Chapter One
Death wasn’t so bad, Andros had certainly felt worse. It was like his soul was slowly floating down into warm water. Suddenly, the peaceful sensation vanished and was replaced with burning pain throughout his body. Andros’s eyes shot open and were met by bright sunlight making him immediately wince. He could barely move, it felt like someone had run him over with a pickup truck. When Andros tried to breathe, he was met with a raspy cough, it was worse than any hacking fit he could remember. After a few moments, it died down and he managed to blink the dots out of his eyes, but could feel tears running down his burning cheeks. He didn’t understand what was happening, but, he didn’t care. He just laid there drinking in the sweet, sweet air. With each breath, the pain receded bit by bit. After what felt like a lifetime, Andros mustered enough strength to prop himself up and look around. The first thing that he noticed was a large mansion complete with cylindrical turrets, stained windows, and a beige exterior. The only noticeable flaw was a shattered window frame two floors above him. Andros shifted his head to the right. Dried blood and broken glass in shades of blue, green, and white surrounded him. Panicked, he sat up, the fast movement made his head woozy. He was wearing a cut-up, bloody light brown belted tunic and dark linen pants with leather boots that he hadn’t seen before. He was on a pile of small bits of shattered glass, wood, and dried blood. He moved to inspect his wounds, but to his surprise, he had trouble finding any. He was healed, and the pain was fading even quicker. His throat didn’t even feel hoarse anymore.
I’m….. fine? He thought, How is that possible?
Andros let out a mix of a laugh and a sigh of relief, but it sounded off.
“Wait, what?” he said with a furrowed brow. Andros didn’t remember his voice sounding like that. He started to frantically examine himself. His previously pale skin tone was now tanner, his hands were softer with well-maintained nails, and he looked to be over 6’ to the 5’10” he used to be. He used his new finger to pull a strand of hair in front of his eyes, his old tangled brown mop was exchanged for a head of softer, shorter dark black hair.
This isn’t my body. Andros thought. No one could have survived losing this amount of blood, but why am I here? Andros shook his head, That can wait, I’ve been out in the open for long enough, but… where do I even go?
Glancing around the estate, he saw that the surrounding area was a colorful garden filled with flowers of all shapes and sizes, with paved walkways arranged in a grid pattern. Past that was a large brick wall that looked to encircle the entire estate. As Andros surveyed for a potential exit, he heard a gruff voice speaking in a language he didn’t recognize. Startled, he whirled around to face who had spoken, standing before him was a man who looked to be around 70 years old and was wearing a thick robe that was mainly light blue and embroidered with white snowflakes. Grasped firmly in his right hand was a wooden staff topped with a pale white crystal.
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P.O.V. - Simon, Magister of the Frozen Wastes
“Ahh, young mast-” The wizard’s eyes widened in horror, “Master Bartholomew! What happened?” The old man began checking for the source of the blood.
He’s not responding, is he too shaken from his injuries? Simon wondered
As the man was about to call for medical assistance, he didn’t even see scars on the body of the lord’s son. Understanding dawned on Simon and a mix of fury and grief danced in his heart. The grip on his wooden focus tightened.
“You. You are NOT the young man I looked after all his life. I will see that you rot away for the crime of stealing away that which I hold most dear, Skin thief.”
The archmage began to pull from the well of magic dwelling inside him. The wolf in sheep’s clothing sensing something off, bolted away.
“YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE ME, DEMON!” He screamed,
Simon slammed his staff down in the dirt and a river of ice mana surged forth and transformed into frigid chains that bound the monster in place. It cried out in pain as it was caught by the spell. He moved and looked into the monster’s helpless eyes.
“I would punish you myself, but the inquisitors will cause you more pain than I ever could. Believe me, this is just the tip of the iceberg for you”
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Andros P.O.V.
Andros was jostled awake by what felt like wheels on rough cobblestone. He had passed out due to whatever that old man had done to him. His hands were bound by heavy manacles that were connected by a chain to the wall of the cramped metal box he was stuck in. He shivered, he was still cold from the spontaneous ice that had attacked him.
“How long have I been in here?”, He thought.
He drew himself into a ball, there was barely enough room to sit. There were slits near the ceiling that allowed light to seep through. It appeared that whoever took him had switched out the silks he was wearing for an itchy roughspun tunic and pants. But they didn’t bother to wipe off any dried blood. A few hours pass, and Andros can do nothing besides wait for him to reach his mysterious destination. Eventually, the box’s movement stopped and the door quickly swung out with a loud screech of the rusty hinges. Andros flinched at the sudden burst of bright light. Before his eyes could adjust, he heard someone speak in that unfamiliar language. Andros let out a scream as sudden, intense pain radiated through his body. His head hit the floor and everything then went dark.