sword hilts.
The third —
a figure draped in priestly robes.
His face was cold, detached.
Predatory.
"Relaxing out here, are we?"
Sam's mouth was dry.
"I… just… eating berries," he managed.
The priest tilted his head.
"Out this far? Alone?"
"We… ran.
From bandits.
Me and my friend.
We're hiding."
The priest's gaze sharpened.
"Friend?"
"Where?"
Sam hesitated — a heartbeat too long —
then pointed over his shoulder.
"In the cave."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
And the weight of the mistake crashed down on him instantly.
The priest smiled.
Thin.
Hungry.
"Good,"
he said.
"Then you won't mind if we pay him a visit."
The air seemed to thicken.
The mist curled closer.
Somewhere behind the priest's empty smile —
Sam heard the soft, inevitable grinding of the world sliding into place.
One wrong step.
One wrong word.
And it would all come crashing down.