Marek awoke with a start, staring up at a stone ceiling in disbelief. Yesterday, they had been in the Huzha, and now…

Yarran, Marek thought as the memories of the past day came back to him. I fought him and his men. He reached for his magic but only found pitiful remnants of what had once been enough magic to destroy an army. Now, he was barely more powerful than one freshly Initiated into the Citadel, let alone the Mage that he was.

Marek tried to sit up but fell back with a groan. His body ached. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t sore, but his midsection and left shoulder hurt the most. Tentatively probing his shoulder with his fingers, Marek found a fresh dressing on his shoulder. There was also nothing on his stomach but spectacularly colored bruises. He hissed in pain when he pressed against it.

“What happened?” Marek muttered. As if his memory had been waiting for him, he then remembered the arrow that had struck him mid-battle and then… nothing.

Somehow, he had been transported from the edge of the Huzha to this castle? Ashenstead, Marek thought. The one place that Yarran didn’t want me to go. The realization gave him enough strength to force himself to sit up, which he did laboriously, as if he were a man of eighty instead of twenty-seven.

Marek blinked as he looked around. For somewhere that was his supposed doom, it looked fine. Moonlight cascaded in from huge windows close to ten feet up the eastern wall, which was odd. From what Marek could recall, Ashenstead had been a relatively inconsequential holding that had been conquered over half a century ago. It had then been decimated in a massive explosion that had never been explained, although it was probably magical in nature.

It looked as though he was in Ashenstead’s Meeting Hall, or at least that was Marek’s best guess. Besides the vastness of the room, there was little in the way of distinguishing features. There were no tables, chairs, or anything that would mark it as somewhere people gathered to eat. There was a dais where the Lord or Lady would have set, but aside from the dust, there was nothing. Nothing aside from three doors that looked relatively untouched along one wall, with the one behind the dais most likely leading to the Master Bedroom somewhere in the castle.

At that thought, Marek looked around him furiously. Nothing, he thought. He felt the first waves of panic sweep through him, but he shoved it down firmly. There’s a reason why I’m here, and I’m going to find out.

It took a laughably long time for him to stand. Marek growled and forced himself to one knee, his hands splayed out on the dusty ground beside him. With quick breaths, Marek readied himself to stand. It would be beyond difficult and very painful, but he had no choice.

It was one of the hardest things that Marek had ever done, but he managed to climb his way to his feet. Almost immediately after, he stumbled. Marek cried out in pain as he steadied himself and straightened his stance. He placed his hands on his side and kept breathing, willing himself to remain standing.

Eventually, Marek raised his head again. He brushed his dusty hands on his clothes, noting that he had been changed from his dusty clothes to a different set of brown robes that had been washed before the journey. They were his good robes. Not so good anymore.

Shaking his head, Marek slowly inched toward the nearest door, a massive wooden thing that could probably fit five men abreast walking through it. After making it through, Marek blinked as the torches along both walls suddenly lit themselves.

Marek reached for his magic, and this time, he seized it. He didn’t have any weapons on him, so his magic—what little remained of it—would have to do. He might be able to summon a breeze that could perhaps puff out the torches, but that would be it.

He kept walking down the hall, following the lit torches until he came upon another set of doors. Marek frowned at them. “How far must I walk?” he muttered. He felt a little better now that he was walking around, but that didn’t mean much. It still felt like someone was stabbing his shoulder every step he took. His stomach and whole body felt as though they had been beaten to a pulp.

Marek shrugged, shoving open the doors. He winced, regretting the movement as his body protested both actions viciously as well as the loud bang from the doors colliding with the walls.

“Here I am,” Marek muttered, smirking despite his growing panic. A blind man could find him now. He looked down the stairs that led into what could only be Ashenstead’s cellars. As he did, more torches lit themselves, neatly illuminating his path down the dusty stairs.

“Hmm,” Marek said, curious at how the torches were illuminating themselves. He had been enveloped in his magic and felt nothing stir. Usually, magic had to be performed within line of sight, but there were a few magics that did not. Even then, all of them left a trace, and unless this was an Archmage that called Ashenstead home, he had no explanation for the phenomenon.

Marek gritted his teeth as he started walking down the stairs, nearly whimpering with each step. Each step wasn’t altogether too painful, but each time he walked down another step, it only seemed to amplify his pain. Still, he had come too far to stop now, and he still hadn’t seen or heard anyone.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

I must go on, Marek thought grimly. Someone or something wants me to see something.

It reeked of a trap, but if anyone watching wanted Marek dead, they could’ve killed him when he first awoke and struggled to rise. They could kill him now in moments. A shove down this endless staircase would do the job easily enough.

When he made it to the bottom of the staircase, Marek wasn’t even surprised when the jail—not the cellar—lit itself before his eyes. Instead of stopping to stare, he kept walking down. As he went, Marek began to feel pressure pushing against him and a strange buzzing in his ears like a stubbornly persistent insect.

The jail cells were empty, too, devoid of anything but dust. They were all closed, and Marek didn’t have the strength to check to see if they were locked. He didn’t care. He just wanted to find whatever he was supposed to find. Or even a chair to sit down on.

Marek passed a closed door to his left but ignored it as he shuffled toward a double set of doors that led deeper into the jail. Instead, his chest began to burn. At first, Marek ignored it and continued walking, but it only grew hotter and hotter, to the extent that Marek stopped inches from the double-set doors and slapped a hand to his chest. With an oath, he let go, swearing as his hand burned painfully.

“The pendant,” Marek breathed. He fumbled with the top of his robe and looked down it and gasped.

The pendant was glowing.

Marek went to take another step toward the doors and stopped as the pendant glowed brighter and hotter.

“Guess not,” Marek muttered. Curious, he turned toward the door that he passed. Immediately, he felt the pendant cool. When Marek took a step toward the door, the heat lessened.

The door wasn’t locked. Marek twisted the knob, enjoying the feel of cold metal in his hand as he nudged it open carefully. No one jumped out at him or attacked him, so Marek poked his head into the room. His pendant was still warm, but positively chilled compared to how it had just been.

“In Diev’s name,” Marek whispered, awestruck at what he was seeing. It should’ve been an impossibility, and yet here it was.

It was a massive Dominion Wood staff, the likes of which hadn’t been seen for hundreds of years. Marek found himself moving toward it, his injuries forgotten as he walked around the staff. Even though there was a pedestal below it, the staff floated in the air. It slowly rotated in a circle, and Marek drank in the sight of it. Like his wand, it was white, the purest white he had ever seen. Unlike his wand, there were knots and scars on it, spoiling its perfection.

It must have come from a Dominion Wood tree… but they’ve been gone for over a century, Marek thought disbelievingly. It was like it had been transported straight out of the Divinity War and into the present day, two hundred and sixty-two years later. It was probably the single most valuable thing in the world. Kingdoms would fight wars over it and thousands or tens of thousands would die, but it wouldn’t matter, because whoever held a Dominion Wood staff would be invincible.

Marek reached a shaking hand toward it but stopped as it met an invisible barrier. Marek snarled and tried again, trying to shove his way through the barrier. It was like trying to punch through a wall. The more he tried, the more he hurt his hand. Eventually, Marek took a step back, breathing heavily.

“Fine,” Marek spat. He closed his eyes and held up a hand, throwing his magic at the invisible wall. To Marek’s surprise, he made it through. He pushed again, trying to get through the second wall of protections.

It was a mistake. Marek hissed out in pain as what little magic he had was ripped from him. It was taken by the magics supporting the staff, and it kept grabbing at him greedily.

“No!” Marek yelled. He tried to take a step back, but he was frozen in place. His magic was gone, an ocean drained. There was a pause, and then Marek felt it taking magic from his Essence.

“STOP!” Marek bellowed. He tried to struggle, but the magic’s grip was unbreakable. He felt himself begin to age, like sand flowing through an hourglass.

Marek looked down at his hands. What had been smooth and unmarred skin was rapidly growing older and marked. The rest of Marek’s body was much the same: he was being drained, body and soul, to fuel the protections of the Dominion Wood staff. The pain was excruciating—like a thousand hot knives were being repeatedly stabbed throughout his body. Someone was screaming, and it didn’t take Marek long to realize that it was himself.

It was getting harder to breathe. Marek took in one shuddering gasp, then another. He tried again and found that he couldn’t. His vision was flashing, becoming grey and dull. He couldn’t breathe, and he could barely see.

Marek fell to the floor, screaming again in agony as he felt his heart come to a shuddering stop—

“NO!”

Marek lurched up from his bedroll. He placed a bandaged hand upon his heart, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt a familiar beat. He was in the same room that he had first woke up in, but this time there were other people in the room sleeping. It was hard to see, but there were two people on the watch for each side of the room, making seven in total.

“Marek?”

Marek turned his head to see Ako. She had been lying close, just a few feet away. Her eyes were wide with fright. Around the room, Marek could see the others and those on watch either waking up or turning their attention to the disturbance.

“Ako,” Marek breathed. He took a deep breath and tried to flex his right hand beneath his bandage and grunted when it flared in pain. He thought of telling Ako about the dream, but something kept him from doing so.

Why make her worry? Marek thought. I can investigate in the morning and see for myself what’s down there.

“Marek,” Ako said softly. She sat up on her bedroll. “I had a dream. We need to talk.”