The torches sputtered, creating dancing shadows gloating over on the dim, damp walls of the cell and the corridor betwixt. Upon the floor, five steps away from the cell’s wall facing the locked gate, a thick wooden tray held three bowls, mold and fungoid growing upon their trims, the soup thick, the pieces of meat covered furry growths, whilst appearing even darker than when they were placed down by the custodian the day before. And utter silence ruled the section, as the withered Euthymius sat in the same position he was placed weeks, months or even years ago for the sin of treachery he committed against the Empire.

  Yet, after seemingly so long a time after, a low, weak moan escaped his parched lips, his tired eyes that never shut since the woke in the cell, lightless yet with an intent faintly sparked as the hazelnut tinted pupils moved upwards upon the metallic creaking, followed by the familiar soft steps echoing in the dim cell.

  A faint, pleasant fragrance mingling with the pungent air, warm cedar tinted with the refreshing taste of lemons captured into a scent.

  On the other side, Calaviril stood with her usual dour countenance veiled under a flowing black robe, a narrow hood framing her lush, dark hair. Beneath it, a lustrous warm golden dress, smoothly flowing texture bereft of wrinkles, the collars with wings folded down, the brims and long tips angled with precise measures so that the former caressed her gently tapering, jawline drawn with regal lines.

  “They should feed him properly.” She whispered, clearly frustrated at the guards ignoring her command, muffled by her dress’s softly serenade as it scraped against the dim, roughened marble. “Worry not Euthymius, brother will see me at the end of the day and you shall be free.” She said, her citrine golden eyes shone kindly at him, and his right index finger budged a little after the Eight knows how long.

  She reached into her cloak, and pulled out slowly the familiar, small gourd filled with a liquid a bit too sweet for his tastes, yet filling more than any lunch, dinner or breakfast he had during his six and twenty years. Calaviril gently lifted it towards his parted lips, yet he only gave a weak moan in the cage of his mind as the effervescent, lukewarm liquid flown out from the narrow and round mouth. The desert in his mouth washed away, the aching of tearing tendon in his throat ceased and the tips of his lips curved, but went unnoticed by Calaviril who focused on his lifeless eyes, searching for signs that were no longer there.

  “I know of the pride of men, so pardon me.” She said, her hands moved a bit less confidence when she produced a sponge, and two bottles out from the dim air. From the slenderer, azure bottle she poured a little water on the sponge which drank it up voraciously, then smeared it on his hands, on his withered torso still visible in the dimly lit cell. Then moved it back, poured a little, thicker liquid with a pleasant smell upon the sponge and after smearing it gently, foam covered comatose Euthymius, stirring him in the cell of his mind as he sensed dirt and dried sweat wept off from his form. He felt awkward, just as much as her whose scales glimmered brilliantly with hints of cherry red revealed upon them.

  A knock sobered both, and with a snap of her fingers, the gourd, the bottles and the sponge all vanished, leaving behind ethereal golden sparkles. “It is time milady!” A tall, lean aevhe in similar dark robes spoke softly, her lids curtains over her eyes looking down.

  “Endure, Euthymius. I promise you shall be a free man once more, by the end of this week. Both from here and your mind’s prison.” She whispered, and left, leaving him alone in his cells.

  One last click echoed across the cells. Her words too, echoed in his ears, in his mind as the days, weeks passed and his fellow cellmates dwindled. Some perished due to thirst and hunger, their last whimper barely perceptible. Others compelled by their jailor snapped their own neck with their last strength, or ceased their breathing until they emaciated chests rose no more. The ones who terrified him the most, fearing he would meet the same fate soon, were those who stood up trembling, knelt and laid their faces into the spoiled soups, suffocated within what should have given strength to endure.

  Euthymius tried ignoring them, continued exerting what little strength he himself possessed tucking the ethereal chains holding his cage over a chasm of nothingness.

  There were hundreds, maybe even a thousand if he could count to that great a number, looming over the ethereal cage, entwining and lengthening into the abyss, touching them he could feel the masked man called Ephraimur, felt his uncaring mind afar, focused on something evil that filled his heart with dread.

  A vague feeling it was. Enough to convert it into fuel, confident, believing that if he could climb the thin and sloping bars, he could break the chains at last.

  A hundred times he climbed, began tucking the smaller chains clustered together, instinctually relying on the prima materia constituting the mind of all things. Clawed gauntlets wrapped about each of his hands, as he reached and pulled, groaning with the exertion. Pain sprawled across his head, hands and legs tautened round a bar.

  Innumerable needles, miniscule and barely visible thrusted against and into his ethereal palms through the conjured gauntlets and his thighs, thundering his soul, hurling it against the other side where they dug into his head, into his nape and back. Curled on the shimmering floor, he bled not, but it felt like as if unseen wounds opened narrow holes upon his skin, felt the soothing cold feeling of blood trickling down his body, and that of an older cold preceding all life seeping into his being through the fresh holes.

  But he relented not. In the mines, he broke fingers, toes and limbs at times, pains he recalled as worse, or at least tried elevating them above what he experienced writhing thither. Trembling from the agonies, he rose onto his feet, ambled towards the bar, grappled them taut again. Then bellowed again, hurled across the cage, each time the volume of his voice decreased, until the pain became a faint breeze caressing his whole being after the hundredth and fifty-seventh attempt.

  Tears flown down his cheeks both within and outside, though Euthymius felt them not on either side. He climbed trembling involuntarily, his chest swelled spasmodically, and his arms stretched towards the cluster. Hope triumphed over his agonies when the first chain shattered, sprinkling astral dust upon his teary face before vanishing into the abyss below his cage. Chuckled mingled with whimpers when dozens more followed in the fate of the first. His soul never relented to despair, as nearly thousand still remained.

  The hours flowed outside the cage of his mind, whilst Euthymius felt, believed his toiling took decades, upon decades. When he first looked upon Calaviril’s gentle, warm countenance, he noticed the faint signs of her maturing. The gentle contours of her face roughened like diamonds, her cheeks lost their plumpness a little, the protruding bone beneath the smooth, faultless skin cast tender shadows upon her cheeks. Witnessing it offered serenity, but also despair as he feared by the time the gates of freedom would open, it would be too late.

  Euthymius ceased not his grasp for freedom, persisted in his ignorance the agony that broke hundreds in the past, incurred by the ethereal bars of the cage, and the constant channeling of his mana through his arkhaine veins, empowering his soul’s arms. Though he believed he called upon the element of shadow to use the surrounding darkness as blades sharper than adamantium, in truth he continued tapping into the fundamental essence constituting him, his self. His desire for freedom, manifested as the invisible blades cutting through the chains, and the liquid in the gourd eased the pain which accompanied the excess of spellcasting.

  Yet the last seven chains, he could not shatter. Desperation nearly tumbled him back into impotence. Even Euthymius who knew a fraction of what mortals deciphered on what they called Maghia recognized instinctually the nature of the remained chains. They were constituted from one of greater nature, one that creeped him on a primeval level. A droning sound emanated directly into his mind, draining his mental fortitude on a furtive degree.

  Down on his knees, he bellowed in anger, frustration at his own weakness, pummeled his fist into the floor giving out a metallic sound echoing in his mind. Then Euthymius arose once more, his legs straining with ethereal veins of earthly shades, whilst his arms, his neck and head revealed veins of azure, white, black and purples in multitudinous shades of theirs. Arms trembled from exhaustion, they arose with fist unfurling, fingers grasping the airless space as he felt the chains pressing against his tips and palm.

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  He groaned, then bellowed letting his emotions infuse, amplify his will and its incarnation of a mental chain shattering spell. Feeling the durability of the chains, Euthymius called out beyond, asking for the aid of the dreamers in the Gray City of Asphodai. To Isocrates his brother resting there peacefully along with the others who perished in the arena, rid of their freedom, vengeful he was sure as he vowed to them that he shall bring justice, death upon the ones who shackled them in their last days. Yet he heard only vague whispers.

  Dejected, he came to the realization, he was no nekromancer. So, he altered his beckoning tone to a prayer to the Higher Beings, to the Deossos, to any willing to hear out his pleas in the astral voids and gulfs. Yet this endeavor proved fruitless, until he noticed a spark in the distance, brilliant and menacing, galloping across the empty black wastes of his mindscape.

  Slowly the spark took on a feminine, tall, lean form of well-toned proportions. The searing light dulled and took defined shapes of enameled, golden panoply with the vague contours of owls, a silken tunic kissing the smooth, lustrous olive skin laden in sweat, adorned with scars gleaming with the intensity of heated forges. Long, voluminous hair tumbled down the crested, angular helmet shimmering with the intensity of wild blazes, emanating a dim, gray smoke suffocating but also soothing Euthymius with its queer fragrance. Wide, small eyes blessed with the regal lines of almonds, holding amber pearls searing with pride and ageless wisdom. Her gauntleted right hand holding a long hammer, an owl resting atop its round pommel, veins winded across the oblong head, emanating a fiery glow and black smoke.

  “Greetings, Euthymius son of Myrtilos and Hedea, brother of Isocrates!

  Euthymius could not help himself, but became the slave of his own instinctual nature, recognizing the difference between him and Mineirvia. A difference betwixt earth and sky. He knelt both in body and mind, staring at the dark floor and the void of his mind, slowly gaining striking features of a room where he was surrounded by warriors of near equal splendor to her. There were even strange beings, elementals of flame, metal, spirits of war taking brutish forms, and dragons of many colors, though most prominent in numbers were those of earthly, verdant and magmatic shades belonging to the House of Life and of Nature ruled by The Great Architect of Space and Matter.

  An obdurate silence permeated the air, as he felt perspiration pour forth all his pores, though not from the heat of their presence, but the experience of surrounded by divine beings of the highest orders of existence. A smile curved upon her searing lips, enhancing her battle-hardened ethereal beauty. “I demand no tact from you my dear Euthymius, you are amongst warriors, those who savor the true essence of life. Stand and speak like you do with your own.

  Euthymius inhaled deeply and his meekness vanished as he sniffed in the spicy scent of the space. “I thank you for your aid, from the nethermost pit of my heart. But can I ask, how I earned this grace and favor?”

  “Let me be frank with you, dear EuthymiusYou are no wrong in your mind, your achievements are meager compared to many of my favored, but you are no different then they were when I approached them. They failed, but given up not, they had doubts but always pulled through, and they were no children of noble blood, but those who spent their youth toiling in mines, in fields, in war tents carrying heavy jugs instead of spending time with their peers, playing, learning how to farm, mine and serve when their time comes. And like them, I now offer you the chance to be more, I branch your twig to be as regal as the heroes of Thrauy, of Menelaith, and of those who fought against the hordes of Twilight in my light

  Euthymius could not hide his wish not to be a Chosen, his wish to return to the peaceful days, where life seemed easier even if he wasted away in a mine. “I am truly humbled but I am contempt with what I have been given. I seek merely a small favor for freedom from the cage binding me in my own body, taken by another.”

  “What of the troubles in Luth-Astaril? Are you not afraid of what is to come?

  “I am, but I have trust in our protectors. I am sure they shall triumph like before.” Euthymius answered, yet there was sour taste in his own mouth. Certainly, they triumphed in the Sibling’s War, conquered the City-States and beaten down many an uprising across their demesnes. Yet the way she looked troubled, strengthened the uncertainty he was too aware of. The enemy had at least two great magus on their side, one blessed by the Night, and the masked man whose hold still sent shivers across his being.

  “I am afraid what you dream of shall not pass. The realm of Elhyrissian is on the cusp of Change, one that may lead to the fall of the Empire if we don’t act in haste.And we may already be late.

  “Why not send one of your own?” Euthymius asked, gulping down the fear of repercussions borne of his insolence.

  “I would if it would be possible, but the Black Serpent and his ally made sure only those with their approval may enter, manifest. Like the Beautiful who took hold over you and many on the island.

  Mineirvia stepped forward, touched his forehead fringed by his brown, disheveled hair, and at once the scenery shifted. Euthymius felt the solid floor of the cell, cold and biting beneath his soles, but below lied the city in ruins. The plateau districts grown from the mountains’ walls crumbled and filling the glade, the shimmering gold landscapes gloomed by shadows and some strange color he seen not before and the sky blackened, yet everything in the interminable distance were visible.

  Including the strange shape hovering not far ahead. A blur of indiscernible features. “What is that?” He whispered, feeling cold sweat trickling down his body.

  “I am unsure myself beyond the end goal of the enemy. They seek not bring equality nor better rights to the downtrodden, to the sinners who aided my brother in his madness.Wallow not dear Euthymius. Not even the Elhyrissiar is aware of the true goals, nor that they have already marching towards their own doom.

  “Then what hope do I have in stopping this?” Euthymius asked, though he was far from forfeiting. Mineirvia smiled of triumph, deciphering the shift in his mind and soul.

  “The one–accursed Ephraimur–is the chief element to their triumph. Find and eliminate him.The nexus point in the city is their anchor, the last component of their malevolent ritual.

  Euthymius yelped as she suddenly manifested a long spear and jabbed it right into his heart. Though he felt no pain nor agony, instead the stirring warmth of forges filled his whole being, and felt all his bodily woes vanish. No more he felt weakened by hunger nor thirst, his withered body gained its weight and more back. Muscle shifted and formed, taking on defined structures across his whole body and felt his skin become as strong as tampered steel.

  “Save the city, fulfill the destiny awaiting beyond it, and I promise, a life of peace will await you once you experienced all the joys and woes of life.Go my dear Chosen, be my blade and earn your peace.

  With small steps made, Euthymius approached the bars, nearly tumbled over halfway in the dark. He inhaled the damp, cold air of the cells tainted by the smell of the withering mates, and the silence broke along with the bars he lifted easily from their place. Another bang bellowed across the darkness, as his fingers released them whilst he stared at his arms confounded. He could not help but chuckle a little at the thrill of his new gift, though his mood soured from the scent mingling with the memory of the last vision’s.

  The door opened, bathing him in warm light as he stood in the center lane, and the custodian looked astounded, not recognizing him after the change. From a husk to a hulking youth on the middle of his twenties. “Forgive me!” Euthymius trampled over, closing the distance betwixt them in two seconds, and planted his fist into the chest plate of the custodian. A quick groan reverberated the prison cell, and the aged truscian guard flew into two of his fellow custodians.

  Euthymius hurried in the seven-cornered circular room, and made short work of each guard as surprised as their cataleptic comrade. For each of them, he apologized before plummeting his fists into their armor-clad bodies, then took off, heading into the sewers once he heard the murmurs of flowing, cleansed water somewhere in the complex.