A/N One of Three

James awoke to the muted throb of his own heartbeat, his mind sluggish as if weighed down by heavy fog. Somewhere in the distance, he heard soft breathing, multiple sets of it. He peeled open crusty eyes, taking in the subtle hues of torchlight dancing on vaulted stone walls. For a few moments, his senses drifted in and out, unsure if this was a nightmare or simply the aftermath of all he had been through.

A sharp whisper broke through the haze.

“Pst, James,” it called, urgent yet soft. “James, wake up.”

He groaned, recognizing the voice immediately. Joey. The last living anchor in this strange land he had been forced into. James blinked hard, struggling to force clarity back into his mind, and found Joey’s face inches from his own. Worried eyes darted around, seemingly checking to see if anyone else was stirring.

“There you are,” Joey breathed, relief palpable in his whispered words. “I was worried you would never wake.”

James sat up, every muscle protesting as though he had been unconscious for days. In truth, he had no idea how long he had been out. His first full glimpse of the room startled him. Describing it simply as a “room” felt like an insult, for it resembled a small cathedral more than any bedchamber. Immense, stained-glass windows dominated one side of the space, allowing narrow beams of silver moonlight to mingle with the flickering gold of torches. These windows depicted scenes of a woman strong, formidable, and draped in regal attire performing feats of magic and presiding over large gatherings of people. Their colors were so vivid that in the shifting light, they seemed alive.

High up on the stone walls, grand banners hung at regular intervals. Each bore the same image: a cornucopia overflowing with fruit, grain, and other symbols of abundance. The banners rippled softly in the faint currents of air, echoing the hush that permeated this grand chamber. Carvings along the ceiling rafters told stories of battles and harvests alike, blending martial might with agrarian prosperity.

A cluster of six beds rested in a semicircle against one wall, each generously sized and made with surprising care. Soft covers of thick, quilted cloth were folded neatly at their ends. Three of these beds were occupied, their forms still beneath the blankets. James noticed his own bed had been positioned at the center of the arc. Someone had gone through the trouble of tucking him in with a plush quilt far superior to anything he had slept under even in his old life on Earth.

Next to his bed stood a wooden trunk, unassuming but quite large, crafted from sturdy oak with iron corners. Several similar trunks stood by the other beds, presumably holding possessions. James found himself dressed in a simple linen shirt and trousers, comfortable and well-fitted enough not to chafe. He felt strangely naked without shoes or any sign of the gear he had been carrying during his previous exploits.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, shivering as his bare feet touched the icy stone floor. Joey plopped down beside him, eyes brimming with shared concern.

“You doing okay?” Joey asked quietly.

James pressed a palm to his temple. “That’s… a big question,” he managed after a moment, voice rasping. “We’ve lost everything we knew. Everyone we knew is gone or… or worse.” He trailed off, remembering the moment Jackson betrayed them, remembering the monstrous labyrinth they were forced into, the rifts that threatened to consume them. His eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s so much.”

Joey laid a comforting hand on James’s shoulder, his own eyes shimmering with moisture. “I understand James. I’m sorry.” He hesitated, then leaned in, wrapping his arms around James in a firm hug. James reciprocated, and they stayed like that for a time, clinging to each other’s warmth in a hush broken only by their muffled sobs.

When they finally released each other, James looked around again and noticed only three other people in the entire room, all still unconscious. “So,” he began in a soft voice, “where are we? I remember Jackson—” He spat reflexively on the floor at the memory, “told me something about a Baroness’s keep in Ashwynd. Something about her needing recruits or… or mercenaries. But after that, everything goes blank.”

Joey nodded, glancing around as though the tapestries themselves might overhear. “I’ve been awake for a couple of hours, maybe more. When I woke up, a man came to collect me. He took me to meet the Baroness, and let me tell you, James, she’s not just some ordinary noblewoman. She’s got a Talent, something called Soul Binding. She explained she’s recruiting, or maybe enslaving, a bunch of us to work as her elite soldiers, sending us on missions to expand her influence or overthrow the King. Hard to tell what’s truth and what’s a smokescreen. All I know is that she somehow used that ability on me, and it forces me to obey certain commands. It’s horrible.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

A tremor ran through Joey’s body. James’s eyes widened with alarm. “They force you? Like, physically force you to follow commands?”

“It’s more than that,” Joey said, swallowing hard. “It’s like my mind and body are hijacked. I tried resisting. She told me to pick up a knife and cut off my finger.”

James’s face darkened in horror. “What?”

Joey nodded, eyes hollow. “I felt my arms and legs move on their own. I wanted to scream. She told me not to make a sound. I couldn’t. My body obeyed her, and no sound could escape my throat, no matter how much I wanted to cry out. It was… horrifying.”

James let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He began mentally cycling through all the abilities and experiences he had, wondering if any of them could fight off something so absolute. “And this is the same thing they’ll try on me?” he asked. “On all of us?”

Before Joey could reply, the double doors on the far side of the room opened with a stony groan. In walked a man unlike anyone James had ever seen. He was tall, with sculpted features that would make a classical statue weep with envy. His golden hair framed a face that seemed lit from within by some ethereal glow. Everything about him exuded a magnetic, hypnotic quality that James felt pulling at the edges of his consciousness. The man’s eyes were a peculiar shade of purple, the same color that had been depicted on many of the tapestries of the mysterious woman.

“Go to your bed, Garret,” the man spoke, and his voice itself seemed capable of mesmerizing. A boy about James’s age shuffled past him, shoulders hunched in a posture of defeat. The boy, Garret, apparently had a long face, somewhat lanky limbs, and eyes that were weary. Next to the man’s resplendent beauty, almost anyone would appear plain, but James saw in Garret’s expression a mirror of Joey’s haunted look.

Garret trudged to one of the beds without protest, glancing at James and Joey only briefly with eyes that told a silent story of misery and subjugation. When the boy settled onto his bed, the man turned those fascinating purple eyes upon James. A soft smile curved his lips, making him look warm, reassuring, yet wholly unnatural.

“James,” the man said, addressing him directly. “Come. We have much to do.”

An odd compulsion tugged at James. Part of him wanted to remain defiantly on his bed, to ask a dozen questions before obeying, but a stronger force overrode that impulse. Something in the man’s presence disarmed James’s free will, making it feel only natural to obey. Joey shot him a mournful, understanding look, and James rose to his feet without a word.

As James approached the figure, the icy floor biting at his bare soles, he realized how strangely exposed he felt in his simple peasant clothing. He had no armor, no weapon, nothing to defend against the creeping sense of enthrallment emanating from this man. Each step closer amplified the man’s magnetism until James felt nearly spellbound.

The man slid an arm around James’s shoulders, guiding him toward the still-open doors. “We’re going to be great friends,” the man said softly, his voice resonating with practiced charm. “I can tell.”

The hair on the back of James’s neck stood on end. Something about being pressed so close to this hypnotic presence set off warnings in his head and a faint buzzing causing him to invoke his skills. Even as his legs moved against his will, he activated {Aura Control} It allowed him to insulate his mind from the sheer pressure the man forced on him. He focused on that skill now and quickly activated {Strategic Tranquility} soon after. A faint glow of mental clarity spread through his consciousness, and to his relief, the enthralling sense of the man’s aura lessened. It did not disappear entirely, but it no longer commanded him with such alarming ease.

The man noticed the subtle shift in James’s expression. A curious smile played on his lips but he said nothing, merely continuing to guide James through a labyrinth of hallways.

James had never seen architecture like this: a swirling mixture of austere stone corridors and lavish halls, as if the keep itself was torn between being a defensive fortress and a palace of indulgence. One hallway was wide enough to march a small army through, its walls decorated with frescoes depicting the same powerful woman performing various feats, healing soldiers, presiding over great feasts, forging alliances with robed figures that might have been mages or priests. Another hallway was so narrow that James’s shoulder brushed the rough stone.

It struck him as odd that the keep felt underpopulated. The entire trip from the bedchamber to wherever they were headed brought them past only a handful of servants, all scurrying quickly with heads bowed, as though terrified of being seen by outsiders. Their footfalls echoed in the emptiness, and James observed with an anxious eye. Was it the late hour? Or something else that kept the inhabitants scarce?

The man’s presence never lost its allure, but with {Aura Control} actively shielding James, he found he could think more or less clearly. Still, he found himself occasionally glancing sidelong at the man, marveling at the almost glassy perfection of his skin, the elegance of his stride. He seemed inhumanly graceful, as though each motion was choreographed.

Eventually, they reached a massive set of double doors, easily thirty feet in height and made of a wood so dark it might have been ebony, though the swirling grain suggested otherwise. Gold inlays traced the outline of scenes across the panels. James recognized the same woman from the tapestries, depicted battling monstrous beasts, leading armies, and seated in a throne while figures knelt before her. Two guards flanked the doors. Both wore golden plate armor polished to a mirror finish, accentuated by black filigree. One held a sword, the other a spear. They didn’t stir to challenge Lysander or James; it was as if the pair was expected.

Lysander swept the doors open without ceremony. They glided smoothly on well-oiled hinges, and an opulent throne room stretched out before them. Braziers placed around the perimeter burned with flickering flames, illuminating the dais at the far end of the room. There, seated upon a majestic throne, was the Baroness.